The raider camp proved adequate shelter for Isbibarra and Gizzal. Its foundation was stable, the food and water plentiful, and it was well stocked with an assortment of weaponry. The low tenting necessitated the occasional slouch, but it was a fair price to pay for camouflage. In the Eivettä, such a find was an oasis.
Gizzal stood watch on the first night, not that he had a choice in the matter. He remained ungagged, but Isbibarra kept his hands bound to a yak post near the entrance of the camp. Gizzal relented tugging as he realized the post kept in place animals five times his size. He quickly resigned to the duty Isbibarra gave him, looking out over the horizon of the desert. As beautiful and expansive as it was, it couldn't sustain his interest longer than a few minutes. He inevitably spent the rest of the day sleeping, only woken when Isbibarra brought him yak jerky and mashed potatoes along with a bowl of water. It was easy to avoid comparing himself to a dog when he was so hungry.
Isbibarra himself spent much of his time preoccupied with logistics. He found a multitude of weapons in the tent: twelve spears, four repeating bows with eighty-six bolts, four axes, three daggers, and a recently damaged shield. All were inferior armaments to what he already had. He collected them all within the tent, which allowed him to spend more time in the misty dew of the figweed plants. It wasn’t his first time inside a raider encampment, and it wasn’t even the biggest or most impressively hidden. It may have been the most creative, however. A massive watchtower hidden in plain sight, and within a moon’s march of Ash. Isbibarra was sure that its prior occupants could see for leagues. It would’ve been perfect for spotting foolish travelers.
Isbibarra knew little about raider culture. The arrangement of elephant tusks and the many bony altars suggested that the raiders had worshiped some minor godlin, but who it was and what it requested was of little significance. It had done little to protect his worshipers when they needed it.
Isbibarra woke early the next morning to slaughter one of the yaks. He set aside three-fourths of the meat in the sun, salted and seasoned them with leftover spices from the camp, and laid them near the entrance. He took the remainder - mostly ribs - and began cooking them at the campfire. Although much of the meat was unsuitable for travel, it tasted far better than jerky. With luck, he could even make a dish that could even rival Tiger Stew from his homeland. Isbibarra had always enjoyed cooking when the rare opportunity arose.
This wasn't his only reason for staying near the campfire, though. He needed to watch the healer. He was getting worse.
Since Isbibarra found him, the healer had been lapsing in and out of consciousness. He occasionally muttered nonsense, reacting only when his wounded arm was moved. Isbibarra tried communicating with the healer on occasion but it was useless. Isbibarra eventually dragged him inside the tent, thinking the coolness of the figweed dew would help with his fever, but the moment he did the healer was overcome with shivering. After some consideration he decided it best to keep him near the fire, keeping his head cool with a soaked rag. He also ground up a few figweed leaves into paste and mixed it into a tea, forcing it down the healer’s throat. The shivering stopped but did little else.
By the time the sun fell beneath the horizon, Isbibarra decided to take a closer look at the Appo's hand. He knew the hand was bandaged in a haste, as Appo had to escape Ash with the entire Corps chasing him. The bandage was tight but covered in sand and grime. When Isbibarra removed it, Appo squirmed. Unconscious or not, he was putting up a fight.
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Appo’s mangled hand was rotting. It had been sliced through the palm, all of his fingers removed along with most of the thumb. The wound was charred around the edges, with thick pus oozing from the center. Isbibarra recognized this condition by stench alone. It was the smell of death.
He would have to remove more of the healer’s arm before the infection spread to the rest of his body. If it hadn’t already.
The amputation itself would be straightforward. Isbibarra's dagger could cut through iron with ease, so slicing through flesh would be more bearable than if he had been using one of the raiders’ rusty axes. There was only the matter of keeping the infection at bay. The healer tried cauterizing the wound, but that had failed. Isbibarra needed something stronger.
Fortunately, Isbibarra carried a few potions on his person. He had two things; the first was a violet-colored grass called Drawstring. Like the figweed, he mixed it into water and poured it down the healer’s throat. The healer gagged as he swallowed but kept it down. Its true effects wouldn’t come into effect for a long while, but in time the healer’s body would become limp and less responsive to pain. The other potion was a viscous silver-colored liquid, which Isbibarra kept stored in a small cylindrical flask. Isbibarra prepared another bowl of water and carefully poured a single drop in, its silver essence dissipating into a gray sludge. This particular potion had many names, for most of Isbibarra’s people carried it with them. In small doses, it could prevent most infections, but if not properly measured it could become an effective poison. Most in Ostior called it Merkuri.
Isbibarra laid Appo on his side, tying his right arm and legs to a nearby weapons rack. He held the healer’s left arm down on the ground, rolling the tunic up to his shoulder. Isbibarra tapped Appo’s rotten limb, feeling when the heat died down. His entire body was hot but became stable around the middle of his forearm. Isbibarra felt this heat and moved his left thumb up the arm an inch past it and held it there. He waited a few moments to let the Drawstring take effect, but Isbibarra grew restless. Every passing moment meant the healer was closer to death, and the closer Isbibarra was to having to rely on the Head for eyesight. That would mean all of their deaths.
“You’ll thank me later, Appo.”
With his right hand, Isbibarra brought the wooden dagger through Appo’s forearm. It cut through muscle and bone with equal effort. Appo screamed, his entire body contorting against his restraints. Isbibarra stopped before slicing through the entire arm, stopping at the skin on the other side. He turned the knife outwards, slashing it to the ground. Appo’s infected forearm slid away, leaving him with a massive bleeding wound. Appo tried to pull his stubbed arm away, but Isbibarra held a tight grip. He grabbed the flap of his skin and pressed it against the open wound. It was slightly smaller than he wanted, but most of the wound would be covered.
Isbibarra pulled the Merkeri water bowl closer to him, dipping the other half of his broken cane into the bowl. He held it there for a few seconds, holding back Appo’s thrashing with his body as he did so. He then brought the stick to the wound now covered by the skin flap. He rolled it over a few times. Isbibarra became concerned for a moment that he did not prepare enough of the sliver elixir, but soon Appo’s skin sizzled. Appo’s thrashing stopped, and his arm began shaking. Isbibarra rolled this over his wound for the next several minutes. Appo’s unconscious yells settled into whimpers.
When Isbibarra removed the roller, Appo’s freshly cut arm was tinged gray, but the bleeding had ceased. Isbibarra covered the wound with rudimentary bandages before finally releasing Appo’s arm. By the time he was done, the healer had begun to loll into a deep sleep. It was likely the pain was finally becoming too much for him, but Isbibarra was also irritated by the possibility that the Drawstring was only now beginning to take effect.