Page 65 of The King's Man 4

Vowing never to let me come between them again.

Steel clashes through the trees, and the tinny scent of blood pierces the damp air. The sky shudders with flashes of lightning, thunder rolling like drums underfoot, shaking the final golden leaves from the branches. An eerie screech rises from the river.

Ahead, soldiers battle. Wyverns thrash. Still, the path before me seems easier than the one behind.

Rain drips down my nape, trickling from my hood, running off my chin onto my grandfather’s books, a change of clothes, needle and thread, a few rare herbs, some food... I clutch my bundle tighter and hurry along the narrow path.

Keep west of the woods. Pass the Great Violet Oak and the soldiers guarding it. Descend to the coast. Find the merchant ship to Iskaldir.

His last instructions, scrawled on a note, left beside southern currency and official passes for safe passage.

The rain thickens, pelting my face. I swallow the knot in my throat, grip my bundle, and push through a tangle of bushes—

A cry shatters the storm, and a flash of movement draws my eye. A wyvern falls, its body thumping into the leaves at my feet. I freeze, breath held, searching the sky for more.

Wyverns could rip through my flesh, their venom killing within minutes. I have no magic now. Even if I have herbs to combat the poison, I don’t know the crude methods to prepare them.

I step back. The sky is a dark bruise of clouds, evening closing in. The rain patters steadily on skeletal tree trunks. Thank the Arcane Sovereign, there’s no other movement. The wyvern must have been separated from its pack.

I glance at the shimmering scales of the small creature. It’s wounded, blue blood seeping from a gash in its stomach. Its chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths. It’s too hurt to shift into its watery form, to attack me.

I could leave. I should leave.

But its eyes are on me, filled with pain, exhaustion, fear.

It’s vulnerable. Afraid.

Its claws flex as it tries to move, but its wings go limp. A small, pitiful whine escapes it.

I haven’t used my voice in days, and it comes out rough. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll help, if you’ll let me.”

The wyvern can’t understand my words, but maybe it senses something in my tone. Its claws retract.

I drop to my knees on the wet leaves and fumble for my herbs. I have some that will fight infection, promote healing... but the gash is large.

For a sharp, painful moment, I’m back in Hinsard, beside the canal and the vitalian who died under my hands, the gash on his head too deep... Without magic, I hadn’t known how to save him.

I vowed to learn from that, spent days in my grandfather’s cabin poring over crude healing methods. Now, I pull out my needles and thread.

This wyvern will not die today.

My fingers are numb, wet, and it takes three tries to thread the needle. I speak softly as I work, wrapping its claws in a torn handkerchief. “Just until I’m done. I’ve numbed your scales. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

I’ve practiced stitching on leather, but never on living flesh. With magic, I never felt the visceral sensations of healing a wound. Now, the wyvern’s laboured breaths tremble under my palms, its scales silk under my fingers, its blood warm and slick.

I steel myself against the shiver that runs through me as the needle pierces its skin. Strength and steadiness. No room for anything else.

The wyvern whines, and I tighten the thread, carefully knitting the gash together.

The clash of steel grows louder. The battle is closing in. I have to hurry or be caught in the crossfire. I have nothing to shield myself from blades, arrows, axes.

I knot the last stitch, but I’m not done. I chew on an elderleaf, spit out the bitter pulp, and dab it over the wound.

An axe whistles through the trees and buries itself in a branch too close to my head. I duck lower. “Your wings are fine. Rest. Don’t fly until you’ve healed.”

Pounding footsteps. The ground trembles.

I want to run. My stomach drops to my knees.

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