From behind the three creatures appeared several others, smaller in frame, holding bulky crossbows with arrows drawn and aimed at them.
“Rid yourself of all weaponry before we proceed,” instructed the leader.
Dragos nodded, slowly removing his saber from his waist and bending to unstrap the knives from his thighs and ankles.
“And you?” The centaur studied David suspiciously, its dark eyes sweeping over him before resting on the bloodied bandages that peeked through Hekate’s cloak.
“I have brought nothing,” David stammered in reply.
“You came to the Sagittaureans weaponless?” the creature scoffed.
“I know him, Sagittari, he lives in the castle with the Imposter Strigoi,” the centaur to the right of him said.
“Ah, so you brought one with power so you would not need your weapons,” the leader snorted, turning a reproachful gaze towards Dragos.
“If you do not want our help, we will return to where we came.” Dragos’s signature irritation was beginning to surface.
“I mean you no harm,” David attempted.
The centaurs burst into laughter. “Oh, you cannot harm us, strigoi. I am simply pointing out the obvious truth which your friend attempts to hide. He has brought you here in case we turn on you. He has no powers of his own as is no match for our herd.”
Dragos fumed, but did not speak.
“You may enter to help our fallen brother, then you must promptly leave,” Sagittari decided.
Dragos nodded, leaving his weapons behind and following them deeper into their woods. David followed suit, curious how the events would unfold. Now that the initial shock had worn off, he could feel his exhaustion gnawing at him steadily, reminding him that he needed rest.
He distracted himself by studying the centaurs, poised but brawny creatures, moving with a grace that went against their size and temperament. The horde dissipated gradually as they descended into their territory, the archers moving to defend the boundaries against any other intrusions.
Sagittari paused before the mouth of a cave, gesturing them forward. Through the light of a meager fire, David saw the wounded centaur, lying amidst a heap of straw. Its back leg was bent at a dangerous angle, its flesh ribboned over its joints. He was unconscious, his human half covered by a thin blanket that he shivered under regardless.
“You need to set the bone, then apply a salve to heal the surface wounds,” David blurted out, ancient memories of his time as a stable boy drifting up from the recesses of his mind.
Both Dragos and the centaurs turned to stare at him in surprise.
“I have never set an animal’s bone before,” Dragos admitted in a rare display of diffidence. “Hekate included the necessary tools for wound care, but I am afraid that was all she anticipated.”
“May I?” David asked the centaurs carefully.
Sagittari maintained his hostile expression, but nodded.
David approached the wounded centaur, studying the broken leg. Thankfully, the fractured bone had not pierced through the skin and had remained partially attached to the knee bone. “We will need to find pieces of wood and size them to his leg. Two should work,” he said. “I will then need a plank to strap the leg to, along with the sturdiest rope you can muster. Pieces of leather would also be suitable.”
Sagittari glanced at the centaurs flanking him, gesturing for them to retrieve the requested items. They disappeared seamlessly into the bleak, shapeless woods.
Dragos opened up Hekate’s bag to set out the bandages and tinctures, producing one of her salves and a bottle of hemlock and opium. “He will need this for the pain,” he explained.
Sagittari nodded, and Dragos bent to put the concoction to his lips. The fallen centaur looked young, with wavy chestnut hair that was long enough to wind itself through the bed of straw. He resisted the taste at first, but eventually relaxed enough to allow Dragos to pour the liquid down his throat. Within moments, he began to emit a low rumbling snore.
“He is my son,” the elder centaur abruptly offered, his face still impassive and his arms still crossed before him.
“I am sorry,” David extended.
Sagittari shook his head. “I do not need you to be. It is a great honor for a Sagittaurean warrior to die in battle. It would be selfish of me to feel sorrow at his passing. Yet my eldest son left our herd long ago and I have attached myself to this one.”
“Mourning is a gift many do not receive,” David murmured as he bent to study the leg. “It means that we have been able to truly love another in our lifetime.”
The centaur was again taken aback by him. “You are not like the other strigoi.”
“He is the Great Promised One,” Dragos flatlined.
They were interrupted by the sound of stomping hooves, the centaurs returning with arms full of wooden planks and branches. David went to work immediately, throwing off Hekate’s cloak and rolling up his sleeves without any regard for his appearance. Memories floated back to him as he worked, recalling conversations held between him and Eridus many years ago. It was common practice to slaughter horses with broken appendages, but David had assured him that he could fix the bone within two months’ time. Eridus had protested, unable to see the point in feeding an animal that could no longer provide them with transportation, but David pressed until he gave in. The fallen horse he’d worked on had to be sedated, just as the creature now before him, still whimpering through unconsciousness as he wrapped a makeshift tourniquet at the thigh.
Dragos assisted in securing the leg as David grabbed the knee and pushed the leg bone back into place. He worked quickly, strapping the amended leg firmly to the plank of wood while Dragos applied the salve heavily. He then wound the plank and the sticks with rope, ensuring that the set leg would remain firmly in place.
When he stepped away, he realized he was drenched in sweat, black oil dripping from his forehead. He wiped it away, embarrassed by the blatant display of his blood drinking nature, realizing gratefully that neither him nor Dragos had been affected by the amount that had been spilled.
“Strigoi who heal. I am amazed,” Sagittari commented.
“He has a long stretch of healing ahead,” David warned him as he gingerly unrolled his sleeves back over his bandaged arms. “But if he forces himself to rest, he will be able to walk again.”
“We appreciate your assistance. This absolves our vendetta against your kind. However, let this serve as my final warning—if one more human comes near our borders, we will kill them without hesitation.”
“Understood,” Dragos nodded. He seemed to know better than to attempt to shake the centaur's hand, bowing curtly in his direction instead. They followed him out of the cave, back into the black forest. Sagittari’s eyes met David’s. “I can tell you are a traveler. If you ever happen upon my eldest son, tell him he is still welcome here. His name is Chiron.”
David startled with recognition as the centaur abruptly broke into a gallop and disappeared into the darkness. He had named the most infamous centaur in Greek myth, the one who came to teach humans the art of medicine.
“Come,” Dragos said. “We should check in with the camp.”
