Chapter Thirty-Three

The small battered group of cavalrymen entered the dark of Golconda’s small infirmary. The first thing that hit Dryden was the smell of blood and rot. The second, as his eyes adjusted to the dim lantern light of the room, were the men lying all around on cots or mats on the floor. Hollow eyes stared back at them. The eyes of wounded and dying men shone at them with unspoken pain. None of the suffering men made any sound. At the back of the room was a closed door, from which issued the only real light and sound in the whole infirmary. Light leaked from around the outside of the door and groans of pain came from inside.

“Where’s the surgeon?” Dryden asked.

A man leaning up against the wall pointed at the door. The man’s torso was half-covered in bloody bandages. The coat of a Company officer was draped around his shoulder. Dryden felt like he recognized the man but couldn’t place his face. Perhaps he had seen him when they were marching out of Vurun.

He went to the door and knocked.

“Enter.” The voice came through the door.

He opened the door. Inside there were several men. First was a surgeon in a heavily blood-stained shirt hunched over a waist-high table. He was sawing. On the table was a wounded man. Several others were holding him down. He had a bit in his teeth and he was grunting and groaning at the pain. He had unfortunately not passed out while the surgeon took his leg. The surgeon was quick, however. The leg was off in what seemed like mere moments. Then they went to sewing up the stump and wrapping it with a tar-soaked cloth to stem the bleeding. It was something Dryden had seen dozens of times. It still bothered him to witness it.

With the surgery done, the doctor turned to the major, “What?” He snapped.

“We have wounded among us. Hood sent us to you.”

“Ahh, I see no wounds on you.” The man frowned at him behind small square glasses.

“I have broken my ribs. I understand there’s nothing to be done about that. But I have several men who have taken cuts and bullets.”

“They’re walking on their own?”

“They are.”

“Then I’ve no time for them. Except that one.” He pointed to Private Harper, whose arm hung limp and ruined at his side. I can take the arm and send him back to you shortly. We’ve no bandages, time, or space for anyone who can move under their own power.” The surgeon noted.

“What of healing, can you not cast a healing charm, sir?” Mar asked.

“Healing charms?” The man scoffed. I’ve not the materials left to me. Not for a whole army.

“I have some aethium in my pouch if you could use that.” Mar offered.

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“Aye. I could use that. Might want to save it for the next battle, though.” The man suggested, then turned back to Harper, “There’s no saving that arm, though, even with magic. Not for all the aethium in the world.”

“Lieutenant Kent is convulsing, sir!” A voice shouted from back in the infirmary room.

“Bring him.” The doctor said. Two of the healthy men carried the convulsing figure through and into the surgery room, “Hold him.” The surgeon’s assistants held the man down along with several of the cavalrymen who were able. The rest watched. As the man seized up on the table and writhed the old surgeon took his hands and spoke some words. “Give me a pinch of that aethium, now, if you please, wizard.”

Mar handed over his pouch. The man took a small amount and snorted it up his nose. His eyes seemed to glow in the gloom of the surgery room. He spoke soft words over the writhing man. Dryden could smell something that reminded him of baked goods and vanilla, and it reminded him he was famished. The figure slowly relaxed. Then a glow came over the man. It was like a kind of phosphorescent webbing that seemed to envelop the dying figure. The doctor plucked it from the man, it came up easily, and the surgeon wound it up in a ball. Then he tucked the small lump of ethereal matter in his medical pouch. The room went dark and became still again. No one made a sound. Dryden realized that the man on the table wasn’t breathing anymore.

“What was that?” He asked, breaking the silence, “Did you kill him, sir?”

The man handed the aethium bag back to Mar and answered the questions, “That was his essence I took, one might say his soul. I did not kill him, he was dying already, I merely used the opportunity to acquire a useful catalyst. One more powerful for healing others. Now, let me see about that arm, private.” He changed the subject, turning to Harper.

Harper’s arm was half off at the forearm. It had been chopped at repeatedly, presumably in an attempt to knock down the standard of the 13th. He had somehow managed to keep it flying through the whole fight. The bone was already mostly cut through. Harper only gritted his teeth as the surgeon finished the job. He looked about for a bandage.

“Will this do?” Dryden somehow still had the banner that he had taken from An-Zhigo in what seemed like many battles ago.

“Aye, it will do very nicely.” The surgeon began cutting it to pieces. He took a length, dipped it in tar, and then he bandaged the arm with it. “You can use what’s left of this to bandage yourselves up. I don’t see anything that’s worth my time.” He gave the rest of the banner back.

They left the surgeon then and went back outside. The fresh mountain air outside was like clean water to a man drowning in shit after the foul air of the infirmary. Dryden took a deep breath. They divided the rest of the cloth between them and worked to bandage the rest of the men. Harper came with them. He was able to walk, though he looked rather pale.

“Anyone have food?” Dryden asked around.

“We could eat Private Harper’s old arm.” Sergeant Locke suggested with a wicked grin.

Everyone laughed at his gruesome joke, even Harper. None of them knew why. It was a grim suggestion, even as a joke. It shouldn’t have been funny, but it was. There was so little to eat up here in the mountains, and few supplies at the fort. “I’ll find something.” Pugh offered and went off in search of anything to eat. He came back a few minutes later with a bag that contained old hardtack that was rotted through with weevil maggots. They ate it without complaint, “Oi, you’re wasting good meat there, sir.” Harper jabbed back at Locke as the sergeant brushed a tiny maggot from his short beard. They all laughed again.

Soon they were in decent spirits again. The horror of battle had faded just slightly here in the fort. They had lived, at least for now. They had faced battle, certain death, and come out alive. For just a moment there was hope. Even knowing that they still had the climb the last slope to the pass. Even knowing there was a wall to knock down, and a brutal enemy waiting to turn them back. Even knowing so many were dead, they all smiled at one another. They had made it to Golconda. The end was literally in sight. One more rise. One more fight. It was then, as they were sitting there waiting for the rest of the army to finish coming up the last bit of the hill, and as they were finally smiling and laughing for that moment, that snowflakes began to fall once more upon the mountain.