Vrell clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.
The prince dabbed his lip. “You’ll pay for that, dog!”
“Get. In. The. Tree!”
An arrow sliced across Prince Gidon’s shoulder. He howled. “I’ve been hit!”
The soldier grabbed the prince’s arm and inspected it, dragging him behind the allown tree in the process. “Just a scratch, Your Highness. Now, please. Get in the tree, or I’ll hit you again!”
Prince Gidon glowered. “You’re through, stray. I’ll have you hanged!”
The soldier stood, a barrier between the prince and the mysterious arrows, while Prince Gidon clambered up.
An arrow plunged into the soldier’s shoulder, jerking him forward. He stumbled and spun around, face white. He grabbed the branch with his good arm, but couldn’t pull himself up. He hung swinging by one arm, trying to hook a leg over the branch.
Prince Gidon offered no assistance, the snake.
Vrell held her breath and watched from her hiding spot, fury pounding through her veins. She sought out Jax, annoyed she had not thought to do so before now. She told him of their location, the prince’s predicament, and the archers, then closed her mind before he could lecture her for disobeying.
The soldier dropped from the branch and crashed to the ground. He staggered back to his feet and toward the hedge of briarberry bushes. Before he reached the gnarly sanctuary, another arrow pierced him, this time in his lower back.
He screamed and crumpled to the ground. He writhed like an inchworm, struggled to his right hand and knee and tried to crawl, but the arrows rendered his left arm and leg useless. His body tipped over the ridge of the hill and slid away.
Vrell feared the prince seeing her and possibly recognizing her, but she had to act to save the soldier. She bolted from her hiding place to the ledge, still clutching her own spear. She brought her pouch of healing herbs around to her front.
She got to the ridge but could find no sign of the soldier. She inched down the incline, until she spotted him lying facedown in the pine needles a few paces from the stream, arrows sticking out of him like garden stakes.
She ran the rest of the way and slid to his side, praying he would live. He had fought so bravely to save his wretched prince. He was unconscious but breathing. She lifted her healing pouch from her shoulder and set it beside her spear on the ground. She thought back to Mitt’s training and Jax’s stories of the battlefield. She would need her yarrow salve, something for bandages, and water.
The gurgling stream volunteered its service. She grabbed the soldier’s hands and tugged him toward the sound. He was heavy, and thankfully, she did not have to drag him far before one foot sank into cold, shallow water. He moaned softly but did not wake.
Vrell unfastened his damp cloak and pulled it from under his limp body. She sucked in a sharp breath. Blood matted his once-white shirt. Patchy, brownish stains gave evidence to previous wounds. His left sleeve clung stickily with half-dried blood. She inspected that wound first and found a swollen, infected cut he must have received earlier and not cared for. She huffed. Men.
“Lo! Boy! What are you doing?” Prince Gidon’s haughty voice called from behind.
Vrell shivered, remembering the last time he had spoken to her, at the tournament in Nesos. At least his words and tone were only demanding today, lacking familiarity. He was such a fool. For all he knew she could be his enemy, and the simpleton risked himself to speak to her.
“Yes, my lord?” She searched the ground for one of the arrows she had seen shoot over the ridge. If she was going to treat these wounds, she needed to know what kind of arrowheads these were.
“I said, what are you doing to my squire? The battle is over. Leave him.”
Vrell paused. She’d known this soldier was a stray — the prince had said as much. But since when could a stray be squire to a Crown Prince? Peculiar. “I am trying to save his life. He did save yours several times over.”
Footsteps swished until a pair of gilded boots stopped beside Vrell. The battle must have ended.
The prince kicked the squire in the side. “Is he dead?”
Vrell kept her head down. “No, my lord.”
“Pity.” The prince kicked his squire again. No wonder he was so bruised. “He’s such a briar in my boot. If he dies, I shall make it worth your while.”
A hot rush of anger shot through Vrell. Prince Gidon wanted his squire — his hero and rescuer — dead? “He will not die because of me.”
“Well, in case you didn’t know, boy, I am the Crown Prince of Er’Rets. If you are a healer, I insist on being treated first.”
“You are injured?”
Prince Gidon turned his shoulder toward her. “I took an arrow in my arm.”
Vrell fought back a sigh. She gripped her knife and stood. Keeping her eyes down, she cut the red silk at the bicep and tore the sleeve off.
The prince twitched. “Was that necessary?”
“If you want me to care for it.” She dropped the shirt sleeve and examined his wound. It was as his squire had said: only a scratch. She cleaned it with a bit of her drinking water, added some salve, and left it unbandaged. “You will live, Your Majesty.” Unfortunately. “The air will be good for it.”
Vrell had a thought. Maybe the prince could be of some use. She needed a way to get the squire to Mahaniam. “Do you have a cart I could use to transport this man?”
Prince Gidon raised a dark eyebrow then stalked away into the mist.
Vrell sighed and scanned the ground. She spotted an arrow a few feet away with a bodkin point: a four-sided spike designed to penetrate armor. Advanced for people as primitive as the poroo. Not at all like their crude spears. The same people could not have made both weapons.
The stream gurgled. A breeze whipped through the trees. She shivered as she scurried over to the closest fallen Kingsguard. The man had died from a spear to the chest. No good. She needed a clean shirt. She ran to the next body and flipped him over. Her breath caught. His skull had been bashed in by something immense, probably a battleaxe. But his shirt was unsoiled.
She crouched to unlace the neckties and spotted someone’s travel pack under a briarberry bush. She abandoned the dead man and went to the pack. She found a clean shirt inside and beamed. Infection was her biggest concern. The cleaner her materials, the better his chances.
She hoisted the pack over one shoulder and ran back to the soldier’s side. She placed her palm against his forehead. He already burned with fever, likely due to his arm wound. She ripped the shirt into strips, anxious to get this over with. She still had to remove the arrows. At least bodkin arrowheads would be easier to remove than the barbed, broadhead kind.
She opened her satchel and used her small knife to cut his shirt down the center back. His bruised and scarred skin stole her breath. He’d been beaten, often. She invested her fury into cutting the shirt off. She sawed at the fabric around the arrow protruding from his lower back, then shifted to remove the material from around the arrow in his left shoulder.
When the cloth fell away, Vrell stopped as if Arman had frozen time. White, raised skin scarred an S onto the squire’s upper left shoulder. The skin underneath was maroon, a birthmark of some kind that brought out the S even more. The brand was slightly distorted due to the arrow piercing him.
The mark of a stray.
She remembered that the prince had called him stray. Why, then, did he wear a soldier’s uniform and wield such a fine sword? Wasn’t it against Council law to train strays for Kingsguard service? Prince Gidon had plenty of guards. Where were they? Where was the irritable Sir Kenton, the Shield?
Some Shield.
The wound in the squire’s lower back oozed thick blood, so she started there. She placed her hand against his skin, then stopped. Where was her head? How would she pack the wounds? She crawled to the stream, dunked her hand into the water, and clutched a handful of grainy soil. It was too coarse. She needed mud. If she dug a bit to find softer soil, she could probably make some.