No one attacked.

My heart thudding, I ran as fast as I could around the side of the Palace to a man who lay near an overturned cart. He was a young guardsman. His helmet lay nearby, dented. A bright blue tunic woven with gold threads covered him from waist to knees. Beautiful leather sandals wound around his feet, which were splayed to the sides of his body. Somebody cared for him. Cared enough to make him these lovely clothes. His mother? A young wife, perhaps? Crouching down to assess his wounds, I studied his face. He was handsome. No more than sixteen or seventeen—my own years. My belly tightened involuntarily as he reached for me, agony twisting his face, pale with the loss of blood, which was seeping from a long laceration in his left arm.

“Please,” he whispered.

“I’m here, I’m here,” I crooned.

Just then, a woman’s voice called to me, and I saw a pair of Manzazu sandals sticking out from behind an overturned cart. “Help me,” she moaned.

But this boy needed me, too!

“Please, it hurts so bad,” the young guardsman whispered.

“I’m here!” Using the blade I kept in my satchel, I cut off the long strap from his fine sandal and knotted it around his arm to stem the blood flow. He turned, groaning in pain, and I saw the deep gash on his back and the pool of black blood darkening the sand beneath him.

“A-zu,” the Manzazu warrior cried.

“I’m coming!”

My heart ached with pity for her. But this guardsman needed my help. Probably a cauterization, which I could not do at the moment. Carefully, I removed his breastplate and wedged it under his back while he writhed, pressing the metal against his skin to help stem the flow until I could assess the Manzazu warrior. I rifled through my healing satchel and found the poppy and tapped some into his mouth to help him drift off.

That will have to do for now.

My heart lurching, I left him and raced to help the warrior. I needed to at least see how bad she was. If she was fine, I could go back to the guardsman. At least pull him out of the dirt and the grime, build a fire, clean the wound, and cauterize to hold it until I could tend to him properly.

The woman lay sprawled, hair matted to her forehead, her helmet near her feet. I dropped to my knees. Grasped her hand. Her grip was weak. I traced my finger along her arm for the beat of her bloodline. It was also weak. Slowing.

“Where does it hurt?” I whispered.

“Here.” She swatted at her left side.

I laid her hand gently on her belly and shuffled to the wound. Dark, black blood covered the ground, and the laceration continued to gush.

She groaned and tried to push herself to her elbows.

“Stay still!” I cried. I needed a bandage. A cloth. Anything to stop the bleeding.