Is that a…? Lord, have mercy.
There appeared to be another guy, barely breathing or dead; I couldn’t tell which. From the stench, I figured he was dead. It seemed I’d gotten his smell confused with Marcellious. It didn’t speak well of our captors if a dead man was already down here.
Great. So we’ve been left here to rot.
I glanced down at my many wounds, wishing Amara were here. She’d know how to patch us both up and remove the bullet festering in Marcellious’ shoulder.
In stark contrast to the dark, dried blood staining his loincloth, his skin was the color of maggots. A sheen of sweat covered his forehead, cheeks, and neck. He would surely join that fellow in the corner if I didn’t do something.
While it might be nice to not have to sort out where I was and how I would escape with my sworn enemy by my side, I couldn’t help but wonder if Marcellious was truly my brother. Could he be? How was that possible? If he were my kin, wouldn’t it behoove me to care for him until I knew for certain? But what could I do?
Amara’s wrinkled face appeared in my mind. Using her most practical tone, she said, “You’ve got to remove the bullet. It will fester if you leave it in, and then he might lose his arm or even die.”
“But how?” I whispered to my ghost.
“You’ve got a dagger. Use it. Clean the wound and dig out the bullet.”
I chuckled at my mad ravings. Amara had never seen a bullet, but I had, and I knew what to do.
With a groan, I pushed to my feet and staggered around the basement, sourcing supplies. Half a broken gallon jar and a few baskets lay on the dirt floor. If there had been any preserved food down here, the soldiers would have already confiscated it. I’d done the same thing when I’d participated in the war—we’d burn down homes and villages and helped ourselves to their food stores.
But with my hands tied behind my back, I could do little. I couldn’t pick up the jar, or anything else for that matter. So, I kept searching.
I searched the cellar for anything I could use to cut my bindings free. My gaze caught on several deadly-looking meat hooks hanging from the ceiling. If I could get my arms up there, I could use the hooks to free myself.
I kicked and pushed the bushel of potatoes until it sat directly beneath the meat hooks. Then, I stepped on top of the potatoes. The uneven surface made it hard to balance, so I widened my stance until I felt steady. I lifted my arms behind me until I could feel the meat hook. If I were to snag my arms on the metal claw, I’d be in a severely compromised position. I had to be careful and make this work.
Laboriously, I managed to pick at the ropes binding me. I had no idea if I was making progress. The only thing I knew was that I was nicking my skin with the sharp tip of the hook, bloodying my wrists. I gave my arms a tug in the hope that I’d done some damage to the rope. It held fast.
Damn.
I gave up, stepping free of the bushel.
What else could I use?
I eyed one of the wooden half-barrels holding potatoes--the friction might rip the noose if I could work the rope back and forth on the hook’s edge. I positioned myself next to the barrel, knelt, and began sawing at the ropes. I worked until sweat poured from my skin, and my arms were utterly fatigued. I was about to give up, but I had no more ideas. So, I kept sawing.
Finally, the ropes snapped.
Despite the burning sensation in my arms and shoulders, relief surged through me. I brought my hands before me. My wrists were bloodied from the hooks and chafed from the wooden edge.
Never mind, I was free. I would heal.
Now I could see to Marcellious.
I picked up the jar, careful of its jagged edges, and placed it under the drip. When a small amount of water had collected in the bottom of the container, I swirled it around, emptied it, then used my loincloth to clean and dry the glass as best I could.
The voice of Amara inside my head insisted that whatever I used to clean Marcellious’ wound needed to be free of grime.
Then, I placed the jar back down on the ground to collect more water.
Hoping the dead man had something on his body I could use, I made my way to the corner.
His skin had dried, and his mouth was open in a horrified grimace. I had to cover my nose and mouth with my elbow to keep from gagging at the smell. I used my other hand to root through his pockets, finding a metal fire starter and a pouch of tobacco.
What luck!I could use the starter to light a fire and sanitize my dagger. But what could I use to make a fire with?
The dead fellow’s hair looked to be quite dry.
