Aftermath and Unexpected Treatment

Slash!

A gruesome, gaping wound tore open across the exposed body, stretching from the left collarbone to the right flank.

Blood surged forth, escaping in a torrent.

Noren raised her shield, deflecting the spraying blood, then kicked, wrenching her blade from where it had been lodged in the bandit’s hip bone.

The bandit died swiftly, collapsing to the ground without a whimper.

His entrails spilled out, mingling with blood and intestinal fluids that pooled on the earth.

That’s enough.

Droplets of liquid trickled down Noren’s forehead, indistinguishable as her own sweat or the enemy’s blood.

Gazing at the piled bodies of over thirty men and the hesitant bandits still standing, Noren let her right arm relax.

Her sword tip pointed to the ground, and tainted blood dripped from its point, joining the crimson puddle by her feet.

The bandits were utterly terrified; after losing three-quarters of their numbers, the morale of the remaining few finally plummeted to rock bottom.

Some trembled violently, a damp stain spreading across their crotches.

Others, their legs giving way, collapsed to the ground.

Still others simply threw down their weapons, covered their heads, and feigned death.

All the initial bloodlust had vanished from this band, replaced entirely by overwhelming fear.

“Run!”

One bandit, the first to react, let out a terrified shriek before turning and fleeing.

The other bandits, startled by the cry to flee, scattered as well, their courage utterly shattered.

Beside the barricade at the very rear of the bandit group, Cat sidled up to Reken, their leader, and cautiously inquired, “Boss Reken, what should we do now…?”

Reken gnashed his back teeth in fury, a fierce glint in his eyes.

“What else can we do but retreat?!”

Cat asked, “What about the treasure…?”

Reken roared in a low voice, “Is your life more important, or making money?! Retreat!”

Cat obediently nodded.

“Alright!”

With a dozen or so bandits fleeing, Noren had no mind to pursue.

After all, they were only a few people; a reckless chase would undoubtedly leave the rear of their caravan vulnerable, offering the enemy an opportune moment.

“Is everyone unharmed?”

Noren cast aside her shield, then used her unbloodied left hand to retrieve a clean linen cloth from a pocket sewn into the padded linen armor.

She wiped the tainted blood from her blade, but the prolonged struggle had caused the blood to congeal, making it impossible to clean thoroughly.

It would require a whetstone.

“Just a few minor injuries,” Hafdan said, extending his tongue to lick the corner of his mouth, where a shallow cut stretched from his lip to the prominence of his cheekbone.

Wiz pointed to a purplish-blue welt on his forehead, while Henry displayed a rip in the sleeve of his padded armor and several dents in his helmet.

“What about you, Tolke?”

Noren stepped through the sticky blood puddle, approached Tolke, and handed the youth her three-lobed pommel Norse sword.

“Sharpen this for me.”

Tolke took the sword, and the blood on the leather-wrapped hilt instantly smeared onto his hands, a truly disgusting sensation.

He gestured with his chin towards a short javelin by his feet.

“See, just barely.”

Seeing his casual attitude, Noren’s temper flared.

She flicked Tolke’s head.

“’Just barely,’ ‘just barely,’ I’ll give you ‘just barely’! Couldn’t you have hidden behind the wagon and fired arrows from a safe distance?”

Noren fumed.

“Honestly, when did you start treating your life as carelessly as those other Northmen?!”

“Noren, I…”

Tolke was utterly bewildered, unable to fathom how he had angered Noren again.

“Go sharpen the sword!”

The young woman glared at him; even without a hint of coquetry in her eyes, her gaze was still captivating.

“Oh…”

“M-m-my lady, the young noble has been hit by an arrow!”

A stableman stammered as he ran over, a gaping hole in his ear, his features contorted in pain.

Noren: “?”

She followed the stableman to the very rear of the caravan.

There, Igor knelt on the ground, cradling his brother, Ryan, in his arms, while a bay warhorse stood quietly beside them.

“Miss Noren, my brother has been struck by an arrow!”

Igor’s face was ashen.

“For God’s sake, please save him! The Osbrück family will surely…”

“Calm down,” Noren interrupted, raising a hand.

“Let me examine him first!”

Noren crouched down, meticulously assessing Ryan’s condition.

Ryan was unconscious, an arrow as thick as a finger lodged five inches beneath his armpit.

Noren flicked the tightly woven chainmail on Ryan’s body.

Beneath the chainmail lay a padded armor lining.

By all accounts, this level of protection was considered top-tier in Bohemia; ordinary arrows should have been utterly incapable of piercing the dual defense of dense chainmail and padded layers.

‘Could the enemy have used a heavy crossbow?’

Noren gripped the arrow shaft, measuring its length.

It was quite long, confirming it wasn’t a crossbow bolt.

Her gaze traced up the shaft, finally revealing the cause: the chainmail sleeve was too wide, and the arrow had somehow slipped through the gap in its defense!

“Let me state this upfront: his life is in God’s hands, and I will bear no responsibility for the outcome.”

Noren looked into Igor’s frightened brown eyes.

“If you agree, I can attempt to save him.”

Igor nodded frantically.

In his mind, Noren’s group must have included someone skilled in medicine; otherwise, they wouldn’t dare travel as merchants with so few people.

Noren said, “Then I’ll go fetch my tools.

You first shorten the arrow and remove his armor.

I’ll be back shortly to treat him.”

“What?! You?!”

Igor was dumbfounded, utterly surprised that a woman possessed medical skills.

Noren frowned in displeasure, feeling quite offended.

“What? You’re unwilling?

If so, take him back to your manor!

I have no interest in treating a deserter!”

“No, no, no…”

Igor waved his hands frantically.

“Then do as I say!”

Noren rose and walked towards the supply wagon laden with various items, casting a fleeting glance at Igor before she departed.

Igor watched Noren, her figure slender, half her outer armor stained with blood, and felt a profound sense of uncertainty.

Yet, he knew he had no choice but to try anything, even if it seemed a lost cause.

“Ryan, the Lord will bless you.”

He kissed Ryan’s forehead and made the sign of the cross over his own chest.

****

Evening, Western Osbrück Woods

“He’s awake.”

A calm, unruffled female voice spoke.

Dim, yellowish light enveloped the surroundings.

Ryan struggled to open his eyes, and as he tried to sit up, a searing pain shot through his armpit.

“If you don’t wish to die, then don’t move.”

The woman, a heavy silhouette in the gloom, seemed like Death itself come to claim a soul.

“He truly is fortunate.

This blunt-headed arrow lodged perfectly against a rib; had it been a heavy, barbed arrow, it would have surely killed him instantly.”

The woman’s voice, both intimately near and impossibly distant, was muffled as if by a thick layer of gauze.

Ryan, disoriented, parted his bloodless, pale lips.

“Wine…”

A slick, rather hard spout was pressed against his mouth, and watered-down wine poured into him, though most of it trickled from the corners of his lips.

“Aren’t you going to bleed him?”

Ryan recognized his brother Igor’s voice.

“Are you suggesting he hasn’t bled enough already?”

Ryan immediately bristled at the woman’s words.

‘If she wasn’t going to bleed him for treatment, was she just going to let him die?’

“Urgh!”

Overwhelmed by anger, his blood flow surged, and the wound tore open once more.

Ryan, in agony, forced his eyes wide open, his neck rigid.

He fainted!

Noren pulled off her gut-string gloves, tossing them into a basin of wine water nearby, then stood and stretched her neck.

“From now on, he merely needs rest.

Ensure he avoids strenuous activity.

With a bit of luck, once he develops a fever and the wound suppurates, he should largely be out of danger.”

Igor asked nervously, “Are you truly certain he doesn’t need bleeding?”

A cold glint flashed in Noren’s eyes as she turned to Igor.

“If you utter ‘bleeding’ one more time, I’ll slice open your neck and have you hold a basin to catch every drop of your own blood.”

Igor straightened his back in terror, daring not to speak another word.

‘Bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, that’s enough already!’

Noren grumbled internally, using the wine water in the basin to wash the blood from her hands.

As there was no immediate water source, she had to resort to the wine she carried.

Moreover, in an era like the Middle Ages, where clean water was scarce, wine was undoubtedly the best available option.

“Hafdan!”

Her simple cleansing complete, Noren shouted towards Hafdan, who was busy clearing the battlefield.

“Aye! Coming!”

Hafdan hopped and skipped over the haphazardly strewn bodies on the ground, making his way to Noren.

“Report on the battle.”

“Thirty-two enemies slain.

We seized ten long spears, ten short axes, four long axes, three flails, five spiked clubs, six ordinary wooden staffs, one short javelin, and a number of arrows.”

Hafdan added, “None of these men wore armor.

Their fur coats and coarse linen shirts are all bloodied or slashed open by weapons, rendering them worthless for salvage.”

’10 + 10 + 4 +…’

Noren mentally calculated, then looked at Hafdan with a skeptical gaze.

“Are you certain you counted correctly?

The weapons don’t match the number of people.”

“How should I know why they don’t match?

I just picked up all the usable weapons.

If you don’t believe me, go count them yourself.

I’m hungry; I’m going to eat.”

Hafdan shrugged, then pointed towards the haphazard pile of weapons by the foremost wagon, indicating that Noren could count them herself if she doubted him.

He then pulled a piece of bread from his person and squatted by the roadside, beginning to gnaw on it dryly.

“Never mind.”

Noren decided it wasn’t worth bothering with.

She glanced up at the sky; the red glow of evening filtered through the tree canopy, casting dappled light on the path.

It was getting late, time to start a fire and prepare a meal.

“Wait!”

Noren felt as though she had forgotten something, and she surveyed her surroundings.

Tolke was ‘shush-shush’-ing as he sharpened a blade, Wiz ‘heave-ho’-ing while moving bodies, Hafdan ‘huff-chuff’-ing as he dry-gnawed his bread, Ryan ‘hiss-hoo’-ing in pain, Igor ‘amen’-ing in prayer, and Henry, along with several stablemen, ‘sigh-ing’ and exchanging weary laments.

‘Nothing seems to be missing!’

‘Am I just overthinking it?’

Noren tugged at the small golden braid by her forehead.

Meanwhile, beneath one of the caravan wagons, a petite girl was sleeping, her small face so serene, adorable, and endearing.

Anna: “ZZZ”