I opened my eyes slowly, truly astonished that I was still alive. The pain in my stomach seemed a distant monster that promised to make itself known and soon. I was in someone’s bed in a tent with IVs hanging near my right side. Sunlight streamed in through netted screens and an open door flap. Quiet murmuring voices penetrated just outside beyond my vision. I swallowed past dry lips and an equally parched throat. There must have been a cool breeze, I saw the sides of the tent billowing yet I was hot, dripping with sweat and still shivering with chills.
I could hear birds and the crunching of a horse chewing on hay, its hooves rustling the bedding. I could smell horse, sawdust and blood, antiseptic and fever sweat. I tried to sit up and the effort left me faint-headed and gasping, brought people into the tent to hover over me. One was the giant I’d seen on the horse and another was Murphy, the third was a man between the two’s height and must have been a doctor. He picked up my wrist and felt for my pulse, checked my eyes and at my waist. He had dark orange eyes, orange tinted skin and copper red hair set back like an Elizabethan hair line.
The giant rumbled deep in his throat clearly asking a question and Murphy answered before turning to me.
“Corbin, how do you feel?”
“Don’t make him talk, sir,” the orange man returned. “He needs to rest. I’m going to put you on oxygen so your lungs are under less stress.”
“Murphy?” I managed. “What happened? Why did that chick do this to me? Who is she? Am I gonna die, Murphy?”
The doctor stuck a mask over my nose and mouth cutting me off. “No, you’re not allowed to die under my care,” he said. He looked off to the side and spoke to someone else. “His liver was pierced in two places, his intestines perforated, bowels ruptured, one kidney nicked. Blood loss of a significant amount which I’ve replaced in volume, stopped the bleeding and sutured the laceration in his stomach wall. He is on massive infusions of antibiotics to prevent infection but as you can see, he is running a high fever. His fractures have been reduced and pain medication administered. His survival rate depends on his mortal makeup and constitution. Is he one of yours, Sir Julian?”
“Morph?” the one called Julian asked Murphy and I saw his image waver as if I was looking through the rain’s downpour. He changed to a creature more like a demon or gargoyle than a man. I heard him say the woman’s name, Flora and then, my own. Julian turned and studied me, his eyes devouring my face.
“He looks like a young Corwin,” he mused. “Has he any Chaos blood in him, morph?”
“He is a human child,” Murphy denied. “I am bound to his service by a witch woman in Ireland. Bound by her shed blood and dying curse to protect him.”
“Her name? What was her name?” Julian demanded again.
“Amber Murphy-Sines.”
“Was she human?”
“Completely human,” Murphy nodded.
“And you say Flora did this? Why? I know she had no love for Corwin but why take it out on a child?”
“Why did you intervene and save him?” Murphy asked instead. “Even if you suspected Royal blood, no familial feeling do you bear for Corwin or Corwin’s kin.”
“No one dare to spill the blood of Amber within my protection, my demesnes,” he retorted. “If he is not of Amber descent, why would you protect him?”
“He is a son of Amber,” Murphy agreed. “Whether he has enough of that blood to walk the Pattern, I do not know. He also has the blood of Merlin’s mother, Dara, Lady of the Courts of Chaos. Has he shown any sign of either Logus power? No, not that I have seen yet the woman Flora seemed to recognize him.”
“Does Merlin know about him?”
The doctor clucked in hissing annoyance. “Will you please take your conversation out so he can rest? He should be in a hospital under 24 hour care.”
“Who or what are after you?” Julian asked, his voice moving away from my hearing.
I lifted the plastic cup off my face and called out, “Murphy? Don’t leave me.”
He came swiftly to my side and his hands were once again human, horny and callused as he stroked the side of my face. “I am here, my master. I will never leave you.”
“Am I dying, Murphy?” I felt such sadness overwhelm me, a hollow feeling deep in my gut and it made my breath quicken. I panted in shallow breaths, my chest barely lifting.
“No, Raven,” he returned swiftly.
“My guts feel like they’re burning, Murph. Like they’d fall out if I stood up.”
“Your guts are back where they belong, master. Sewed and tidy as this doctor could make them. There is a spark inside you. Do you feel it? A warm core that is the center of your life. Cradle it, feed it, blow on it as if you were to feed a tiny blaze into a bonfire. Do you see it?”
“I see it, Murphy,” I said drowsily, warm and tingly.
“Good. Feed it pieces of fuel, Raven. One by one until it blazes like a forest fire.”
“There’s no more firewood, Murph,” I protested.
“I will give you some. Here, Raven. A log from a Heart oak from the Silver Forest of Arden. Look, your Uncle Julian is giving you a splendid chunk of ironwood from his favorite copse in the wood. He is the Steward of Arden, Raven. Feel the flames brighten and leap as they consume the wood.”
“I feel it, Murph. I’m warming up now. Too bad we don’t have any marshmallows. We could make smores,” I mumbled.
“Can you sleep now, master?”
I snorted very near to that state of slumber. “You never called me master before, Murph. I must be worrying you.”
“I’ll beat you when you wake, Corbin. For leaving without telling me you were going. Go to sleep.”
I closed my eyes and obeyed him.