The orcs do not run away at the first sign of opposition and the fighting continues well on into the night. The triage tent is at twice capacity, with less fortunate patients lying on the ground in between the cots. The grim faces of the men who bring the injured remind me of slaves who are not yet broken: with foolish resolve in their eyes and hope hemorrhaging from their hearts.
I tend the wounded with cold practicality. There will not be enough healing to save everyone so I evaluate each one brought to my section and tell Ralith which ones to cast healing magic on. I do not bother with the ones who are going to die no matter what anyone does; they are left to bleed out where they lay. Had I more time and less supervision I would have ended their suffering quickly. I mutter prayers to Ner Ngal when I notice they have expired.
Those who can be saved but would be irreparably disfigured or mad I also let perish. I save them from the guilt they would feel from the burden their affliction places on their loved ones. Better to be remembered well than to eek out a pathetic existence, drooling and shitting on oneself.
I catch Ralith healing one of those sad souls after I had instructed him not to. “Remember this man. Visit him when the war is over and tell me if you helped him,” I warn.
Luckily everyone is so busy with their own emergencies that no one notices that I am commanding Ralith instead of the other way around. When the apprentice wizards come to help, one is assigned to my section and he follows Ralith’s cue and does as told as well.
And that is why precedence is important.
My magic comes in handy as there are too many patients and not enough space. Conjuring an unseen force I am able to transfer patients carefully between work areas by myself, retrieve medicines and bandages that would be otherwise out of reach, and apply pressure to a compress while measuring out doses. When my tools break, I mend them. When I need fresh water, I summon it. These things, while small, save the lives of at least four soldiers.
My hands are raw and bloody but the blood isn’t mine. My feet ache, my stomach is tight with emptiness, and my throat is parched. Through the discomfort of the moment, I pause to look across the sea of groaning bodies writhing in pain and delirium.
I find it reassuring—but not because of the cruel fate that has beset these men or this nation. Conflict is as much a part of existence as breathing. Any man who says otherwise is a great fool. Nations rise and fall, treaties are signed and broken, and beliefs and armies clash to their own peril. Peace? Tranquility? A lie. There will always be those who covet, those who hate, those who fear—for as long as there is existence. In many ways, this war is part of the living body of the cosmos. Were it to end, were all wars to end, the body would wither and die and crumble to the Void at long last.
Though I believe that the one, unflinching truth of existence is the inevitability of its end, this is what living is all about. I’d almost forgotten.
At last the horn sounds and our forces retreat to lick their wounds. Soldiers return to their bedrolls, unable to rest soundly despite their exhaustion because of the wails drifting through the darkness from the battlefield. Their friends and countrymen lying in the dirt and certain to be dead by morning.
I hear men crying as I return to my bed. I drift off to sleep mapping out the different routes to Kadrakan in my mind.
The morning is somber and pensive as the commanders of the Elysian army deliberate. The command tent is near triage so I occasionally glimpse people going in and out: Val Maxis, the Elysian Priest, Pall Garund—the Earl of Nodkis—and some others I do not recognize. There is a rumor that Loksan Orital the Liontamer, leader of the Buknar armies, is in the camp but none seem to fit such a grandiose title. There is no order to continue the assault so, until further notice, I tend to my patients.
Ralith is appropriately disillusioned for his first jolt of reality. A devotee of Risha, he has, no doubt, lived his life in her image: tranquility, brotherhood, grace, and all manner of idiotic beliefs. Of all the gods to bend to, Risha is probably the worst one I’ve heard of.
It sounds pleasant enough at first but there is a sickness to it. Just one layer past the facade it is plain to see, and it is worrisome that common folk seem incapable of even this shallow level of critical thinking. Peace through complacency. Tranquility through inaction. Being in Risha’s presence is a horror I do not wish to fathom. To be in her providence is to be wrapped in an endless stasis that one would not even have the wherewithal to comprehend, let alone have volition to leave.
Now, I can respect a god such as Kurdu. His teachings espouse duty and are firmly planted in reality. Of all the gods of the Materia, Kurdu is the only one who regularly steps in and appears on Delkhii when his teachings are not followed. Resurrection spells, while possible, cost the caster an exorbitant amount of material components and magical energy, but Kurdu, having purview over death, does not often abide such things within the borders of Elysium. He has been known to right the wrong of such a ritual himself, usually immediately. In nations who do not give worship to Kurdu they need not fear such an outcome, though the cost is still prohibitive.
Resurrections are rare, thankfully. I find it beyond distasteful. When something dies it should stay dead. Necromancy and raising of the dead is not nearly as vile since the ghouls it animates are really just akin to golems. Pulling a soul back from the outer planes of the gods, or worse, the Void, is sacrilege no matter who one’s patron deity is.
Ard Agdawn is another fine deity, worthy of worship. Like Kurdu, he oversees the other little facts of living: reproduction and rule. His sermons are grand and his temples even grander—even I will pay a tithe in his name to copulate with his priestesses. In fact, it’s much preferable to the adulterous biddies who come to woo me in my shop. Paying coin for services is a tried and true exchange that gives both sides what they want. A professional whore is much less likely to sell her clients’ secrets than a bored noblewoman. I prefer to keep my secrets secret.
It does me no harm to patronize other gods. I know it does not diminish my faith to Ner Ngal in the slightest. Quite the opposite. Though it is not commonly held—I have never come across another who believes as I do—I am of the opinion that Ngal is not just the First God. Ngal is the only God.
We, on the Material plane, cannot truly grasp His being. He looks down on Delkhii from the heavens, through known and unknown outer planes, refracting His essence like light through a faceted crystal. I believe the other gods are the refractions of Ngal’s true being. From where we observe on the Material plane, we see these myriad gods and group them into Pantheons for our own means and understanding. Yet when one performs acts of worship, the energy of that faith serves Ngal through the conduit of these lesser gods.
Risha doesn’t make sense though. She doesn’t seem to fit. I have my suspicions about her true nature but no evidence as of yet.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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