She had fired muskets and pistols before but only a few shots at a time. Today she’d lost count of how many times she had fired the musket, but her right shoulder felt as if it would have major bruises. She didn’t know how much time had passed as it slowly rose in her consciousness that only a few Narthani stood in view. Sounds of firing had diminished, now replaced with sounds of wounded humans and horses. Is it over? wafted through her muddled thinking. She wiped sweat from her forehead, smearing it into dust and gunpowder covering her face.
From nowhere, Denes Vegga appeared in front of her.
Whatever she was about to say died when she saw his face. As if they had lost the battle. If not that, then . . .
“Is it Yozef?” she said in a voice that sounded like hers.
Denes nodded. “I had a hard time finding you.”
“Is he . . . dead?” asked the same voice.
“Not yet. But the medicants say you should come now. Word has also gone to Anarynd and several others.”
He didn’t say who the others were, but he implied that those close to Yozef might want a final goodbye.
Maera didn’t say anything else, her face set in stone. She pulled on her cloak and followed Denes down the fortification line. Hundreds of medicants and hundreds more people worked on the wounded—treating some in place, putting others on wagons and carts to be taken into prepared hospitals in Orosz City. Every island medicant not necessary at the redoubts was here, either part of MASHs set up nearby or non-assigned medicants helping where they could.
The cries of the wounded competed with and were lost amid people shouting and celebrating the victory. Bells rang from all quarters of Orosz City. Her mind idly thought that all the bells had been melted down to forge cannon.
They had traveled two hundred yards when they met a carriage carrying Anarynd, Gwyned, Braithe, and the children. Anarynd’s face appeared stricken but her jaw firm. Aeneas slept in Anarynd’s arms.
They rode without speaking a half-mile and saw their destination well before they arrived at a makeshift shelter of blankets and poles. Hundreds of men stood silently, gathered around the shelter, and parted as they approached. The carriage slowed to a halt, and several men helped the women out of it. Maera and Anarynd followed Denes into the shelter. What seemed to be a dozen medicants either attended to a body lying on a platform or clustered nearby, whispering.
Only when they neared the platform made of planks supported by sandbags did they see it was Yozef. Anarynd gasped, and Maera whimpered. Blood covered the wood, a naked Yozef, and medicants’ hands and forearms and dripped red onto the ground. A wound on the side of his head had been stitched closed but still leaked blood. A blood-soaked compress was tied to his right thigh. Blood ran from a ghastly hole in his side, and medicants frantically changed compresses, trying to staunch the flow. The two women’s only hope came on seeing his chest still moving.
Diera Beynom had been talking with several medicants until she saw Maera and Anarynd. She came quickly to them, and the three hugged.
“Is he dying?” Maera asked in a toneless voice.
“Oh, Maera . . . Anarynd . . . there’s just nothing we can do. It’s the body wound. It went into his liver, and we can’t stop the bleeding. Even if we could, there’s probably too much damage for him to survive.”
“How long does he have?” pressed Maera.
“It could be any second. The surgeons are surprised he’s even lived this long with that wound. You should go to him now.”
“Can he hear us? Will he know we’re here?” asked Anarynd in a small voice.
“I don’t know. He seems to be unconscious, but you never know. Talk to him, if you want—something of it may get through to him.”
They moved to his side, each with one arm around the other. Anarynd held Yozef’s hand, and Maera placed her palm on his cheek on the unwounded side.
Maera leaned over. “Yozef. Yozef. It’s Maera and Anarynd. Aeneas is here, too. I don’t know if you can hear us.”
She stopped, partly choked up, then cleared her throat. “It was a great victory. The Narthani army is destroyed. Just as they seemed to have finally broken through the best we could do, Harmon Swavebroke arrived with the dragoons who had been cutting the supply line back to Preddi. Riders got to Harmon only yesterday, and he drove his eight thousand men as hard as humanly possible to get here. He left a thousand men too exhausted or whose horses gave out, but when they got here, Denes had them go straight at the lead Narthani units. When that happened, the heart seemed to go out of the Narthani, and most of them tried to run or surrender. Many clansmen didn’t give quarter, but Denes and Welman Stent finally got control, and we took thousands of prisoners. Everyone is cheering the victory, and everyone knows you saved us.” Maera’s voice broke, and she paused to gather herself. Anarynd put an arm around her shoulder “Your name will never die,” Maera said when she could speak again. “It will be a legend forever.”
She couldn’t go on. Anarynd gave Maera a harder squeeze with her arm and leaned down in turn.
“Don’t worry about the children, Yozef. Maera and I and all the people of Caedellium will care for them. If the new child is a boy, we will name him Yozef after you. If he, we, and all of Caedellium are fortunate, he will grow to be even half the man you were. . . ” Anarynd stumbled on the last word. “ . . . are . . . are. The man you are.”
More medicants moved toward them. “Pardon, but we need to get in closer.” They elbowed the two women farther back so they could continue whatever they were doing.
If it’s hopeless, why are they still trying? Maera wondered, accepting the inevitable.
“Am I only imagining this, or does it seem as if the bleeding has slowed?” one of the medicants said in a puzzled voice.
“What?” asked a white-haired man.
Diera whispered that he was the senior surgeon in Orosz. “The others are also the best we have,” continued Diera. “There has probably never been a patient on Caedellium who has had such a team of medicants. In preparation for the battles, the best surgeon medicants from all the provinces are here in Orosz to tend wounded. When word went out that Yozef had been wounded, many of them came here as fast as they could. If these surgeons can’t do anything for him, then no one can. Even a couple of Fuomi surgeons are here.”
The white-haired medicant had been joined by several others who hovered over the abdominal wound. Maera recognized two Fuomi uniforms—a man and a woman.
The white-haired medicant shook his head. “I wouldn’t think it possible, but you may be right—it does seem to be slowing. But that doesn’t make any sense. With this kind of damage, the only thing that should slow the bleeding is death from running out of blood.”
A grizzled medicant on the other side of the platform laid a hand on Yozef’s forehead to check the head wound, pulled his hand suddenly away, then placed it back on Yozef’s forehead.
“His temperature is way up, like he has a fever.”
He used a cloth to further clean Yozef’s face.
“And look at the red flush. With all the blood, we might have missed it before. He should be pale with blood loss and shock, not hot and flushed. I don’t understand.”
A flurry of talk erupted among the medicants, their voices suddenly a din.
“What’s happening?” asked Maera.
Diera shook her head. “I’m not sure. Let me check, and I’ll come back to you.”
The abbess joined a cluster of people, including the Orosz medicant, two Fuomi surgeons, and Eina Saisannin, translating between Caedelli and Fuomi.
When Diera came back, she looked puzzled.
“No one seems to know what’s happening. I’m sorry, but he should be dead. Instead, his heart seems strong, the bleeding is slowing, and the fever and flush are things no one has ever seen before in wounds such as Yozef’s.”
Anarynd broke out in semi-hysterical laughter. Startled, Maera and Diera stared at her. Medicants turned to look disapprovingly.
“This is YOZEF KOLSKO,” Anarynd proclaimed loudly. “Why should anyone wonder at what he does, awake or not? He should be dead, but he’s not, and he is not going to be. God has laid his hands on Yozef. What all the medicants of Caedellium could not do, God will do!”
Diera stared for several more moments. “Whether it’s God’s doing or not, obviously something is happening that we don’t understand.” Diera stopped, then continued hesitantly. “I don’t want to give you too much hope, but he’s still alive. All we can do is wait to see what happens.”
Diera turned back to the medicants and the surgeons.
Anarynd wiped remnants of earlier tears from her smile, her eyes glowing, and new tears formed, these of happiness. It was only the second time Maera had seen that expression on her friend’s face after her return. The other time happened after a medicant confirmed she was carrying a child.
Maera didn’t want to quash Anarynd’s hope, and she wanted to shield Ana from the ultimate blow when Yozef finally died. Maera wouldn’t admit to herself that for the first time since Denes had brought the news, an ember of hope burned deep in her breast.
“Ana, we have to let the medicants do their best. Let’s move out of their way to give them more room.”
“Of course,” said Anarynd, still smiling, not saying what was in her mind. Of course. Let the medicants pretend to be helping him. It is God himself who is in this shelter and who will save Yozef.
Tight-faced, Maera led Anarynd out to the carriage, where Braithe handed her Aeneas. Denes stood among several hetmen, including all the War Council members. Culich Keelan had come via dray.
“Is he dead?” asked Denes in a noncommittal voice.
“No,” Maera snapped, annoyed at the question. “And God grant that he doesn’t die!”
“What!” exclaimed Harmon Swavebroke, coated in sweat, dust, and several splotches of blood. “We’ve heard that the medicants think it will only be a short time before he passes on to the next life!”
“You fools!” blurted Anarynd, still euphoric in her fantasy. “Do you even now not fully realize that Yozef Kolsko is not like other men!”
“What?” said Cirwyn Gwillamer, confused.
Questions also erupted from others within hearing. Finally, Denes shouted them all down, then turned to Maera.
“Maera, what’s happening? Is Yozef going to die?”
“All I know is that he has not died yet, and the medicants don’t know why.”
Her words were greeted with shouts of amazement, joy, relief, disbelief, and confusion. The news rippled outward from those nearby to those farther back in the throng that now numbered in the thousands.
Maera suddenly felt more tired than she ever had, even more than after giving birth to Aeneas. When she started to sag, Denes caught her. He called out, and men scrambled to use sandbags to create a crude bench twenty feet from the shelter. Maera, Anarynd, Gwyned, and Braithe sat holding the children. The day’s light faded, as did cries of the wounded, as they either died or were taken to Orosz City for better treatment. Only the most seriously wounded remained on the plain in front of the city, tended by MASH units. Medicants worked on those whom triage had categorized as unlikely to survive their wounds.
Hours passed. People lit lanterns, so many that for a hundred yards around the shelter it was as light as day. The bells in Orosz City had stopped pealing. Everyone waited.
More hours passed. Men offered water. Women passed out food to the throng still standing hundreds of yards deep around the shelter. Aeneas woke several times to be fed and changed, then drifted back to sleep. Maera and Anarynd took turns holding him and rocking on the sandbags.
Neither Maera nor Anarynd spoke to each other or to anyone. Carnigan appeared, bandages covering an alarming percentage of his body but apparently not stopping his mobility. Gwyned had been alarmed when she first saw him. In her relief, she pretended to scold him with a few soft words. He stood behind the seated women and wept.
Hours continued to pass. People may have come and gone, but the numbers remained beyond easy estimating, having grown as people from Orosz City walked to be witness to whatever happened. Yozef Kolsko was dying . . . or was he? The stars rotated in the clear, windless night sky. Babies, Aeneas and others held by waiting women, woke, were fed and changed, and went back to sleep—except for Aeneas, who woke sometime during the night and decided it was time to play. Gowlin Reese had been wounded, but the bayonet stab had been sewn shut. He refused to leave until Maera asked him to take Braithe and the children back to the city.
Time seemed irrelevant, only that they waited. Maera noticed the absence of Wyfor Kales, the third of Yozef’s bodyguards. She had hoped they would keep her husband far from the worst of the fighting, but history told her that Yozef somehow managed to find himself where she wished he wouldn’t. She wasn’t angry at them. What was the use, knowing Yozef? But where was Kales? When Diera stopped to check on all of them, Maera asked if the abbess would check on Wyfor. She returned twenty minutes later. Kales was in Orosz City, having lost an arm above the elbow. He had stated to everyone who would listen that at least it was the arm already missing two fingers.
The last star faded with the approach of sunlight, when Diera came again and went into the shelter. Maera and Anarynd could hear the medicants talking. When Diera returned, she looked exhausted, she looked bewildered, she looked . . . in awe?
“The bleeding’s stopped completely—in all the wounds, including the abdomen. His heart is still strong, and the fever, or whatever it was, is gone.” Diera paused, then continued in an odd voice. “They think he’s going to live.”
Maera gasped loudly and sank to her knees, sobbing hysterically, her face alternately turned skyward and then down, as if praying.
Startled, Diera, Carnigan, Gwyned, and Anarynd all stared at Maera. As amazing as the news about Yozef was, they had all begun to expect that however it came to pass, he was going to live after all. Maera’s reaction, though, was completely unexpected. No one had ever seen Maera cry. No one had even heard rumors of such an emotional outburst by Maera.
Word spread faster than could be believed. Yozef would live! It was a miracle! God had intervened to save his messenger! Faster than was in any way physically possible, word reached the city, and bells began pealing once more—both for the victory and for Yozef’s miraculous survival.
It was more than twenty-four hours from the final Narthani assault and Yozef’s injury when he first opened his eyes. His first thought was, Well, it’s not a white ceiling this time. He couldn’t have said why this awakening reminded him of waking up inside the Watchers’ ship or in the hospital at St. Sidryn’s, though somehow it did. Something big had happened. Otherwise, why would he make that association?
Suddenly, it all came flooding back. The battle! What had happened? Who won? He was still alive, as were the people around him, so it couldn’t have been too bad.
“Who won?” he tried to say. It came out more like “Guroh wah.”
Sounds erupted everywhere. Suddenly, so many figures moved quickly across his blurry field of vision, it made him nauseous. Hands touched him. Rough hands, soft hands, gentle hands, cold hands, warm hands. He hurt. Everywhere, it seemed at first, then localized to his body, with lesser pains in his head and leg.
“Yozef,” he heard. “Yozef, can you hear me?”
He turned his head slightly. It only hurt a little. He saw a head. A woman’s head. Maera. She looked terrible. Bags under her eyes he thought could do well for long-term travel, smudges of something on her cheek, tracks down the smudges. Tears?
“Ou uk turible,” he croaked out. “Ou need sum slp.”
Maera shook her head. Another voice broke into rumbling laughter. Yozef turned his head, painfully. Carnigan stood with bandages everywhere.
“Ou uk evn urs.” Yozef tried clearing his throat. “Ou luk evn wurse.”
“Yes, well, you should talk. We’d give you a mirror, but it would only upset you.”
Yozef started to laugh until a jarring pain in his body made him gasp. His eyes flared open, and his face turned pale.
“God damn it, Carnigan, shut the hell up!” yelled Gwyned, giving her to-be-husband a whack on the chest that would have caused most men to stumble. Carnigan didn’t budge, but his face took on a chagrined look.
“Sorry, Yozef. I don’t think they want you to move too much just yet. Something about you’re supposed to be dead, and you’re refusing to confirm their opinions.”
Gwyned rolled her eyes.
Yozef smiled wanly, then looked around again to Maera. Anarynd was there, too. He wanted to say something, but . . . just . . . drifted . . . off.
“He’s sleeping,” said Diera. “They gave him a little more of the poppy extract once he came awake. They were afraid to give more earlier.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but I think I almost believe in miracles.”
Recovery
Yozef slept sixteen hours and awoke the next morning, ravenous. The nano-elements had scavenged healthy tissue in their desperate struggle to keep him alive. The drained tissues cried for sustenance, and his stomach demanded food. Medicants spoon-fed him a broth reminiscent of his first awakening on Anyar. They graduated him to a thin stew, to a thicker stew, and finally to a whole loaf of bread sopped in stew juice, before he was satiated. He didn’t speak and immediately went back to sleep. Two hours later, he was awake and hungry again. By late afternoon his color was better, there was no sign of bleeding from any of his wounds, and the abdomen wound felt painful only if he moved—instead of searing, as it had been when he first regained consciousness.
His voice also came back, and he asked for details of the battle. They tried to put him off, telling him to rest and get reports later. When that failed, and afraid he might get agitated, they sent for Denes. He appeared within fifteen minutes. Yozef immediately noticed a change in Denes’s demeanor toward him. They would never be close friends, but while Denes had listened to and used Yozef’s advice, he had never been overly deferential. Yozef had the impression this had changed.
Forged in Fire (Destiny's Crucible Book 4) Page 70