by Sally Slater
“How can we help?” Adelard asked, pushing back the sleeves of his tunic.
“Hold him or this amputation will go poorly.”
Sam gulped audibly. “Amputation? His leg doesn’t look so bad to me.” The patient bobbed his head up and down in agreement.
The surgeon fixed Sam with a frosty stare. “Are you a practitioner of medicine? No? Then keep your opinions to yourself.” He pulled out a small pair of scissors from his pocket and cut off the man’s breeches at his left knee. “The original wound site is here,” he said, pointing to a missing chunk of leg that was still weeping blood. The skin around the wound was black and filmy, and dark red lines fanned out from the swelling, patterning his limb like a spiderweb. “The wound is infected. It’s spread all the way to here.” The surgeon brought his scissors to the man’s kneecap and pricked the skin with their tip. A yellow, foul smelling discharge trickled down the man’s leg.
Sam made a retching noise, and Tristan ignored his own heaving stomach.
The surgeon returned the scissors to his pocket. “Adelard, grab his arms and hold them above his head. “Sticky Fingers, I want you to hold down his right leg. If he kicks me while I’m working, it could kill him. You two”—he pointed at Sam and Braeden—“stand on opposite sides of the bed. You, I need you to put light pressure on his pelvis. You, lie across his chest.” Once he was satisfied with their positioning, he picked up the bone saw again. “Look away if you’re squeamish.”
The next hour was a gruesome one. The surgeon worked quickly and efficiently, rotating the saw against the top of the patient’s knee with the ease of practice. Master Evans bucked against Tristan’s grip on his right leg, and by the time the lower left limb was removed, Tristan was covered in sweat. Disposing of the amputated limb, the surgeon then heated an iron cauter in a fireplace. He applied the white-hot end of the metal to the bleeding stump, searing the wound closed. The patient shrieked and then passed out.
Tristan released his grip on the man’s leg, and the surgeon handed him a bucket. “What’s this?” Tristan asked.
“It’s for you, if you need to be sick. Do your business and then pass it around.” When Tristan hesitated, the surgeon added, “There’s no shame in it. I’ve done it myself a time or two.”
Tristan leaned over and emptied a week’s worth of food into the bucket. He wiped his mouth, surprised at his violent response. He hadn’t even realized that he was nauseated.
Tristan was embarrassed at his weakness for just a moment, before Sam and Adelard quickly followed suit. Only the surgeon and Braeden abstained. “I’ve seen worse,” Braeden said with a shrug.
“Thank you all for your help,” the surgeon said. “Now get out of my sight.” He returned his attentions to the patient, slathering his leg with a foul smelling concoction of the Gods knew what. Adelard and Tristan exchanged twin looks of horror and then glanced away.
“He’s prickly,” Sam said once they’d walked a short distance.
“Aye, but he’s the best surgeon in the West, short of our doctor in Luca,” Adelard said. The Uriel beckoned at a woman wearing a starched white wimple and carrying a pile of fresh linens. “Elspeth, where are Raj and Kelly?”
The woman adjusted the bundle of linens to her hip. “They went home to their wives while you were assisting His Royal Grumpiness. They’ll be fine, don’t you worry. Well, excepting Raj’s pinky, but there’s not much Asa could do with the missing bit somewhere at the bottom of a demon’s belly.”
“Thank you, Elspeth,” Adelard said. She dipped into a curtsy and then strode purposefully down the aisle, her long black skirts whisking about her ankles.
“Your men—Raj and Kelly—they don’t stay here at the encampment?” Tristan asked.
Adelard shook his head. “No, they live with their families in East Pirama. And they’re not my men, not really.”
Tristan wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean?”
“I think it’s easier if I show you. Come, follow me.” Adelard led them out of the infirmary and towards an expansive fenced off area at the rear of the encampment.
Behind the fence, hundreds of men practiced with weapons, running through basic drills. The enclosure was evidently a training yard of sorts—but to Tristan’s eye, none of the men looked worth training. Most of them were painfully green and many were severely out of shape.
As for their weapons, well, they wouldn’t be found in the Paladins’ armory. A few men held wooden practice swords, but the vast majority were armed with peasants’ weapons—cudgels, staves, pitchforks, and the occasional hunter’s bow.
If these men were the future of the Uriel, then the High Commander had nothing to worry about.
“Are these your latest recruits?” he asked, trying to hide his derision.
Adelard snorted, leaning against the fence. “Them? Gods, no. Our standards may not be as high as yours, Paladin, but they’re pretty damn close. This training program is our newest initiative, and one of our proudest accomplishments.”
“So if they aren’t recruits, who are they?”
“Folk from Pirama and some of the neighboring towns. You see, Paladin, what we realized when we came to this city is that the Paladins can’t defend everyone, and neither can we. The demon attacks have become too frequent and their numbers too great. This is our solution.”
Tristan watched as one of the men from Pirama attempted to dodge an attack and tripped over his own feet. “You’re putting them up for slaughter.”
“They’re up for slaughter either way. This way they at least have a fighting chance,” Adelard said. “And they’re not all so rough around the edges. Raj and Kelly are probably our finest examples of what this program could amount to.”
That revelation caught Tristan off guard. He’d seen them fight—they hadn’t the skill or finesse of the Paladins, nor of Adelard or Donnelly, but their contributions on the battlefield had been most welcome. “They’re not Uriel?”
“Just citizens of Pirama who want to fight for their home.” Adelard rested his chin against the fence post. “Can you imagine if every one of these men in here could fight like Raj and Kelly? Or even half of them? This city would be a different place.”
“And what are the Paladins supposed to do?” Sam asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Kick back our heels and watch?”
Adelard whirled around. “No, Sam. So long as there are demons, the people will always need a champion. What we’re offering to teach them is self-defense. Freedom from constant fear. To keep our knowledge and our skills to ourselves”—Adelard frowned, his scars twisting downward—“that’s selfish and cruel.”
“I think it’s brilliant,” Braeden said, his face flushed. “What you’re doing here, that is.”
Tristan looked sharply at Braeden. The trainee was rarely so outspoken, and his color deepened under Tristan’s scrutiny. “Why did you bring us here?” Tristan asked the Uriel. “Why are you showing us this?”
A small smile touched the Uriel’s lips. “You don’t know much about us, do you, Paladin Lyons? Well, know this—we’re not fools, whatever else you might think. We’re fully aware that whatever you’ve seen here today, you’ll report back to your High Commander. We not only expect it, we encourage it.”
“Why?” Tristan asked. “Why would you risk revealing so much to your enemy commander?”
“If you think the High Commander doesn’t already know we’re here, then more fool you. But he’s not our enemy, and he doesn’t have to be. Tell him what you’ve seen here, Paladin. Tell him that the Uriel and Paladins are not at counter-purposes.”
“What makes you think I believe that?”
Adelard stared at him hard. “You don’t, Paladin, not yet. But you will.”
CHAPTER 27
Sam wasn’t much for conversation on the long walk back to The Stag and Bull. Her interactions with the Uriel had left her confused and off-balance. She’d expected to hate them—wanted to hate them—but struggled to find a concrete r
eason. She’d fought with them side-by-side, and they’d slain demons as well as she.
Still, the High Commander had warned them that the Uriel were a threat, not just to the Paladins but to all of Thule. Sam could not help but feel as though she’d been cleverly manipulated, shown a version of the Uriel that they wanted her to see. And besides, if they truly wanted to protect Thule from demons, as they claimed, why hadn’t they simply joined the Paladins, like she had? Why start their own organization?
She was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice they had made it back to the inn till Tristan flicked his fingers against her shoulder. “Are you planning to come inside sometime this century?”
Sam slapped his hand away. “Aye, I’m coming. I wasn’t paying attention.”
“That seems to be a running theme with you of late.”
Before she could reply, Braeden leapt to her defense. “Leave it alone already. You’ve been harping on Sam all day.”
Sam and Tristan both turned to gawp at him. Braeden never talked back to Tristan; that was her role. “Are you all right?” Tristan asked him. He didn’t even sound angry.
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Braeden rubbed at his shoulder and then caught Sam staring. “I’m fine,” he insisted. He narrowed his eyes at her and gave a slight jerk of his head. She knew what that meant—say nothing of his shoulder to Tristan. Why was Braeden allowed to worry about her, and not vice-versa? It hardly seemed fair.
“I don’t know about you two, but I’m famished,” Tristan said, heading for the front door of the inn.
After watching the surgeon amputate poor Master Evans’ leg, Sam had been convinced she’d never want to eat again. But her rumbling stomach had other ideas. “I could eat,” she said. “But shouldn’t we freshen up first?” They had yet to change out of their battle clothes, and judging by Tristan and Braeden’s disheveled appearance, Sam was sure she looked a frightful mess.
Tristan shook his head. “No, we need to remind Pirama that the Paladins are still invested in their city,” he said. “Our clothes are proof we haven’t forgotten our duty, and nor should they.”
They earned quite a few curious stares when they walked into The Stag and Bull bedecked in all their bloody battle glory. Master Byrd took one look at them and grunted in gruff approval. He led them to a free table in the tavern, setting warm drinks and bread in front of them. “Try not to get blood on everywhere if you can avoid it. It’s bloody difficult to scrub out, you know.”
“We’ll try,” Tristan said. “What have you got in the kitchen?”
“Some roast mutton, potatoes, and barley soup,” Master Byrd said. “There’s some cold bacon too, if mutton’s not to your taste.”
“The mutton will do just fine,” Tristan said. Master Byrd dipped his head in acknowledgement and ducked into the kitchens, returning a moment later with three bowls of soup, soon followed by three plates of steaming mutton and three halved potatoes.
Tristan reached into his coin purse for payment, but the innkeeper stopped him. “It’s on the house,” he said. “You more than paid for your meals last night.”
“Thank you,” Tristan said. “I hope in time your faith in the Paladins will be restored.”
“Mayhap it will be. Will you be staying in Pirama much longer?”
Tristan shook his head. “Just another day or two.”
“Too bad,” the innkeeper said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Tell your High Commander to send a few men like you our way. Pirama needs you.”
“I will,” Tristan promised. “Thank you again for the food.” The innkeeper bowed and left to attend to another patron.
“I still can’t believe the other paladins never showed,” Sam said, sawing into her meat.
Tristan put his finger to his lips. “Keep your voice down,” he ordered. “But I agree, it’s inexcusable. I plan to mention their absence in my next letter to the High Commander. It’s no wonder the Uriel have been able to make inroads.”
Sam paused with a bite of mutton halfway to her mouth. “You’re writing to the High Commander? You’re not writing anything about me, are you?”
Tristan snorted through his nose. “After everything that has happened over the past week, you think I’d waste words on you? I need to update him on the Uriel and Pirama. You might warrant a passing mention, if you’re lucky.”
“I wonder how they got the idea,” Braeden mused, swirling his pinky in his ale. He didn’t seem to be addressing anyone in particular.
Sam couldn’t follow his train of thought. “Who got what idea?”
His gaze met Sam’s, his strange eyes unfocused and glazed over. “Hmm? Oh, the Uriel. I think their civilian training program is brilliant.”
“So you’ve said. Three times.”
“Did I?” Braeden offered her a loopy grin.
Normally, Sam had to pry a smile out of Braeden. He looked . . . silly. As long as she’d known him, he’d never been that. Something was not right with him.
“Did he hit his head during the battle last night?” Tristan asked her out of the corner of his mouth.
“Not that I’m aware of,” Sam said. His shoulder, on the other hand . . .
“I’m not deaf,” Braeden said, loud enough to draw outside attention. “My hearing is fine, as is the rest of me.”
Sam clenched her jaw, fighting for patience. Who did Braeden think he was fooling? He wasn’t himself, and he was doing a piss-poor job of hiding it. Sam started to say as much, but Tristan cut her off. “We believe you,” he placated. “Isn’t that right, Sam?”
“But—”
“Right, Sam?”
She glared at him, but followed his lead. “Right, Tristan.” She didn’t understand why she couldn’t point out the plainly obvious—if Braeden couldn’t pretend to be fine, then he was far from it. Gods help her, she was worried for him.
“Let’s finish our food, and then I think we would all benefit from a midday repose,” Tristan said. Braeden nodded distractedly and picked at his mutton. Juice dribbled down his chin.
It was difficult to watch him eat. Each time a piece of meat traveled down his throat, his whole body trembled with the effort. Sam alternated between sneaking worried glances at Braeden and staring daggers at Tristan. Stupid, stubborn men.
Braeden pushed away from the table, sending his chair tottering on its legs. “I’m done,” he announced, swaying on his feet. “I think I’ll to bed, now.” With a parting nod, he staggered towards the stone stairway at the back.
“Braeden,” Tristan called after him, “you need a key!”
Braeden twisted around to look at him, flapped his hand in dismissal, and continued on his way.
Tristan grabbed Sam’s wrist from across the table. “Follow him upstairs, and don’t let him leave your sight. Something’s wrong.”
Sam yanked her hand free from his grip. “You think I didn’t notice?”
Tristan didn’t rise to the bait. “Sam,” he said sternly, “Braeden is not the sort to ask for help, no matter if he needs it. If he’s hurt or sick, you’ll need to tread carefully. He won’t want your interference.”
“Then he’s a fool.” She understood stubborn pride better than anyone, but Braeden had no reason to refuse her help. He didn’t have to prove anything.
“Men are all fools, you and I included,” Tristan said. “Watch after him, and come fetch me if it’s serious.” He held out the room key to her. Sam snatched the key and bolted after Braeden.
Sam took the stairs two steps at a time. On the third floor, she found Braeden sprawled against the wall next to their room, panting as though he’d just run for miles. Stepping over his legs, she unlocked the door and pushed it open. She extended her hand to him, but Braeden batted it away.
“I told you, I’m fine,” he said, struggling to his feet. He stumbled into the room and then pitched face-forward onto his pallet.
Sam folded her arms over her chest. “Aye, you’re fine.”
Braeden’s head
moved up and down against the mattress. “Fine,” he said, his voice muffled. “Just ti—” He gasped as his body spasmed and jerked. “Tired,” he finished lamely.
“You’re being an arse,” Sam informed him. She kneeled on the pallet beside him. “Turn over.”
“Pushy,” he mumbled, but did as she bade, flipping onto his back.
Sam brushed the hair from his temple. Braeden’s eyes went wide at her touch, and he tried to lift his head from the pallet. “Be still,” she said, pressing him back down. She lay the back of her hand against his forehead then drew it away with a yelp. “Faith in blood, Braeden. You’re burning up.”
He turned his face to the side. “I don’t get sick.”
“Braeden, if you’re not sick, then I’m a man.”
His lips kicked up into a semblance of a smile. “That’s not so farfetched,” he said. “I’ve never been sick in my life. Another rare gift from my father.”
“Well, your humanity is showing. You’re sick.” Sam pointed a finger at him. “Untie your robes.”
Braeden’s silver eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline. Sam blushed. “I want to see your shoulder, you idiot!”
Braeden hugged his injured shoulder protectively. “No.”
Sam glowered at him. “If you’re concerned about offending my delicate sensibilities, don’t be.”
Braeden’s watery eyes found hers. “Don’t worry, I get it. You’re neither delicate nor sensible.”
“Apparently a side effect of your illness is an unfortunate sense of humor.”
“I’m not ill, and I’ve always had an unfortunate sense of humor.”
“So show me your shoulder, then. What’s the harm?”
“No,” Braeden repeated stubbornly.
Sam sighed. “I didn’t want to have to resort to this.” She leaned over his torso and grasped the fabric of his tattered black robes near his wounded shoulder. She tore it apart the seams. Falling back onto her heels, she covered her mouth with both hands. “Gods, Braeden.”
Bull’s eye rashes covered the entire length of Braeden’s arm and the design of his tattoo was distorted by crusted, pustular lesions that peppered his skin from the midpoint of his limb and above. The pent-up fluid in his upper arm had leaked out and dried in yellow slabs, giving his skin a deflated, rubbery appearance. Two deep puncture marks speared through the intricate glyph on his shoulder, breaking the line of the inner and outer circles. Around the puncture marks, the skin was black.