Page 11 of The Outlaw Viking

It was her brother Dave on the table, and a floundering, Dark Age Ben Casey wielded a knife the size of the Grim Reaper’s blade, preparing to amputate his leg. Worst of all, the contaminated blood of other patients covered the healer’s instrument and his cleric’s garb, even his tonsured head. Apparently, he’d used the knife over and over without cleaning or disinfecting it.

“Stop!” Everyone in the room turned to look at her as she rushed forward. “Don’t you dare touch my brother, you bloody butcher.” With a force fed by pumping adrenaline, Rain knocked the healer aside, taking in the medical problem immediately. The deep wound above the knee was bad, and he’d probably sustained some permanent muscle damage, but she thought she might be able to save his leg. Of course, he’d lost a lot of blood, and she had no plasma, but it was worth the risk. Wasn’t it?

“Don’t worry, Dave, I won’t let them cut off your leg.”

The young man raised his eyes hopefully and clutched her hand tightly. Refusing to relax his grasp, he tried to speak, but she told him to save his strength.

Of course, it wasn’t Dave. Her real older brother was forty-two years old and was probably playing golf right now, since it was Saturday. This man couldn’t be more than twenty. He must be one of the Viking Age half brothers her mother had told her about.

“Are you Eirik or Tykir?”

“Tykir,” he rasped out.

“Well, Tykir, I’m your half-sister Rain, and I won’t let them take your leg.”

“Do you swear?” he asked, still clutching her hand.

“I promise to do everything possible to save your leg.”

Hearing a flurry of noise behind her, Rain turned to see a furious Selik, his eyes blazing hotly. He stood in the doorway of the tent, flanked by the healer and the men who’d been holding Tykir down.

“What manner of trouble do you cause now?” he snarled, moving toward her purposefully, obviously intending to remove her bodily from the tent. Rain stood her ground bravely, holding her arms outstretched protectively in front of her newfound kin.

Rain shook with anger and fear, but she knew she had to speak quickly. “They’ll kill him if they amputate his leg—especially with that dirty blade. I won’t let them do that to my brother.”

“Brother? What nonsense do you spout now?”

“Tykir. They want to amputate—”

With a hefty swipe, Selik knocked Rain aside and to the ground. The healer snickered with satisfaction above her.

Selik leaned over the patient with concern. “Tykir? Oh, by all I hold sacred, boy, I did not know you were in the battle. I thought you safe in Norway with your Uncle Haakon. Damn that Ubbi for disobeying my orders.”

“Do not blame Ubbi,” Tykir whispered. “’Twas my idea.”

Rain stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. Fascinated, she watched the ferocious Viking caress Tykir’s face with remarkable gentleness. It was the most compassion she’d seen in the cold Norseman thus far. Perhaps there was hope for him, after all.

“Let the woman heal me,” Tykir pleaded, rising on his elbows. “Do not say me nay on this, Selik. Much do I prefer to gamble death with the wench than lose a limb. For the sake of my father, grant me this boon.”

Selik turned stonily to Rain. “Can you truly save the leg?”

“I think so…if we hurry. And providing I get all the help and materials I need.” She looked pointedly at the angry healer and the hostile men.

Selik paused, torn between the outrage of his comrades and Tykir’s urgent exhortations. He held up a hand to halt the angry suggestions of the men. “Quiet!” he bellowed and turned decisively to Rain. “What dost thou need?”

Rain could have kissed the stubborn knight for his support, begrudging as it was. She banked her emotions, though, and demanded, “Boiling water, lots of it, needles, clean cloths. Put everything into the water to sterilize; then lay the cloths somewhere to dry where they won’t touch anything impure.”

She gave orders like a drill sergeant to the men around her, wanting the table scrubbed thoroughly and dozens of torches lit for better visibility. When the makeshift operating table was prepared, she removed all of Tykir’s clothing, much to the embarrassment of Tykir and the consternation of the cleric, who proclaimed huffily, “’Tis unseemly of the maid.”

“Listen, little brother, what you have or don’t have below the waist is of little consequence here. You want to save your leg, don’t you?”

He nodded weakly.

Rain patted his head reassuringly. Lord, he was only a boy. He should be enjoying life, not fighting in a useless war. She sighed with weary resignation. Whether tenth-century or modern-day life, some things never changed. One pointless war after another.

Rain decided not to remove the tourniquet above the wound until just before the surgery, but she examined the injury closer to determine the depth of the cut. The muscle damage might not be too bad, but some veins needed to be reconnected as soon as possible to get the blood supply going again before the leg atrophied. It would take hours under the best of circumstances. How would Tykir ever stand the prolonged pain?

Rain rummaged in her medical kit. Of course, she had no anesthetic. And the strongest pain killers she carried were Darvon and codeine, and only a few of those. They would be better used after the surgery. Would she have to rely on alcohol to dull Tykir’s senses? Criminey! She’d kill her brother just probing around in that horrendous wound.