With the fighting stopped, the battle clerics of Kurdu come into the triage tent to assist. The additional healing magic is invaluable and the cots are half empty by sundown.
I am sitting and tending to one the few recovering patients still in my bank of cots come dinnertime. A commotion stirs just near the back entrance.
“Sir, you should not bring that in here,” a timid-looking elven woman is chasing after a human teen who is boldly walking down the row carrying a covered pot. She looks young but that isn’t a clear indicator when it come to elves. The mature look in the depths of her pale eyes tells me she is probably about two-hundred years old. The holy symbol of Ard Agdawn—the hermaphrodite one—hanging at her neck tells me she is another one of the clerics.
Right, I remember seeing her the other day but I’d zoned out during question and answer time.
The human teen is dressed as a soldier with an officer’s insignia, but he is smooth of face with a youthful glow that indicates he is too young to grow a beard. He is tall and lean with short-cropped black hair contrasting a fair complexion. Green eyes, much darker than my own, sparkle with mirth while a wide grin stretches across his face. He does not stop when the elf calls, and neither does he speed up. With an air of confidence that can only be borne by the young, he makes his way to one of the cots and pulls up a stool to sit.
The young man sets the pot down and leans over the man in the cot, “Min, I brought you some dinner. I made it special for you but I shared it with the other guys too.”
Min had lost an eye and most of his left hand in the assault. The magic to restore missing parts, true regeneration, is difficult to master so I doubt more than one person in the entire camp can cast it. That sort of magic is often reserved for officers, not grunts. His carefree friend here might get it if he were hurt, but Min will be missing those parts the remainder of his days.
The lad is helping Min to sit up when the elven woman catches up and shoos him away. “He should not be moved. You are disturbing him. Kindly leave,” she is as emphatic as a kitten.
“Hi, I’m Vong!” the young man addresses the elf, even as she lays Min back down.
It catches her off guard and she reciprocates the introduction before she remembers that she is put out by him, “Voella’Tien Etentulla. You—you should go.”
“I’m just visiting my friend. He’s in my squad but he got hurt. I made some soup to make it up to him. It’s an old Vong family recipe!”
Voella’Tien stands and tugs the creases from her apron and gives Vong a sympathetic look, “I will see that he gets it. But what he needs right now is rest. Will you leave?”
Vong smiles so wide his eyes close but he stands up and walks to the end of the cot, waving at Min who seems vaguely aware that anything is going on. “Okay Voella. Do you know when he’ll be better?”
Voella’Tien’s eyes turn down and her lips part slightly. She moves as if to turn away but pauses, looks sympathetically at Min, then gives Vong a meek lean of the head to indicate they should move somewhere else to talk about it.
The two walk closer toward where I am sitting so I hear the conversation. I’m not eavesdropping but it’s all easily in earshot. I would have to put more effort in to ignore it than to hear it.
“His spirits are down, so it is very kind of you to come. Perhaps in the morning he will be ready for visitors,” Voella’Tien tells him kindly. “We could not save his eye and he will not be able to use his left hand again, unfortunately.”
“What about regenerating them?” Vong asks naively. A youth such as he couldn’t appreciate the acumen and fortitude necessary to perform such a spell.
“Only High Priest Garrint could do such a thing, but…”
“Where is he?”
Voella’Tien balks, “What? Why? Do you mean to ask him?”
“Yeah, Min is a good guy and he doesn’t deserve to be stuck like this.”
Now she looks horrified, “You cannot just ask that of him! He is already doing so much for the troops by overseeing us and providing guidance. That magic must be retained in order to preserve our leaders, should anything happen.”
I can see this does not sit well with young Vong. He bristles visibly and spooks the elf. She bows her head and folds her hands in front of her demurely.
“That’s not right! They owe him! I’ll go talk to the High Priest.”
Voella’Tien is much more resolved when she asks quietly, “If you do convince him, what about the other men with grave injuries? It will not be fair to them.”
He seems returned to his blithe self, “We aren’t fighting right now so we can just wait another day or two before we start again and use that time to fix everyone up.”
I’m sure it sounds logical to a boy with no education in war or magic.
“Please, let us not speak of this here. We are disturbing the patients.” Voella’Tien guides Vong gently to the edge of the tent and disappears around the corner. It is several minutes before she returns, looking fretful. She goes immediately to Min’s cot to check on him and puts the lid back on the pot in an effort to keep the soup warm until he is ready for it. Checking even on patients that are not hers, she makes a full round of the tent before returning to Min’s side.
The one called Vong does not return so I can only assume that he did not manage to convince the High Priest to summon the divine spirit of his pantheon of gods and channel their blessing into a new eye and hand for his injured squad mate. Impetuous or no, handing the reins to one so young is a folly that will hopefully soon be fixed, if the army wishes to protect those men. That squad is either full of weaklings or fools to allow themselves to be led by a boy.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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