Lord of Raven's Peak - Catherine Coulter [124]
Merrik felt the sudden cold of his split flesh, then the blessed numbness that followed. The man wasn’t as careless as his friend had been. He felt the warmth of his own blood, knew the bleeding wouldn’t stop, and in that, he knew he would win. He made a pained sound and staggered, his head down, grabbing his wounded arm in his other hand.
The man rushed in, his knife raised. When Merrik could breathe in the man’s rancid smell, he smashed his bloody arm into his face, rubbing his eyes, the thick warm blood momentarily blinding the man.
The man tried to turn, tried to escape, but Merrik now wrapped his good arm around his throat and spun him about. He pressed until he knew the man could scarcely breathe.
“Who is your master?”
“I have no master. Kill me. I have failed.”
“Aye, you have. Tell me your master and I will let you live.”
Merrik lightly touched his knife tip to the man’s throat. Gently, he shoved the tip inward. “Tell me,” he said.
“It is Rollo, aye, the great Rollo. He wants you dead.”
Merrik was so startled that he loosed his grip. The man lurched forward, ripping himself free. He staggered and ran full tilt into the darkness.
Merrik let him go. He stood there, clutching his arm to his chest, panting. He wanted to chase the man down but he doubted he could catch him anyway. He would probably fall flat on his face. His arm was no longer numb. It was on fire, the pain making him grit his teeth. He ripped off the end of his tunic and wrapped it around the gushing wound.
Oleg was impatiently pacing the length of the sleeping chamber. When Merrik entered, he said quickly, “Don’t worry. Laren is with Rollo and her sisters, telling them a story. Helga and Ferlain didn’t want to hear it, but Uncle Rollo gave them no choice.”
“She’s not here then,” Merrik said. “Good.”
It was then that Oleg saw his arm. “By all the gods, Merrik, you bleed like a stoat! I should have gone with you, dammit! I shouldn’t have listened to you.”
Merrik just smiled wearily at him, not bothering to interrupt his cursing. He unwrapped the wound on his arm and stared down it. It was bleeding only sluggishly, but he knew it needed stitching.
“Get Old Firren. Tell him to bring his needle and some thread.”
Not long after Oleg had helped Merrik to sit on the edge of the box bed, Old Firren walked into the sleeping chamber, looked around at the opulent hangings, grunted, and started to spit in the corner. He looked disgusted, saying, “I can’t spit, Merrik. It will sit on the damned wood like a spot on a woman’s face. I don’t like all this—it makes a man feel as if he’s walking on live coals. What did you do? Cut yourself, that’s what Oleg said, the lying sod. Give me your arm and let me see how bad it is.”
Old Firren studied the arm, pinched the flesh, ignoring Merrik’s pallor, and said, “The knife was very sharp, nice and clean the slice. Hurts, huh?”
“I’ll kill you, old man, if you don’t shut your mouth and get on with it.”
Laren came in, yawning. Old Firren had finished, and was now studying his long row of stitches. She looked at her husband lying on his back, his arm extended, all the blood-covered rags on the floor, and said, “I will surely kill you for not calling for me.”
“It isn’t bad, mistress,” Old Firren said quickly. “You were telling a fine tale. Oleg didn’t want to interrupt you, for surely your uncle wouldn’t have been pleased. He loses himself in your stories, Merrik says, believes himself young and strong again. Don’t worry about your husband. Merrik will survive, he always does. He’s a hardly lad.”
“I will kill him and you and Oleg,” she said.
She walked slowly to stand staring down at Merrik. “I am your wife. It is my responsibility to stitch your wounds.”
“You would use a different color thread?” Merrik said, trying very hard to make her smile.
She placed her palm on his forehead. His flesh was cool and dry. She said to Old Firren, “Leave Oleg to guard the door. You remove all this blood and yourself.”
“Aye, mistress,” Old Firren said, carefully spat into the basin of bloody