I am assigned to the medic division. In the march back to Nodkis I had been routed from Sergeant to Lieutenant to Major to Colonel until coming to stand before Chief Medic Artin. Unlike other refugee-conscripts who are fueled by a sentimental rush to fight for their home, I have already negotiated a wage.
As an apothecary I am adequate, though I’ve had no formal training. Through my travels I spent years at a time away from civilization and I learned to create my own remedies from a combination of books and my own intellectual observation. In Nodkis I made the usual concoctions: anesthetics, cough remedies, laxatives, oils and acids for cleaning, ointments to aid with conception, potions to stop conception, and cosmetics. Due to my proximity to the bad side of town, however, it was not long before I was being commissioned to create poisons as well.
I choose to omit that when I list my skills to the Chief Medic. The aged man is kindly, yet strict, and treats me like a fresh recruit despite my age and experience. He is short, touched with grey on what hair remains, and uncannily lithe like a woman. It doesn’t help that he often stands akimbo with both hands resting, palm up, on his hips. The pièce de résistance of the whole thing is his sizable potbelly that swings like a laden waterskin when he walks. I can already see that I will have a hard time taking him seriously and he will have a hard time trusting me.
So even as we are cresting the road to Nodkis and are begin to set up camp at the edge of the forest, I am soaking gauze in antiseptic solution in the back of a wagon. It reeks and makes my eyes water but I’ll be damned if I complain to him or anyone. The others in the division are largely non-offensive but working in close proximity means conversation that I would rather avoid.
Over the next weeks there are skirmishes between the two forces that result in plenty of injuries and more than a few deaths. The Horde forces wasted no time bulwarking the city and reports as to the size of the force were sketchy at best. The border patrols they’d crossed, farmers they had ravaged, guards they’d encountered, and citizens they’d attacked couldn’t report from the grave—although divinations are attempted—so the Elysian army has chosen to act with purposeful caution when testing the fortifications.
After a fortnight of reconnaissance and planning, the first real maneuvers of the siege are being prepared for. Despite spending the last several days pulping ingredients and preparing vials alone and in peace, I now find myself surrounded by men and women in the triage tent for a briefing. We are asked to sit in a semicircle as though we are children being told a story. Unobliging, I opt to stand and I get my fair share of side glances and furtive whispers.
Let them. I do not stoop for these people.
Two men stand next to Chief Medic Artin. One is dressed in the frock and ornaments of the Elysian pantheon—white and gold and burgundy and cobalt woven together in patterns of looping vines and delicate leaves encircling motifs representative of the gods. For Kurdu, a plain shield; for Risha, a delicate hand holding a single bloom; for the two sides of Ard Agdawn, an elaborate crown and the silhouette of a hermaphrodite. A simple, saucer-like hat juts out from the man’s head doing little to hide his ginger strands of fine, limp curls. His rosy, round cheeks make him appear fifteen-going-on-fifty, not to mention long lashes and plump, cherubic lips. Despite his awkwardness, however, he holds himself with dignity and radiates calmness.
The other is wearing layered robes of cornflower blue and grey, with hair and beard that must have been white for a generation. The robes are clean and fit well, but are tousled. His hair and beard is kept trimmed but looks slept-on. His eyes are bright blue, like a forest pond, with two monstrously bushy eyebrows, like snow caterpillars, creeping across his brow. He is leaning ungainly on an ornate—and obviously magical—staff, more for show than necessity. In fact, he looks sturdy still despite his age.
Artin gives me a disapproving look but addresses the group, “The siege of Nodkis is set to begin at sun-up and we will all be needed here in triage. Finish up your other tasks and make ready to handle the surge of patients we will undoubtedly get.”
Motioning to the Cleric of Elysium, Artin continues, “The clerics will be overseeing the efforts so you will be paired or trioed with one. Divine healing will need to be used sparingly and so they may instruct you to use other remedies on patients even if you do not agree. Since the clerics will be evaluating all the incoming patients, it will be the job of his or her partners—meaning the medics—to do most of the leg work. As such, I will be assigning partners shortly and you will have the remainder of the day to prepare your stations.”
This announcement does not impress me. I sweep my gaze across the group sitting rapt and cross-legged at the Chief Medic’s feet. Seven clerics, fifteen others including myself. So seven groups in all: six pairs and one trio. I can only hope I don’t get put with some chatty twit or arrogant blowhard. Working with others is not my mode and I’ve done my fair share of healing. I don’t need some bleeding-heart priest telling me what to do. This is going to go badly.
I cross my arms while Artin turns to the other man, who perks up and seems well-pleased at mention of his name, “Val Maxis and his students will be assisting in the assault during the morning but, once their arcanum is exhausted, will be coming to assist here afterward. They will be added to your groups on an as-needed basis or tasked with potion creation. Any questions?”
So clerics, wizards, physicians, apothecaries, and surgeons all working together in one large, but cramped, tent on a summer day. Well, at least I am getting paid. Most of these fools are doing it for altruism or, worse, patriotism.
Naturally there are questions from the group. Most of them have obvious answers. I decide to observe Val Maxis’s antics as I sit through the drivel. He is an odd man. Purportedly the most potent wizard in the nation, and possibly the entire west half of the continent, he has an air of whimsy about him that I find unappealing. Those blue eyes are sharp and he notices me noticing him almost immediately but only smiles and turns back to listening.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
Follow @LieseAdler