Ring of Fire III(2)

“You’d better see to your wounds and change clothes,” he said, setting the pan down on the table he’d used to disable the first assailant.

Who, for his part, issued a groan.

Tom leaned over, lifted the man to his feet with one hand, slammed the back of his head against the door jamb again, then let him slump to the ground.

This impact was far more savage than the first. The man would be unconscious for hours. If he wasn’t dead—Tom was in a quiet fury and he was very strong.

“I’ve got to go see what’s happening, hon,” he said, reaching for the jacket of his uniform hanging by the door.

For the first time, Rita realized there was a cacophony of shouts and gunfire coming from outside. It sounded like the whole city was under attack.

It finally dawned on her that this hadn’t been a house invasion by criminals.

“What do you think...?”

Now, Tom was buckling the holster with his sidearm around his waist. He’d had that hanging by the door also.

“At a guess, the Bavarians are attacking.”

“But how’d they—”

“Get in? Treachery, I figure. Has to have been, as many as there are from the sounds of it.”

His gun holstered, Tom stepped forward, reached out and plucked out the splinter above her hip. That was her first realization that it was there.

“That’s probably nothing to worry about,” Tom said. “It’s hardly even bleeding, from the looks of your dress. But you’d better see to your arm.”

For a moment, he seemed to be dancing back and forth, obviously torn by indecision. Rita shook her head.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “Go see to your men.”

A moment later, he was gone. After giving the corridor a wary glance, Rita put the shotgun back on the mantelpiece and drew her left arm across her chest to get a better look at the wound.

It was bleeding a fair amount, but she didn’t think it was really all that serious. The proverbial “minor flesh wound”—except that now it was starting to hurt, damn it all.

They had some first aid supplies in a small chest in the bedroom. It was under the bed, since there wasn’t much room in the apartment and the kit wasn’t something they expected to be needing regularly. She went in, knelt down and looked under the bed. Not to her surprise, she discovered that the first aid kit had faithfully obeyed the Iron Law of Anything Put Under A Bed. By whatever mysterious means, it had migrated to the very center.

So, an already torn, dirty and blood-stained dress got a bit more wear and tear on it, while she half-crawled under the bed to drag out the kit. By the time she got it out, she was worried enough that she almost gave up the effort halfway through. The sounds of fighting from outside were unmistakable now. That was a pitched battle being waged out there, with rifles and grenades—even an occasional cannon shot—not some sort of raid or minor incursion.

With the kit finally in hand, she hurried to the apartment’s basin. The military housing had running water, even if it didn’t have electricity. Fortunately, there was enough light being shed by the fire and the two lamps in the room for her to start working on her wounds.

The one on her side proved to be minor, sure enough. The dress itself had absorbed most of the impact. But the wound on her arm was a different matter. Once she washed it off and could see the damage clearly, she winced. That gash was big enough and deep enough that it ought to be closed with stitches. But there was no way she would be able to manage that herself, one-handed. She’d just have to be satisfied with a pressure dressing. She wasn’t worried about blood loss, as such. But without stitches, she’d wind up with a pretty nasty scar on her upper arm. She tried to console herself with the thought that sleeveless dresses weren’t in fashion in the year 1636 anyway.

There was a small bottle of concentrated alcohol in the first aid kit. She used that to sterilize the wound—which really hurt—and then started awkwardly wrapping some (theoretically) sterile cloth around it.

Sounds coming from the corridor drew her attention away from the task. She snatched the shotgun off the mantelpiece.

Hearing female voices, she relaxed a bit. There was far too much fighting going on for there to be any enemy camp followers moving around. Then, recognizing one of the voices, she relaxed completely.

“In here, Willa!” she shouted. “I’m alone, and there’s no danger!”

She glanced down at the two dead men in the corridor. “Well, no immediate danger, anyway,” she added.

A few seconds later, the shapes of three middle-aged women appeared in the corridor. They minced their way across the two bodies, taking care not to step on them.