With a dusty sigh, Mudwort jumped down.
8
Grallik watched the knights carry their wounded fellow behind the lone, still-standing wall of the largest barracks. Rounding the corner, he saw several men assembling beds from pieces of broken cots. They were ripping sheets and blankets into strips to use for bandages and clearing away debris to make room for more men. Miraculously, the camp’s four Skull Knights had survived the quake, though one of them was propped up against the wall, his tabard off, revealing a large red splotch on the center of his chest where something had struck him. The wife of the tavern owner tended him.
Another Skull Knight hovered over Marshal Montrill, who rested on a mattress laid flat on the ground. The third priest, a large Ergothian, was moving from one injured knight to the next and would soon have more patients to be concerned with as Grallik heard the crunch of boots and moans of pain coming from behind him. The fourth priest was gesturing where to place the arriving injured.
Laborers and their wives were helping, cleaning wounds with what remained of the water supply. Some of their older children also worked at tugging off bits of armor, cloaks, and tabards and carrying off the blood-soaked bandages. The smallest children huddled together, some crying.
It seemed as if no one had escaped some injury. Added to the usual awful smell of Steel Town were the odors of blood and charred wood and the waste expelled from the dead.
In his younger years, Grallik had been in many skirmishes, and he’d heard vivid accounts of the war in the Abyss against Chaos. He’d been stationed far away at the time and hadn’t reached the great cavern before the war ended. The injured in the camp looked as if they’d been in as serious a battle as the Chaos War. But the enemy there had been a force of nature, not an opposing military force or an angry god.
He worked a kink out of his neck, stifled a yawn, and strode toward Montrill, the Skull Knight leaning over the commander but glancing up to acknowledge him. Montrill was bare from the waist up, his chest, neck, and right arm already showing the beginnings of ugly bruises. His left arm was broken, with a piece of the bone sticking out and looking sickly as it glistened in the sun. The bones in his left hand had been shattered, the fingers an ugly, pulpy mass. To add to the misery, Montrill’s nose was badly broken, his lip split, and a flap of his scalp was loose. He was glad the commander was unconscious and could not feel the pain.
One of the officers was just finishing telling the attending priest what had happened. The commander had been resting in that very barracks when the quake struck and a wall collapsed on him. The commander managed to crawl out from under the wall, then proceeded to pull free two other knights who were trapped. He went back in to check for more men when the next tremors brought down more of the building, again trapping Montrill. That time he was knocked unconscious, and knights had to go back in to rescue him.
The Skull Knight dipped a cloth in a small bowl of water and dabbed at Montrill’s face. The commander’s eyelids fluttered but did not open, and his jaw worked silently. The priest’s free hand roamed across the commander’s chest as he intoned a healing enchantment. The words were soft and comforting, sounding like a musical chant.
Grallik had always marveled at the Skull Knights’ type of magic, so different from his own and beyond his ken. The spells were not as flashy as his, not very devastating in a battle. But in an instance such as this, the priests’ magic was more effective. The Skull Knights gained their spells through prayer and meditation, drawing from themselves and the earth.
Again Grallik thought ruefully about all his lost powders and research notes. He rubbed at his eyes, which were burning worse than before. He would have to put up with the irritation because he knew it would be hours before the priests could see to him. He would pour a little more water on them from his hidden flask when he was alone. With Montrill unconscious, he was in charge. He could certainly order the priests to soothe his eyes right away and tend his sore ribs. But other knights had life-threatening injuries.
“For the good of the Order,” Grallik mouthed. He would wait before asking the Skull Knights to look to his needs.
Movement to the north caught Grallik’s attention. He stepped around Montrill’s mattress, still listening to the priest’s spell. Knights were laying their dead brethren near the dry well. Dirt still swirled in the air and, coupled with the piles of rubble, made it difficult for him to assess just how many dead bodies were in the immediate area. Twenty or more, he guessed, as he returned his attention to the priest and Montrill, perhaps as many as thirty. But there would be more dead and dying elsewhere; certainly some knights had been lost among the various crevices that had opened in camp and subsequently closed. And some had not returned from the mine.
A pale orange glow spread out from the Skull Knight’s free hand, settling into the commander’s chest and flowing outward, until all of Montrill’s skin took on the color of dying embers. Montrill was sweating profusely. Grallik realized it wasn’t a sweat caused by the heat of the place, but from a fever that accompanied his many wounds.
“Will he live?” Despite the careful ministrations of the priest, Grallik was worried. Please let him live, the wizard prayed. The aftermath of the quake would be an ordeal to manage, and though Grallik craved power, he did not want to inherit such a mess. “Will Marshal Montrill survive?” The glow was fading from Montrill’s skin, showing a clammy paleness. The commander breathed evenly but shallowly.
The priest continued his healing chant for several moments before answering. “Marshal Montrill will live, I believe, though his wounds are grievous.” He turned his attention to the commander’s broken arm. “Hold his wrist, please, Guardian N’sera.”
Grallik squatted and wrapped both of his hands around Montrill’s wrist. The priest motioned to another knight, who grabbed Montrill’s arm just below the elbow.
“Pull, gently,” the Skull Knight instructed. He walked around to the other side of Montrill, leaned over him again, and worked the bone back below the skin. “More. That’s it.” He smiled at the sickening pop as the bone fit back in place.
Though still unconscious, Montrill arched his back and moaned from the pain. The priest steepled his fingers over the bone break and spoke words unfamiliar to Grallik. Again, the orange glow spread across Montrill’s skin, brightest over the broken bone, and Grallik knew the bone was magically fusing. He’d watched the Skull Knights heal limbs that slaves had broken in the mine, but he’d never paid close attention before.
“So much dirt,” the priest said to himself. Looking up, he met Grallik’s gaze. “There could be an infection that my spells cannot reach. This I worry over. I believe the commander will live, but he needs time to rest, and I cannot vouch he’ll be able to use his hands as before.”
That the priests could repair broken arms and heal bruised ribs and worse was a credit to their craft. Grallik failed to comprehend how they could do all of that and yet not be able to erase his scars from his own burning. The rent in Montrill’s arm was already disappearing, showing no trace of having been punctured and broken. How could that be possible-and still the priests could not repair his fire-scarred flesh?
“The commander’s hand is especially bad.” The Skull Knight frowned. “The bones are not simply snapped, they are broken like shards from a dropped pot. All splintered, like they’d been beaten by a hammer. I will do my best, but that hand will never be the same. I fear he will never regain full movement.” He paused. “And it is his sword hand. You are witness, Sir N’sera, to the condition of his hand.” The priest seemed nervous, perhaps worried that when Montrill awoke he would be angry at his condition and blame the healer.