Ch 19: SURGERY AT THE DOCTOR’S HOUSE

“The witch’s boar?” Marten repeated.

“They say the boars around here are the offspring of that old witch down in Wickshaw,” the old physician said. “Generations of them, each grown larger than the last. Your friend wasn’t foolish enough to try hunting them, was he?”

“No, we interrupted her brood,” Marten said faintly. “She seemed to take offense to that.”

With Lester taking Fionnobhar’s ankles and Marten holding him under the arms, they hefted the knight off the cart and into the doctor’s house, laying him flat on a table. The table was clean and clear, apparently reserved for surgery, which was convenient. Fionnobhar looked ridiculous, still wearing his suit of armor except for the section Marten had removed from around his trunk, which was swaddled thick with bandages, blotted with pink blood stains.

Still, he was alive, and if Marten hadn't been dosing him with sedatives and painkillers every few hours, he would probably be talking nonstop and trying to sit up and move around. It wasn’t that his injuries were light—they were significant, and could easily kill a man—but Marten had a feeling Fionnobhar was both too foolhardy and too bullheaded to succumb to them.

“What else do people say about the witch of Wickshaw?” Marten asked, as he set his satchel on a nearby chair and dug out his kit of surgical tools.

“She’s been there forever,” Lester said, setting a pot of water to boil over the wood stove. “I’m in my sixties, and she was old when I was a boy. She’s not the sort of witch to give anyone any trouble, but she’s offered a prophecy or two in her time. She foretold all three of Lord Renmore's children, for one thing. Two girls and a boy, and the months of their births.”

“The knight was coming to see Lord Renmore, as a matter of fact,” Marten said, carefully unwrapping Fionnobhar’s bandages to examine his wounds in the light of day.

He had packed them with salve and ointment the night before, prior to wrapping them, which seemed to have held any serious infection at bay. When he removed the packing, the bleeding started up again, oozing out red and sluggish.

“They’re not accepting visitors at the castle,” Lester said. On the stovetop, the water began to bubble.

“So I heard from Myg,” Marten agreed. “Lord Renmore is experiencing some manner of disturbance, is he not? The knight heard this, and was travelling to see if he could assist in settling the matter. It has nothing to do with me; we met on the road. But, as he intervened to save me from the boar, getting gored in my stead, I feel honor-bound to stay with him until he’s well. If that means going with him to see Lord Renmore, I must attempt it.”

“It’s entirely possible your knight will die before he can continue his journey,” Lester said, putting the water aside to cool before they could use it to clean Fionnobhar’s wounds. “Would you feel obligated to continue on to the castle without him, in that case?”

“No, but I also doubt I should be so lucky.”

“Few men walk away from a boar attack,” Lester warned.

“The boar spared his vital organs. The only way he’s dying now is if I fail as a surgeon.”

As Marten flushed the gashes with boiled water, he got deep into them to survey the length and breadth of the damage, investigating every shredded muscle and slashed nerve, determining the precise map of stitches Fionnobhar would require to put his abdomen back together. Lester was cooperative, giving up his space for Marten’s needs, likely grateful that as far as emergencies went, he only had to offer his assistance rather than spearhead the effort. He supplied Marten with clean water, light, and extra surgical thread when Marten ran out, otherwise keeping his hands clean, preferring to tidy up after Marten rather than put himself wrist-deep in the knight’s abdominal cavity.

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For his part, Marten threw himself into the surgery with single-minded focus, blocking out every distraction until his work was done. He didn't speak again until the last stitch was tied off, and the last bandage firmly wrapped around Fionnobhar’s midsection. Only then did he straighten, roll his shoulders to ease the crinks in his spine from standing stooped over the table for so long, and begin the meticulous process of cleaning his tools.

“You might want to make peace with the possibility that he dies, son,” Lester said gently, scrubbing down the table around the knight with soap and water.

“He won’t,” Marten said grimly. “But I’ll sit with him, all the same.” He let it sound like he was staying out of concern for his patient’s well-being rather than that he was trapped in the same room as the unconscious knight by a curse tethering them together. “I don’t suppose folks have a witch of their own up here?” he asked, moving his satchel off the nearest chair to take a seat. “It’s just that I have a matter with which I rather need a witch’s advice.”

“Afraid not,” said Lester, putting the rest of his room back in order now that Marten’s work was done and the emergency was over. “We haven’t got much to speak of at all, save the fields and a few craftsmen. Less, these days, since the blight.”

Marten perked up, his curiosity piqued. “What blight is that?”

A frown shadowed the old man’s face. “Not illness,” he assured Marten, “nor any disease of the crops or livestock. But something’s been haunting this hill the past several moons, and folks are ill at ease. Some families have moved away altogether, down into Wickshaw, or to one of the neighboring hamlets. The rest of us keep our doors and windows locked at night, and no one goes into the castle anymore.”

“Do you know what it is?” Marten asked.

“Some manner of fell beast. No one’s seen it, but it brings bad weather and bad dreams. Folks are unsettled and unrested.”

“But it hasn’t actually harmed anyone? Intentionally, I mean.”

“It hasn’t attacked anyone that we know of, but who’s to say it’s not spreading this unease intentionally, to weaken and demoralize us? And that’s saying nothing of Lord Renmore’s family. They haven’t left the castle since before this started. The only assurance we have that they’re well comes from Myg. She’s the only one who sets foot inside, and that’s only to drop off provisions from town, ever since we’ve been struggling of late. And even Myg says she barely sees a soul.”

None of that sounded like a straightforward problem for Fionnobhar to solve with his sword when he was back on his feet again. The knight seemed to favor enemies he could physically attack, cut down, and decapitate. A haunting characterized by an unseen presence that seemed more of a feeling than an entity didn’t sound like a problem the knight was equipped to tackle.

But that wasn’t Marten’s call to make, and besides, he hardly knew anything of the knight’s expertise. Perhaps Fionnobhar had a long and illustrious history of battling more than bloodghasts and wyrms.

“Perhaps he’ll be able to assist when he wakes,” Marten said, somewhat doubtfully.

Lester looked skeptical, either that Fionnobhar would be in any fit state, or that anyone would be able to help them.

On cue, Fionnobhar stirred, metal fingertips tapping the table as he tipped his head to the side towards Marten, still encased in his helmet, the visor drawn. He mumbled something that sounded vaguely inquisitive, and vaguely pained. Both were valid reactions to waking up after surgery, in Marten’s opinion.

“What’s up?” Fionnobhar mumbled with a groan, one hand twitching like he meant to reach for Marten, but was too drowsy to fight gravity and lift his arm.

“We’re at Castle Renmore,” Marten informed him, “and you’ve survived your goring.”

“Yeah?” Fionnobhar said hopefully. He sounded half-present, still largely out of his mind on the poppy milk Marten had been spoon-feeding him at regular intervals all night and day. “All better? You fixed me?”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Marten said. “You have a lot of serious healing to do.”

“But I’m not dead,” Fionnobhar noted. Evidently, heavy drugs made him an optimist. “Didn’t let me die after all.”

Marten sighed. “No, I didn’t. Against my better judgement.”

“Good doctor,” Fionnobhar said, sounding pleased. “Couldn’t have even if you wanted to, I bet. Not with Endenreste looking out for me.” He tapped the table again like he might have clapped Marten on the shoulder or the knee before falling deeply unconscious again.

“He’s a disciple of Endenreste?” Lester asked cautiously.

Marten tiredly rubbed his eyes. “He’s delirious. I don’t know anything about it,” he lied.