Day 79, 04:30 PM

“I should've suspected trouble when the coffee failed to arrive.”

― Frank Herbert

“You killed Sir Payne?” Vatten’s pupils are wide with shock, mine on the other hand have shrunk down to pinpricks from the pain.

How the hell did you recognize him? Never mind. The name suited him. Descriptive of what he was and what he did.

After smashing it with Batsy, my left arm started oozing blood, and the burning sensation is back, despite the yellow ointment’s numbing property.

“Arangel should be dead too,” I say, drawing a deep breath through the nose.

The three merc captains accompanying Vatten suck in cold breaths. Them paling and subconsciously stepping away from me warms my heart, yet old Vatten’s dumbfounded look is even more satisfying. Still, I can’t revel in the warm, fuzzy feelings when my head is turning warm and fuzzy as I speak.

“I’m not positive, though. His arm is somewhere in those bushes,” I point in the general direction with my chin, and half a dozen men scamper in search of the noble limb even before I’m done talking. “He should have bled to death by now, assuming he’s not a devil or something.”

Several long moments pass, during which we stand in silence as the soldiers search for an armored arm while others are fetching Manny and her escort. Standing there, free of other distractions, my mind wanders.

God, I wish I had a chair. Better yet a sofa and a can of beer.

“Found it!”

An enthusiastic soldier runs back, rustling through the bushes, followed by a flock of less fortunate ones. He delivers the bloodied arm armor to Vatten, but changes his mind at the last possible moment and presents it to me.

What the hell do I do with someone’s arm? I wave for Vatten to take it.

“Lord Vatten, if you please.”

Vatten takes the arm, removes the plate glove, revealing the too-pale flesh adorned with several massive golden rings.

“We hold the House Arangel’s noble seal,” he shouts. “General Aang has slain their lord and at least one knight! We have routed and enslaved their army! Our victory is complete!”

Rather bland and taxative, aren’t we? Shouting, ‘Victory!’ and waving the arm would have been much more impactful.

“Aang?” Manny returns while I’m musing about finer points of leadership. She looks me over and goes pale when she sees blood trickling down the fingers of my left hand.

I want to brag about my achievements, about how masculine I am, but honestly, I just need to sit down and take a breather without hurting my macho image.

“Sit down, let me check your arm!”

I love you.

I obey the much needed order and plop my ass down on the ground, resisting the urge to lie down, close my eyes, and sleep. The part I played in the skirmish lasted half a minute, yet it sapped all my strength.

No wonder you’re supposed to rest while recovering from serious trauma.

While Manny undoes my bandage, a soldier narrates how badass I was, unflinching before a knight, taunting him, and beating him to death with a stick, like a dog.

It certainly wasn’t like that from where I was standing, but I feel little need for historical accuracy as another soldier describes how I threw a heavy battle ax with such supernatural precision that it found the joint where arm armor meets the torso, exploiting the weakness. Pure nonsense again, especially if they saw the breastplate, which bore the brunt of the blow.

“Give me the honeyfire,” Manny orders, ignoring their nonsense, and soldiers rummage through the backpack with her necessities to present the vile fire-in-a-bottle, which doc used to wash my wounds.

I still can’t believe humans can make a ninety percent alcohol beverage out of honey, or out of anything else for that matter. More importantly, I can’t believe anyone would consider drinking ninety percent alcohol, making it a beverage.

Manny reveals the wound, blood seeping from its edge. She washes the green ointment, which dissolves immediately on contact with this world’s attempt at napalm.

“You ripped open your wound,” she grumbles, her focused scowl ugly, yet her dexterous hands gentle and pedantic.

Honeyfire sears my flesh like actual lava, and I grit my teeth.

Stolen novel; please report.

“It hurts?” She’s definitely not asking a question with that scowl. “Good! Think about it the next time you do something stupid.”

Vatten is out there, merc captains too, probably. For a moment, I wonder what they think of me, getting whipped like that in public, but it’s a passing curiosity. I don’t really care about their opinions.

“I’ll take better care next time.” My voice is soft, apologetic, and I don’t say whom I have slain in exchange for somewhat worsening my condition.

There’s no need, everyone else is shouting it for me. Finally, Manny’s done administering the mysterious yellow balm. She closes the jar and looks me in the eye.

“Thank you. You have done well. Please let someone else do it next time.”

I hope there’s no next time. It’s a fool’s hope, my life of violence will continue for at least a year. Hopefully, I will be able to join the future battle properly, wearing armor, rather than a travel tunic, without an immobile arm covered in a three-inch-thick layer of bandages.

I can feel the fever trying to stage a comeback, I want to sleep, but I really can’t.

“Do you want us to make a stretcher? Or you could ride a horse?” Vatten offers, and I consider the presented options.

There’s bound to be other wounded soldiers, so I won’t be the only one on a stretcher, but it would make me look weak. As for the horse… It’s tempting, but I recall how obvious Gohen was on horseback, and there’s an assassin, just waiting to take a shot at me while I’m out of it, stranded on horseback, worse yet, he might target Manny who’s out of reach. In fact, the assassin is the only reason Manny walks next to me, rather than riding a horse.

“Thanks, I’ll walk.”

The mercs stare at me with slack jaws, but our soldiers take it as a fact of life. Sun rises in the east, sets in the west, and their general prefers his own two legs over a horse. Despite having Initial Rider and the ability to woah horses at will.

I have no idea how I marched fifteen miles back home. Manny closes our bedroom door, and my steady, confident stride turns into wobbly steps. I have just enough strength to collapse onto our bed and hear my own snoring as I drift into dreamless sleep.

“Ah, my reckless patient is not only alive, but awake,” Doc says as soon as I open my eyes.

“You are insane,” he mutters.

“Well, can’t argue against the obvious,” Blunt speaks as I gather my bearings.

Really? You’re using my lack of attention to chat with the physician? Whatever rocks your boat, I guess.

Doc blinks at me, utterly confused.

“Did I say that aloud?”

You’re Blunt too!

“It is all right, Master Thunderwax,” Manny says. “We know you mean well.”

Why can’t you be like that when I’m spewing nonsense?

I’m ready to clamp my mouth shut, in case Blunt speaks up, but it remains quiet.

“What’s my condition and how long was I out?”

“You arrived in the evening, two days ago, my Lord,” Master Thunderwax says with noticeably more politeness than usual, probably recalling all the things he may or may not have muttered since he started treating me. “You did not have a fever, nor did you suffer further infection, but you were greatly exhausted. Which makes sense, considering your heroic contribution during the battle.”

I chucked an ax and impersonated a gorilla for thirty-forty seconds, but I don’t mind calling it ‘heroic contribution’.

“You may leave us, Master Thunderwax.”

The man bows to Manny and takes his leave.

“Mercenary cavalry pursued count Arangel.” Manny sits on the bed, next to me. “They claimed they put in valiant effort, but they neither suffered nor inflicted any losses, meaning they did not engage, only observed them from a distance. They confirmed count Arangel’s death, and we are spreading the news of your feat. I expect a number of towns and villages will surrender of their own accord and send very expensive congratulatory wedding gifts in the coming weeks.”

She stops talking, and I take a moment to process her words.

First of all, it’s incredibly odd how we have all taken to calling the loyalists turned traitors ‘mercenaries’. Next, it’s natural a hundred-man company of light cavalry avoided engagement with a chipped unit of heavy cavalry, led by two knights. Even if they could eventually win, which I doubt because of the knights, the mercs would pay for the victory with a huge number of lives, which naturally isn’t worth it, unless it’s a life and death battle.

The grieving knights escorting their lord’s remains home also don’t seem likely to charge into a suicide rampage, so it’s only natural their mission ended up as reconnaissance, rather than a battle.

What is more important than exterminating house Arangel’s knights are the towns and villages which planned to rally behind the Arangel family. They are stranded, and should naturally seek peace, unless an impressive figure nobody mentioned so far arises to lead their alliance.

“Did count Arangel have an heir?” I ask, and Manny nods.

“Five, and nobody expected his untimely death, so I believe they are in for several turbulent weeks. We could leave them alone or march on their city, and try to claim it either through diplomacy or force of arms. They have lost a decent portion of their fighting strength in this failed gambit.”

“We get married before paying them a visit?”

Manny smiles. “I was thinking something similar. Waiting until our ceremony will buy you enough time to heal, and if someone from their household sends us gifts, it may mean we have someone willing to collaborate with us if we help secure their position as the next count.”

I nod. It’s a good plan, one I didn’t think of. Having a traitor open the door from the inside, and do— It’s exactly what Gohen did. Is that the fashion of this world, or is it human nature to seek profit from selling out their own?

“You think someone will betray their own family?” I gulp, maybe still clinging too much to my faith in humanity.

“Almost certainly. From the reports I read, Arangel family has three ambitious, semi-competent scions. But the most likely candidate is the count’s nephew, who is in charge of the city’s security. Being forced into lesser nobility without holdings just because his father was born second may push him into lending us a hand.”

For some reason, I feel better. A cousin betraying them rather than brother stabbing brother in the back somehow sounds more acceptable.

“But a week after our wedding we are starting a campaign, subjugating all who refuse to join us. We have built up enough of authority, subjugating the devils, surviving betrayal and assassinations, defeating the only major threat in the area. They should buy us some domestic peace and enough fame for the majority of neutral parties to join our side rather than confront us. The king is still far away, and should we lose, they will claim we forced them into joining, just like they did with my father…”