Forged in Battle by Justin Hunter - (ebook by Undead) Page B

silently in a prayer to Taal.
    Sigmund bowed his head. He knew why Edmunt had come. The
woodsman’s face was white. He stared at Elias and nodded.
    “The same,” he said, and then turned to go.
     
    * * *
     
    Osric’s men looked up as Edmunt came out of the sick room and
walked past where they were polishing their halberds. Edmunt didn’t meet their
gazes but walked straight past, across the drill ground to the barrack gates.
    Baltzer spat. “What’s up with him?”
    “Give it a break,” Freidel said. To anyone who knew the
woodsman’s history, it was obvious.
     
    The apothecary arrived at the barracks just before dinner.
There was a fine smell of lentil broth coming from the kitchens and the men were
standing around expectantly.
    The apothecary nodded to them as he walked up to the door of
the sick room. He paused at the door before knocking and stepping inside.
Sigmund left the side of Elias’ bed to make way for him. The apothecary walked
over to the bed, where the young man was dozing listlessly. He leant over,
adjusted his spectacles, and pulled back the blanket to inspect Elias’ arm.
    “He has been wounded by a poisoned blade,” Sigmund said and
the apothecary nodded. Slowly and carefully, he unwrapped the bandages which
were sticky with fluids. The wound was swollen and putrid, and a green pus oozed
out.
    The stench made both men’s eyes water. The apothecary took a
pomander from his robes and held it close to his nose.
    “Can you fetch me a bucket?” the apothecary asked. Sigmund
hurried out to the kitchens and came out with one of their buckets, which the
apothecary signalled he should put by Elias’ bed.
    The apothecary lifted his case onto the bed next to Elias’
and took out a copper mixing bowl. In it he mixed red Tilean wine vinegar, mixed
with salt, and used the mixture to clean out the wound. The procedure must have
been painful, but Elias hardly seemed to notice what was happening. When the pus
had been cleaned out the apothecary took a short knife from his case and bent
over the wounded man. Sigmund watched with a morbid curiosity as he pared away
the infected flesh and dropped it into the bucket. When true red blood began to
flow freely the apothecary knew he’d hit living tissue and he washed the wound
again with a fresh mix of salt and vinegar.
    Sigmund watched the apothecary mix medicinal herbs and more
vinegar. He made a thick paste to spread over the wound—binding it tight with
fresh bandages, then he let out a long sigh.
    “There,” he said, but his voice did not sound hopeful. “That
is the best I can do.”
     
    The apothecary had been in the sick room for nearly an hour
when Osric and Baltzer came out of the kitchen, their bowls full of steaming
stew.
    Richel was just coming back from sentry duty and his stomach
was screaming for food.
    “Richel!” Osric said. “Good to see you.”
    Richel smiled nervously. “I don’t want any trouble,” he said.
    Osric marched straight up to the handgunner. “I’ll give you
trouble!” he said, pushing Richel roughly against the wall, then putting his
hand on the handgunner’s chest. “Now,” Osric said, “who’s a scruffy bloody
bastard?”
    Richel could barely breath with the weight on his chest.
    “Who?”
    “Me!” Richel said.
    “Who?”
    “Me!”
    “I can’t hear you.”
    “Me!”
    “Me what?”
    “I’m a scruffy bastard!”
    Osric took his foot off and gave Richel a kick. “Remember
that—damned gun-boy!”
     
    Edmunt took his bowl of stew round the back of the barrack
building, to the short jetty. He’d grown up with his parents high up in the
hills, on the edge of the high moors. To think he needed real quiet and
solitude: and here, staring out over the grey water was about as quiet as it
got.
    He shovelled a spoonful of broth into his mouth, and took a
bite of bread. It tasted stale, as always. He chewed it anyway, and took another
spoonful of broth to wash away the taste.
    When