Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (ebook audio reader .txt) 📖

the Herra Hills,” Gailert said with a nod to the captain who returned it with appreciation “If you wish, we can skip the tour and go directly to Danslik. Though I warn you the trip up hill in snow is a little tedious as well as dangerous.”

The heir blinked at the general. Though others would not have dared it, Gailert Winstrong knew he had to establish this relationship early or this upstart would forget that he was heir only on condition, and further, that he owed a certain respect to his officers under his future command. Watching the captain that used to be under his command stomped on so quickly as if he were a mere tool than a skilled leader had made the Gailert’s blood boil, for this child had yet to learn the value of those that served him. The last thing they needed was a pampered brat leading their country. He had to learn respect and responsibility now, or it would never sink in.

“Very well,” the heir said with some bite. He glanced narrowly at Gailert’s brown eyes as if to blame them for his insubordination. “Take me to Danslik, and you will make the report to the Sky Lord yourself. Then we will see what you will do next.”

 

*

The loss of the alliance with the Cordrils was only felt by a few. Most were glad to be rid of them.

As spring approached, Key continued to work, making and perfecting swords as the men planned raids within the Hills of Herra. Most of the boys his age went out with them. They came back after a few days to lose the soldiers in the woods, heading ambushes and sabotaging military posts with magic spells that burned the buildings to the ground. The magician never did get a hold of another Walking Corpse, of which Key was grateful.

He watched the boys return from yet another attack, stumbling into the muddy hollow with cuts to seek out the witch to heal them. Weston had a large rag pressed against his shoulder where apparently he had been shot. The other boys carried him into the hollow’s clearing to sit on the fallen tree. Looking over at Key who was casting more arrowheads as his recent sword cooled, Rainold huffed and then called out to him.

“Why don’t you come on the raids?” he said. “Are you afraid you’ll get shot at?”

Lifting his head, knowing he was talking to him, Key said, “I know I’ll get shot at.”

“Can’t you take a hit? Coward,” Rainold snapped.

Key lowered his head and exhaled, going back to his work.

“Key is not a coward,” the smith said, dumping out another quick sword from the mold. “But he’s of better use in working in camp than getting shot at out there.”

“Better use….” Rainold muttered.

“Shut up,” Tiler said, jabbing Rainold in the side. “He makes good swords that don’t break. The smith is right. He’s of better use here. Besides, he’s a bad swordsman and not good shot with the arrow at all. He’s useless out there.”

Useless. Key didn’t like hearing that. And though the leaders of the camp listened to him for advice on where it was best to attack the enemy as well as how to avoid the absorbing touch of the Sky Children, it was not the same as standing up side by side with the other raiders in battle. Tiler was right. He was terrible with the bow, and his sword fighting skills didn’t seem to improve much. He was useless in battle.

“That’s stupid,” Rainold said. “He’s not even a man if he can’t fight.”

“Then I’m not a man,” Key muttered and turned back to the arrow molds.

Both Rainold and Tiler gaped at him.

“Have you no shame?” Tiler said.

Weston groaned, sweating also. “Where is the witch?”

“Berd went to get him,” Rainold said then looked up the hill to see if Berd was coming back.

Key just stared at them. There was no response to Tiler’s question. Of course he felt shame. Hiding made him feel incredibly ashamed, but he didn’t dare go to battle in case the bandana came off of his head and the soldiers saw who he was. He knew the general, though the wanted posters had long disappeared, would want him back to torture and then kill him. The fear of bullets and swords were nothing to that.

Berd jogged from the longhouse, shaking his head. “The witch isn’t here. I’ve looked everywhere.”

“Do you think he went on another raid?” Rainold asked him, glancing at Weston’s sweating forehead.

Other men were now slipping into camp with their wounds hastily wrapped. Key watched them, most of them gathering to get something to drink, to wash up, and others to rest. One of the men Key knew as Frad called to the forward guard when he saw Weston’s feverish forehead. Frad was one of the few that was kind to him. The guard told him what Rainold had guessed. The witch had gone to help burn down an outpost near Tobi Town.

“He won’t be back for several days,” the guard said.

Frad frowned, looking at Weston. “That may be too long.”

Something in Key made him walk down to where Weston was. He blinked as he peered at Weston’s face, recalling a number of things at once. Lifting his eyes, he asked, “Is the bullet still in him?”

They all stared at him.

“Of course it is!” Rainold snapped, shoving Key back.

“Don’t be so rough!” the Frad said, gently nudging Key to get out of the way. “He was just asking.”

But Key pushed through again. “I know how to take care of it.”

“Oh great, so you know everything now?” Berd said, looking likely to bite his head off.

“I don’t know everything!” Key snapped, clenching his fists. “But I have been shot before, and hurt. He has an infection. I’ve had one too. I remember how they treated it.”

They peered at him. Weston groaned. The sweat now dribbled off of his face.

“Do you remember everything you hear?” Frad asked, peering narrowly at Key, though it was clear he believed him.

Key shook his head.

“But most of it. We need to get that bullet out.” Key then walked over to the smithing station. He picked up the long handled tweezers he used when he wanted to do detail work on fine things. “And we need some water that has been boiled. Put some salt in it. That should help clean out the wound. And I remember something about comfrey leaves being crushed and put on the wound to help it heal.”

“What about bleeding? He could bleed to death,” Tiler snapped, looking back to Weston’s face then to Key as if he were suggesting to just kill Weston.

Blinking, Key nodded. “One time when my dad cut himself working with a sword he was sharpening, he had to cauterize the wound to stop the blood.”

“What?” Rainold looked confused.

“Burn it with an iron,” Key said.

Tiler jumped at him. “Are you crazy?”

But Frad nodded, holding Tiler back. “He’s right. I’ve seen the witch do that.”

“We can’t burn Weston with a hot iron!” Tiler shouted back at him. “It will hurt him worse!”

Key walked back with the tweezers, shoving past Tiler anyway. “It is better to get the bullet out and cauterize the wound than let him die of an infection.”

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to have a hot iron shoved against your skin?” Tiler chased after him, grabbing the back of his shirt.

Whipping around, Key pulled open the front of his shirt, pointing to the scar on his chest. “Yeah, I do.”

Tiler let go. He stared after Key as he marched the rest of the way to Weston.

The boys watched him also, now turning their attention to Weston whom they laid down to be treated. Frad sent Rainold after the water and salt. Berd held Weston so that he would not move, glaring at Key with the threat to tear his head off if Weston died. Leaning in, Key looked into the wound, cringing. Unlike Weston, he was never able to get the bullet out from his own arm. It was still there, as a painful reminder of how close to death he had gotten. But also unlike Weston, his bullet wound had not gotten infected, and his skin had healed over it.

Weston howled when Key pried in with the tweezers. Both Berd and the man had to hold him down. Tiler soon joined them, holding Weston’s arm still. Key dug into the wound, trying hard to ignore Weston’s screams, but he felt the metal underneath his tool, grabbed hold and pulled it out. The blood immediately started to puddle.

“Bandages!” Berd shouted.

Tiler nodded and jumped up, running back up the hill to get them from the longhouse. At the same time Rainold had returned with the hot water and salt.

“Wash the wound,” Key said. “I’ll get the iron.”

They stared after him, unable to speak either in disgust or awe. There was something so deliberate about how Key went to task. He took a narrow poker the smith had already heated up, readying it for them. When Key returned from the fire to the boy, they had already cleaned up much of the blood, though more seeped out.

Tiler ran back with bandages in his hands, lifting them up. “I got them!”

“Dab the wound with just some of it,” Key said. “Then stand back.”

Nodding, Tiler clenched a wad of the cloth and soaked up the puddle of blood that oozed out. Pulling back, he watched Key go right in and burn the sides of the hole. Weston howled, but Key kept at it until most of it was cauterized—then he nodded to Tiler.

“Press a wad of that to the wound and bandage him up,” Key said.

“What about the comfrey?” Rainold asked.

“We’ll use it later,” Key said. “Right now we need to stop the bleeding.”

Tiler pressed more into the wound. Weston groaned.

“Is there anything we can do for the pain?” Rainold looked up at Key, expecting him to know that also.

But Key just shrugged. “They used clove oil on me for that. But I don’t think that’d be a good idea. It might infect the wound.”

“But it worked on you!” Rainold shouted, grabbing him. But he let go when the iron Key was holding burned though his shirt.

“Sorry!” Key jerked the hot iron away. “I didn’t mean to do that!”

He backed off. Upset with himself, he stared at the hot iron, and then walked to the smith area to cast the iron tip back into the fire. However, Rainold just stared at him, rubbing his burn.

“How about willow bark,” Frad suggested with a look back at the witch’s tent. “I hear if you chew on it, it eases pain.”

The boys nodded. “Let’s do that.”

“Who has some?” Tiler asked.

“The witch does,” the man replied and nodded to Weston. “Let’s move him.”

They carried Weston to the longhouse to help him recover.

Not one of them left Weston until his fever broke and he was breathing more easily. By that time, a day had passed. Polen had returned from the group he was with, though the witch still had not returned.

Tiler came out in search of Key.

Key was not anywhere near the smith station. It was early in the morning but Key also wasn’t in bed. That meant the boy was washing himself in private as he always did. Most people assumed that it was because he didn’t like it when people stared at his patchy hair. But that really wasn’t the case. In the dim light, when Tiler found Key, he could see the burn scars on Key’s left leg and chunk taken out of his right ankle, the cause of his slight limp. The lash marks on his back from being beaten so many times stood out, and the brand on his arm with the tattoo marking him and General Winstrong’s property were quite plain. Key pulled a shirt on and turned.

“You’re not a coward,” Tiler said, stuffing his hands into his pockets with a shrug.

Key blinked at