The Warded Man

“Stop!” she cried helplessly, struggling to find her feet.

“No other man will have you,” Gared said. “You’ll have me, or you’ll end up shriveled and alone like Bruna!” He stalked toward Marick, who was only just getting his legs under him.

Gared swung a meaty fist at the Messenger, but again, Marick was quicker. He ducked the blow smoothly, landing two quick punches to Gared’s body before retreating well ahead of Gared’s wild return swing.

But if Gared even felt the blows, he showed no sign. They repeated the exchange, this time with Marick punching Gared full in the nose. Blood spurted, and Gared laughed, spitting it from his mouth.

“That your best?” he asked.

Marick growled and shot forward, landing a flurry of punches. Gared could not keep up and hardly tried, gritting his teeth and weathering the barrage, his face red with rage.

After a few moments, Marick withdrew, standing in a catlike fighting stance, his fists up and ready. His knuckles were skinned, and he was breathing hard. Gared seemed little the worse for wear. For the first time, there was fear in Marick’s wolf eyes.

“That all ya have?” Gared asked, stalking forward again.

The Messenger came at him again, but this time, he was not so quick. He struck once, twice, and then Gared’s thick fingers found purchase on his shoulder, gripping hard. The Messenger tried to pull back out of reach, but he was held fast.

Gared drove his fist into the Messenger’s stomach, and the wind exploded out of him. He struck again, this time to the head, and Marick hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“Not so smug now, are ya!” Gared roared. Marick rose to his hands and knees, struggling to rise, but Gared kicked him hard in the stomach, flipping him over onto his back.

Leesha was darting forward by then, as Gared knelt atop Marick, landing heavy blows.

“Leesha is mine!” he roared. “And any what says otherwise will …!”

His words were cut short as Leesha threw a full fist of Bruna’s blinding powder in his face. His mouth was already open, and he inhaled reflexively, screaming as it burned into his eyes and throat, his sinuses seizing and his skin feeling as if burned with boiling water. He fell off Marick, rolling on the ground choking and clawing at his face.

Leesha knew she had used too much of the powder. A pinch would stop most men in their tracks, but a full fist could kill, causing people to choke on their own phlegm.

She scowled and shoved past the gawkers, snatching a bucket of water Stefny had been using to wash potatoes. She dumped it over Gared, and his convulsions eased. He would be blind for hours more, but she would not have his death on her hands.

“Our vows are broken,” she told him, “now and forever. I will never be your wife, even if it means dying shriveled and alone! I’d as soon marry a coreling!”

Gared groaned, showing no sign he had heard.

She moved over to Marick, kneeling and helping him to sit up. She took a clean cloth and daubed at the blood on his face. Already he was starting to swell and bruise.

“I guess we showed him, eh?” the Messenger asked, chuckling weakly and wincing at the pain it brought to his face.

Leesha poured some of the harsh alcohol Smitt brewed in his basement onto the cloth.

“Aahhh!” Marick gasped, as she touched him with it.

“Serves you right,” Leesha said. “You could have walked away from that fight, and you should have, whether you could have won or not. I didn’t need your protection, and I’m no more likely to give my affection to a man who thinks picking a fight is going to gain the favor of an Herb Gatherer than I am the town bully.”

“He was the one that started it!” Marick protested.

“I’m disappointed in you, Master Marick,” Leesha said. “I thought Messengers came smarter than that.” Marick dropped his eyes.

“Take him to his room at Smitt’s,” she said to some nearby men, and they moved quickly to obey. Most folk in Cutter’s Hollow did, these days.

“If you’re out of bed before tomorrow morning,” Leesha told the Messenger, “I’ll hear of it and be even more cross with you.”

Marick smiled weakly as the men helped him away.

“That was amazing!” Mairy gasped, when Leesha returned for her basket of herbs.

“It was nothing but stupidity that needed stopping,” Leesha snapped.

“Nothing?” Mairy asked. “Two men locked together like bulls, and all you had to do to stop them was throw a handful of herbs!”

“Hurting with herbs is easy,” Leesha said, surprised to find Bruna’s words on her lips, “it’s healing with them that’s hard.”

It was well past high sun by the time Leesha finished her rounds and made it back to Bruna’s hut.

“How are the children?” Bruna asked, as Leesha set her basket down. Leesha smiled. Everyone in Cutter’s Hollow was a child in Bruna’s eyes.

“Well enough,” she said, coming to sit on the low stool by Bruna’s chair so the ancient Herb Gatherer could see her clearly. “Yon Gray’s joints still ache, but his mind is as young as ever. I gave him fresh sweetsalve. Smitt remains abed, but his cough is lessening. I think the worst is past.” She went on, describing her rounds while the crone nodded silently. Bruna would stop her if she had comment; she seldom did anymore.

“Is that all?” Bruna asked. “What of the excitement young Keet tells me went on in the market this morning?”

“Idiocy is more like it,” Leesha said.

Bruna dismissed her with a wave. “Boys will be boys,” she said. “Even when they’re men. It sounds like you dealt with it well enough.”

“Bruna, they could have killed each other!” Leesha said.

“Oh, pfaw!” Bruna said. “You’re not the first pretty girl to have men fight over her. You may not believe it, but when I was your age, a few bones were broken on my account, as well.”

“You were never my age,” Leesha teased. “Yon Gray says they called you ‘hag’ when he was first learning to walk.”

Bruna cackled. “So they did, so they did,” she said. “But there was a time before then when my paps were as full and smooth as yours, and men fought like corelings to suckle them.”

Leesha looked hard at Bruna, trying to peel back the years and see the woman she had been, but it was a hopeless task. Even with all the exaggerations and tampweed tales taken into account, Bruna was a century old, at least. She would never say for sure, answering simply, “I quit counting at a hundred,” whenever pressed.

“In any event,” Leesha said, “Marick may be a bit swollen in the face, but he’ll have no reason not to be on the road tomorrow.”

“That’s well,” Bruna said.

“So you have a cure for Mistress Jizell’s young charge?” Leesha asked.

“What would you tell her to do with the boy?” Bruna replied.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Leesha said.

“Are you?” Bruna asked. “I’m not. Come now, what would you tell Jizell if you were me? Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

Leesha took a deep breath. “The grimroot likely interacted poorly with the boy’s system,” she said. “He needs to be taken off it, and the boils will need to be lanced and drained. Of course, that still leaves his original illness. The fever and nausea could just be a chill, but the dilated eyes and vomit hint at more. I would try monkleaf with lady’s brooch and ground adderbark, titrated carefully over a week at least.”

Bruna looked at her a long time, then nodded.

“Pack your things and say your good-byes,” she said. “You’ll bring that advice to Jizell personally.”