Blood specks danced in Stas's vision, and the grip on his neck tightened with every passing second. Remembering the force of the blow during the conversation with the monks was enough to understand that this old man could squeeze him like a tube of toothpaste.
Stas could no longer speak, and any attempt to fight would be laughable.
The man's brain urgently contemplated options, seeking a way to save his owner from certain death.
And a solution was found.
Who knows how difficult it was for Stas to become completely calm, but he released the hand that held him, relaxed his legs, and hung as if he had finally lost consciousness.
After that, holding his breath, he calmly stared at the scowling warmaster.
The expression of gloomy triumph wavered, replaced by bewilderment, which was exactly what Stas had aimed for.
'I need to completely throw him off, do what no one usually does. But I can't overdo it, or it'll be over before it even begins.'
Jirobu thoughtfully tilted his head, then slightly loosened his grip, allowing Stas to take a precious breath of air in this situation. But even so, Stas didn't allow himself to pull up on the arm to breathe more.
The fingers dug painfully into his jaw and throat, but Stas, gritting his teeth, endured.
After a minute, the old man suddenly snorted and released his grip, allowing Stas to fall to his knees, inhaling the much-desired oxygen.
At that moment, the air was so sweet that Stas would have compared it to a whiff straight from paradise.
"Perhaps you are indeed a bit different from the ordinary nameless dirt," the elder's anger had passed, and turning around, he sat back at the tea table. "Get up, stop dirtying the floor with yourself."
Stas released his sore throat and stood up.
In his mind, he had dissected and burned the disgusting local a thousand times, but not a muscle on his face flinched.
Someone might say that false submission would have been the best option in this situation, but Stas thought otherwise.
The elder's amusement at the earthling's resilience was evident, and it would be utter stupidity not to try to cautiously develop this path.
Therefore, Jirobu faced a man who, albeit battered, was prepared for anything - the one who hadn't broken under the weight of the life's hardships that had befallen him.
"You don't look like a regular peasant," Jirobu slowly added tea into the cup and poured boiling water over it. "But I'm absolutely disinterested in your story."
The warmaster took a whisk and began to leisurely stir the tea. Between each phrase seemed to pass a minute, which strained Stas's nerves.
"The only thing that matters now is whether you're willing to stake your life for the life of Prince Sumada? If he dies, you die. Terribly. Slowly. Do you agree?" Each word weighed like a granite slab on a grave. "Answer."
"I agree!" The man's tone held not an ounce of doubt, and he responded without a moment's hesitation.
The earthling understood well that any other answer would mean instant death.
"Good," the elder smiled, but Stas would have preferred him to keep frowning. There was something in that smile that likened it to worms wriggling in a grave. "Then my son Gokku will show you the way."
Turning around, Stas was not surprised to find the warmaster who had stealthily approached from behind.
No farewell was expected from him; he was immediately led in the necessary direction.
A couple of times, they encountered the Sansa clan warmasters hurrying about their business, and Stas noted that not only men but also women were admitted to service. Perhaps because magic allowed, at least partially, to compensate for physiological disparity.
Their destination turned out to be a separate tent divided into three rooms. The floor was covered with fairly quality tatami mats.
Taking a deep breath, Stas stepped inside resolutely. Gokku followed.
As soon as Stas assessed the scope of work, he barely restrained the curses that tried to escape through his teeth. The person lying on the futon, a Japanese variant of a mattress, resembled a piece of meat that had been through a grinder, covered in blood, wounds, and bandages from head to toe.
There was so much blood that the white futon had turned a bright red.
The most unpleasant of all the injuries was a poorly covered wound in the abdomen. Even a glance from afar made it clear that everything was very, very bad.
The patient himself, if the dried blood and dirt were washed from his face, was essentially a lad of sixteen or seventeen. His black, unruly hair stuck out in all directions, somewhat reminiscent of a bristling hedgehog.
In general, until the discovery of antiseptics in the second half of the nineteenth century, most traumatic abdominal injuries ended fatally.
What's worse, attempts to operate on patients often ended the same way, leading many to be left without medical help since, paradoxically, it increased their chances of survival.
As if all of the above were not enough, at least twelve hours had passed since the injury, so the situation was slowly becoming hopeless.
All these thoughts raced through Stas's mind in just seconds before he, disregarding his escort, resolutely walked to his potentially most difficult and challenging work.
A more detailed examination only widened the abyss of questions that tore at the man's mind.
Frankly, Stas did not understand at all how the piece of meat lying on the futon could still be alive.
Multiple skin and muscle injuries and, judging by the bruises, battered internal organs, severe blood loss – all this crossed out the sense of further work.
However, against all the rules of gods and men, the lad was still alive. The dying patient before Stas seemed to cling to life with teeth and claws and stubbornly refused to give up. Each of his breaths sounded heavy and wheezy. Areas of skin not covered in blood were pale and sweaty.
His existence was probably a torture he fortunately could not appreciate, being unconscious.
And yet, this gave Stas hope. An ordinary person without antibiotics and antiseptics would have long since died, but the hardy body of a high-born warmaster still had chances to pull through.
Frankly, slim chances, but Stas wasn't used to giving up so easily.
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If this lad so desperately didn't want to die, then Stas Ordyntsev would do everything possible and impossible to make his wish a reality.
The earthling abruptly turned to Gokku, who was still standing in the doorway.
"The situation is severe, but there are still chances to save him, albeit very small. I urgently need medical instruments. The bandages are too tightly stuck to the skin, there's no time for soaking, and removing them means risk further aggravating the wound; the only option is to cut them off," Stas spoke quickly, unwilling to waste a second of precious time. "I need a 'scalpel,' damn it!" The unusual word slipped out of the earthling's mouth. In this world, there were no scalpels or even their analogs. "I need a small, very sharp, and sturdy knife, about this size..."
Stas paused, then furiously clenched his teeth. He suddenly realized that the warmaster opposite him had no intention of helping him.
Moreover, he demonstratively made the most bored face possible, looking up as if all surrounding him did not concern him at all.
'What a rat! Want to play? You'll get to play!' The man's restraints were beginning to fail due to all the nerve-wracking experiences.
Ordyntsev was approaching a state where one is practically already a corpse and has little left to fear in life.
"If I don't immediately get the instruments and dressing materials I've indicated, this lad will die, and you will be the one to explain to Jirobu and the head of your clan, maybe even the Kiatto clan head, why the prince of the Sumada clan died BECAUSE OF YOU," Stas hissed these words into the face of the flinched Gokku, then watched with malicious satisfaction as a spasm of anger flickered across the impassive face of the warmaster.
In an instant, Stas was hanging in the air again. Gokku had grabbed him by the collar.
"And what next?" Stas rasped due to the collar constricting his throat. "Will you kill me or beat me? And who will heal this half-corpse?! Every second counts!"
"You take too much upon yourself, wretch! For your disrespect, you deserve a painful death," Gokku returned to his mask of indifference, having composed himself, but Stas was not deceived.
"Maybe so, but right now I want to fulfill the task of your employer, Nobunoro-sama. And you are only getting in my way! What do you think the other warmasters will say when they find out that the Sansa clan doesn't give a damn about their employer's direct orders?!"
Gokku dropped Stas to the ground as if he were a poisonous snake. Ordyntsev hit the floor hard but rejoiced inwardly. Trying not to wince, he quickly got up and triumphantly stared into the rage-filled eyes of the man who could kill him in less than a second.
The speed of the local mages certainly allowed it.
"You will regret every brazen word you've spoken, you filth."
"Perhaps," Stas fearlessly agreed, not breaking the visual duel. "Yet, that will be later, but the instruments I need now."
"What do you need?" Gokku spat out his words.
"I need bandages, then, as I said, a small, sharp, and sturdy knife, a curved needle made of the best steel, strong and clean threads for stitching wounds, small scissors, the strongest alcohol available, and," Stas hesitated, trying to explain. "And something like scissors, a small clamp, for pinching tissues, and forceps for removing foreign objects from the innards. Bring the knife, alcohol, forceps, and clamp first!"
Stas waited for some insulting words, but Gokku silently moved towards the exit.
"Blast, I almost forgot," Stas suddenly remembered, having not seen a familiar washbasin anywhere. "Have them bring a basin with water and soap! That's also essential!"
Gokku excessively flung the tent flap aside as he left.
Sitting and waiting was unbearable. Stas wanted to do something to alleviate the wounded's condition.
Ordyntsev checked the airways and breathing, then pressed the outside of his hand to the patient's forehead, followed by a heavy sigh. As expected, the forehead was nearly burning. Measuring the pulse was a matter of rough estimation. In the end, it turned out that the pulse was accelerated but not critical.
There was no external bleeding, as Stas had feared, which, however, did not rule out the possibility of internal one.
In general, there was a suspicion that most of the blood on the lad's body did not belong to him.
In that case, the strong hatred of the Sansa clan towards the wounded prince became clear.
All of the above were good signs; it meant that if peritonitis, the inflammation of the intestines, had started, it was proceeding very slowly.
As Ordyntsev waited for the warmaster's return, he quickly checked the lad's body for other serious injuries.
It turned out that the left leg was broken a hand's breadth below the knee. Fortunately, the fracture was closed, and with proper fixation, Stas hoped to spend the least amount of time on it.
Besides the fracture, there were numerous penetrating wounds, as if from an exploded low-power grenade at the level of the abdomen.
Why low-power?
Because some of the shrapnel only slightly damaged the skin, hardly penetrating inside.
One such piece of shrapnel sticking out on the surface was carefully picked up by Ordyntsev and examined, after which he swore. It was a small piece of a blade, probably from an exploded sword.
The force required to shatter a steel blade into shrapnel was something the man was afraid to imagine.
Surprisingly, Gokku indeed spurred into action and brought the first requested instruments rather quickly.
The water in the basin was almost arctic cold, but Stas fervently dipped his hands in the local soap substitute, some rice bran mixed with herbs, and then into the basin with water.
The sensations were, to put it mildly, unpleasant, but there was no choice.
Then, it was time to evaluate the brought instruments.
First was a small, sharp knife. Judging by the shape and carved handle, it was a device for opening letters and other work with papers.
The thread and needle were passable, no more, no less.
But the brought alcohol frankly pleased Stas. It turned out the locals had already invented spirits. Ordyntsev was concerned that they would be limited to sake, which would have been, to put it mildly, insufficient.
Only, despite all of the above, the main thing was missing, namely the clamp and sufficiently long forceps.
Stas guessed what he would see when he removed the bandages from the abdomen. In this matter, the forceps would have been very useful to grab particularly deeply stuck shrapnel and other debris, while the clamp would prevent the patient from bleeding out.
Fortunately, Gokku, who seemed to have enlisted a large part of the younger generation of warmasters in the search, still brought a temporary replacement. It turned out to be a neat little pair of tweezers.
Yes, it was too short for working with the abdominal cavity, but sufficient for Stas to eagerly start working on the residual shrapnel that littered the lad's arms and chest, while the search for full-sized forceps continued.
Before that, he carefully washed all his instruments in alcohol and wiped the body of the patient lying on the futon with it. As for what a challenge it was to undress him before doing that, it was a separate story. Although most of the armor had been removed from him, some pieces of it still remained on, interfering. And the lad was not so easy to move, especially if you remember that Stas had significantly rejuvenated, approaching somewhere the age of eighteen, maybe twenty years.
The dirty rags soaked in alcohol, blood, and soil he irritably threw as far away as possible, as if they were about to jump back and destroy all his work.
Curiously, the resilient body of the warmaster managed to heal some of the minor wounds without even pushing out the shrapnel. Inside such bumps, an inflammatory process was already visible.
Stas had to patiently open such inflammations, extract blade fragments, clean the cuts, and then carefully stitch them up if the cut was very deep or simply cover them with bandages.
There was a horrific lack of virtually everything, but Ordyntsev tried not to dwell on this, working with what he had. Overthinking could lead to completely losing one's mind from despair.
After all, it was better than being forced to work barehanded.
When Gokku finally brought the clamp, there were still no forceps, and Stas had almost finished treating the leg wounds. Now, the prince's entire body was covered with fresh stitches and cuts, but at least devoid of foreign objects.
"Here, choose," Gokku grunted just as tersely, laying out three items in front of Stas. Ordyntsev found it difficult to answer where these instruments had been used before, perhaps in hairdressing, but they did indeed resemble clamps. The problem was that this resemblance was very remote.
Stas immediately liked the first option, but it was made of wood and risked simply breaking under proper pressure. The second was metallic but had too short a form. But the third, although inconvenient, was the best fit.
He chose it and returned to treating the wounds.
Finally, having finished with the "small stuff," Ordyntsev approached his main problem.
The first thing was to remove the dried bandages.
'Please, let it be not peritonitis,' Stas mentally prayed as he cut off the nearly petrified cloth stripes. Being an atheist, he was definitely ready to pray to someone if it really helped. 'Who am I kidding, damn it, inflammation of the abdominal cavity has surely started after so many hours. The question is, how serious is it? Come on, miracle body, don't let me down!'
The bandages stubbornly refused to come off, and the process was grating.
'How am I supposed to do anything if I have nothing?!' Stas mentally screamed, yet continuing his work. 'No ultrasound, no medications, no antibiotics, no anesthesia... It's easier to say what I have than what I don't have. What am I supposed to do if this living corpse miraculously comes to and realizes I'm digging around in his guts?'
Ordyntsev's fears were well-founded. Three times the prince had already begun to groan faintly, yet did not regain consciousness. The situation was, to put it mildly, dire.
One should not forget that the absence of anesthetic hindered muscle relaxation, which worsened the working conditions even more.
As soon as the last bandage flew back, Stas frowned, assessing the new scope of work ahead.
Author's note: I spent the whole day reading medical literature and analyzing it.