A Quiet Rebellion: Guilt by M H Thaung

Author:M H Thaung [Thaung, M H]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Caroline Thaung
Published: 2018-07-07T04:00:00+00:00

Jonathan had been too slow. Too slow to call his power, too slow to realise it had failed, and above all too slow to protect Tabitha.

“Tabitha, no!”

But she ran on, and he was left clutching her cloak. He launched himself after her, only to measure his length on the ground as his treacherous leg gave way. Scrambling to his knees, grit grinding into his wounded hand, he could only watch as she fled towards the blimp, with a beast and Franka chasing her. He snarled in frustration, wishing he could help, willing Franka to save her.

The other free beast pawed at the cage’s door, but Opal, Terry, Kenna and Hilary surrounded it, coordinating their attack. Jonathan levered himself to his feet with his own sabre and limped after Tabitha and Franka.

By the time he reached Franka, Tabitha was climbing up the departing blimp’s ladder ahead of the operator. Franka was on her knees in an expanding pool of blood. The beast crouched before her. Jonathan broke into a stumbling run which ended as he swung his sabre to decapitate it.

Franka whispered something, but he only caught the word “too” before she slumped to the ground. Too what? Too slow? Too late?

The noise of combat had ceased, and he wasted no time in kneeling to examine her wounds. Slicing away her blood-soaked trouser leg, he assessed the damage.

A ragged chunk of flesh flapped just below her left knee. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, as well as slower oozing. No wonder she’d collapsed. He sucked in a breath and fumbled in his pouch for bandages with one hand while applying pressure with the other. With the aid of a stick, he wound the bandage round her thigh as a tourniquet.

He’d bought only a little time. If he left the tourniquet in place for as long as it took to return to Ascar, she could lose the leg. What else could he do?

There was his power—he hadn’t lied when he told Tabitha it could help the chirurgeons—but he had no experience in this use. Could he make it work? Unlike knocking away a stick at a distance, squeezing a blood vessel closed needed precision and control, not raw power. Whether to kill someone or keep them alive. He had to make the attempt.

With his right hand he gripped her injured leg. He clenched his bleeding left hand around a fist-sized sharp rock. Piercing pain from his abused wounds flowed up his arm on top of the raw ache in his hand. His power primed, and he let go, focussing on the injured vessel and squeezing it.

A minute. That’s long enough. He released the tourniquet, but the wound immediately refilled with bright red blood. His stomach clenched, his breathing quickened and he hastily reapplied the tourniquet. What had he done wrong? He searched his memory for ideas... Hadn’t that craftsman told him that flow through pipes depended on whether they were flexible or rigid? And someone had mentioned something in blood that closed wounds.

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