Page 25 of Warrior of the Wild
More ziken follow. I spin and twist, duck, thrust. My boots make a squeaking noise as they skim across a blood-soaked stone.
I cross my arms and launch outward with my double axes, severing two heads simultaneously with the movement.
That’s all of them.
I drop the metal from my hands, the weight of the axes suddenly too much to bear. Sinking to my knees, I take in the flailing body before me.
It’s a boy.
He looks my age, maybe a little older.
He lies on his stomach, the back of his shirt ripped open to expose skin covered in bites. Blood drips steadily down his sides to the ground. Were he still alive, he would be in unbearable pain, especially with the way his body contracts where all those wounds are. Ziken venom truly is a nightmare.
His hair is a deep brown with lighter streaks glinting in the sunlight as his head twitches. His eyes are closed, and the cheek I can see is covered in scratches, likely from flailing against the rocks beneath him.
His eyelids slam open, and I leap backward with an “Ah!”
I try to reassure myself it’s just the venom controlling the body, when he lets out a groan.
Blue eyes flick to me, and that’s when I finally move.
I vault to the ground, place the stranger’s head on my lap so it can’t sustain any further damage, and wait with him for the venom to cease its course.
His arms flail uncontrollably. A fist flies at my thigh, but I don’t move. It’s not his fault.
I don’t know what I’m doing. A group of boys is what landed me out in the wild in the first place. They can’t be trusted. I blame Irrenia for my urge to help him. It’s what she would do. I can only imagine her disappointment in me if I left him to die in the wild when I could have helped.
It must be at least another five minutes before his muscles calm. I brush a spot of dirt near his eye away.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
A pause. “No.”
Obviously. Stupid question.
“Hold on,” I say. As gently as I can, I lower his head to the ground. In the next moment, I dig into my pack for Irrenia’s salve. When the canister is in my hand, I say, “I’m going to rub this on your back.”
I pop off the lid and dip my fingers into the brown liquid.
“What is it? It reeks,” he says.
“It should help.”
“Should?”
“I haven’t actually used it before.”
He thinks a moment. “Do it.”
I start with the biggest of the bites, one near the center of his back, where a good chunk of flesh is missing.
As soon as my fingers touch the wound, he lets out a growl.
“Sorry!” But I don’t let up. I rub the ointment in faster. Howmuch does it need? The stranger tries to throw me off, but I hold him down with my knees against his lower back, where the bites are fewer, and begin to rub more of Irrenia’s gift into the next wound.
Only a few seconds pass before he relaxes underneath me. I watch in wonder as his skin begins to reknit together, even re-form in places. It pains me to see that half the ointment is already gone, but I can’t bring myself to stop helping someone in need. It’s what Irrenia would do.
“What is your name?” he asks.
