Read Master of Craving for Free Online

beneath, the sticky blood. He winced as his fingers went deep into his thigh. He unlaced his boots, kicking them off, then pulled off his mail chauses, the chore costing him more strength. Sweat erupted and rivulets poured down his face, but he pushed through the pain. He ripped the bottom part of his woolen chauses from his right leg and scowled. In the dim light he could see a long deep slice that ran horizontally across the front of his right thigh. At least the wound was not to anything so vital as to prevent him from ever walking again. As deftly as he could manage with what he had, Stefan cleaned the wound with wine from the skin, crumbled up several herbs, mixing them with a balm, then smoothed the mixture into and across the wound. Almost immediately, some of the heat lessened. As he labored, the wound on his face began to ooze, and with only his fingers to guide him, he cleaned the gash, then rubbed the soothing balm into it. He dug through one of the pouches and grunted in satisfaction. His needle and sturdy thread.
In the dark of night, with only his fingers to guide him, Stefan sewed his own thigh closed. Nearly exhausted from the pain of the injury, he did the same to his face.
    Once he could do no more to help his body heal, Stefan ate. Slowly, for it pained him, he chewed the dried venison and washed it down with the wine. Exhausted and barely able to move another muscle, Stefan lay down, wedging himself between a fallen oak and the damp ground it rested upon.
He closed his eyes and thought of his brothers, wondering how they fared, and hoping that with the sunrise, he would find them. Alive.
    Bright rays of sun speared his eyes. Stefan squinted, and as his mind awoke his body did as well. Unbearable pain jabbed and speared his thigh and face. His body was warm, and his joints ached. His arms, when he lifted one to shield the sun from his eyes, felt as if they were made of lead. He tried to move his thigh, but it was stiff and throbbed for the effort. It had tightened overnight. He needed a poultice and more balm. When he prodded the swollen skin, he winced. There was nothing more he could do but clean it. What he would not give for a cool stream in which to lay his burning body and let the water ease the fever from him!
    Once again, with supreme effort, he raised himself up from the ground and rested upon the log. The sight that greeted him in the light of day would have shocked most men, but he had seen looters before. Swarms of them picked over the dead soldiers, taking every stitch of usable clothing and weaponry from their bodies, as well as from the fallen destriers. Hundreds of naked bodies gleamed white and swollen beneath the high afternoon sun, hundreds more lay fully clothed and armed, too much booty for the craven scavengers. An all-too-common sight for a seasoned warrior. Yet it was the great black buzzards, hunched over the dead, tearing at the bloated flesh and innards, screeching at the looters who came too close, that turned Stefan’s gut.
    There was no honor for the fallen warriors who lay prey to the human and feathered scavengers. He looked up at the gray sky and prayed to a God he rarely spoke to, begging him to spare his brothers this travesty.
    Stefan’s impulse was to rush out onto the field, to find his brothers and bring them safely to the wood. But he could not help them unless he helped himself first. Prudence cautioned him. In his black mail he would be known, for only he and seven other men wore it—a gift from the Conqueror to his most trusted guards. As quickly as he could, Stefan divested himself of his mail. He pulled his short dagger from his belt and hacked at a thick branch from the log he’d slept beneath. Gingerly he rose, and tested his leg, using the oak stick for support. Awkwardly, he moved along the inside of the forest line looking for a dead Saxon or Welshman close enough for him to strip and not be seen by the looters.
    Abruptly, he stopped and looked up and