Heaving a tired sigh, Foxward pulled off his mask. Sergeant Wolturs' squad surrounded him in the small room across the infirmary, and before him on the inspection table, beneath a linen sheet lay the corpse of the Drisian soldier, whose autopsy he'd been assigned to perform.
A taut silence swelled in the stale air of the room, all eyes on the corpse. Words travelled fast among Kinallen's soldiers, who had taken to referring to the Vasaeni as the black-blooded ones.
"This is the most bizarre thing I've ever seen. And let me tell you, in my line of work, I've seen my fair share of bizarre things," he said, "like that one time--"
"We know, Foxward. One of your patients had a snail lodged in his left lung," Rendarr said in a drawl. "Heard that tale a thousand times."
"Er..." Foxward hesitated. "That many times?"
"Aye. And the one about a woman who'd grown an extra tooth on the sole of her foot-- by the Gods," Farren said, "got that memorized by now. So get to the point quick, will you?"
Now he might not like to admit it, but Foxward did have a habit of telling the same stories over and over again when he'd have too much ale at the Olde Weasel. Good thing he paid for all the drinks, so he was never short of listeners, Farren being a regular one for the last seven years-- which guaranteed she knew every single of his stories by heart.
The apprentice healer now gave them a saccharin smile. "You do realise I have the authority to kick you two out for that sheer arrogance alone?"
"Just say the word, doctor. I'll happily oblige," grumbled Gray from the doorway. At this point Farren had simply accepted that the corporal had a spiritual connection with looming menacingly in doorways, be it rain, sun or frost.
"As much as I'd love to see that, we really must move on," said Klo in her usual stern demeanor. "Your findings, Foxward?"
"Of course, Sergeant. Let us start with the obvious one first," said the healer and lifted the sheet to expose the top half of the body. The group drew in a sharp breath, almost in unison.
The body was no more than a desiccated corpse; a sack of bones held together by leathery skin so brittle it had cracked around the stitches holding the incisions across the chest and down the torso. If not for the gaping wound in the throat, Farren would never have believed this was the same man who nearly killed them all with his warhammer the day before.
The body had aged days-- months, overnight. It looked like remains dug out of a grave.
"I know what you must be thinking. This body looks way older than it is," said Foxward, "but I say it doesn't. In fact, the body has gone back to what it was supposed to look like without the sorcery holding it together."
A faint trace of sorcery sizzled around the table, but its presence was greatly weakened. It was not like a flame, but the sodden ashes it left behind after a night's storm. It seemed to diffuse from the corpse slowly into the air, and the body looked more and more ancient.
"So the man was a corpse held together by magic," Klo said, her arms crossed, "and as soon as the magic is gone, he goes back to being the way he was."
"Indeed. His original body has been dead for a while. But even after death, he's been driven by a greater force that has caused him to look, think and behave like an alive person. If," said Foxward, "I were to correlate this with the writings of Ryffin Wellis from his book on alchemy, or rather, necromancy-- the greater force should be an immortal soul."
Farren swallowed hard.
Hands behind his back, he turned to her. "If you could give me the dagger for a moment."
Farren was more than glad to hand over the weapon that overflowed with an intent to kill her.
"I'm led to conclude that this blade is able to sever the bonds of sorcery and free the immortal soul from the mortal body," said Foxward, "and so this remains the only effective weapon against the Vasaeni. Ordinary swords and arrows don't work, for their wounds heal too fast. Physical force can only hold them back for so long."
"That's bad news." Klo shook her head. "No smith can forge weapons like this dagger unless the sorcery imbued in it can be figured out."
"Until that is done, I believe we can still handle the Vasaen folk alright," said Rendarr with a nod to Foxward, his chest puffed up. "You did say they can be at least restrained with physical strength. Some more training in hand-to-hand should benefit us all. What say you, Gray?"
"Not bad," said Gray gruffly. "But before that, we fight. Let us make sure Iron Arena hasn't swelled your ego too much."
"Well aren't you a sore loser, my dear friend?" Farren winked.
"Hush, you lot. Let the lad speak." Foxward's mentor had arrived.
Having learnt his lesson the day before, Gray leaned away from the doorway at once as Eliora entered, a steaming pewter mug of some pungent herbal tea in hand, and settled down in a chair in one corner.
"Another extra word, and you all get kicked out." The old lady gestured to Foxward. "State your findings. Let me see what you've learnt from your apprenticeship so far."
Foxward, who'd been speaking rather confidently now began to sweat, wiped his forehead on a cloth-- then jumped realising it was the linen sheet covering the body. With a clatter of quills and inkwells, he grabbed a sheaf of parchment and coughed.
"Cause of death: blood loss and trauma to the--"
Eliora dismissed it with a wave of her hand. "That, we all know about. Don't tell us about the mundane, tell us the-- what you like to call-- the bizarre stuff. What do you notice that other healers don't?"
The young healer hesitated, casting a tentative glance toward the piles of texts in the corner he'd gone through to prepare his notes. Then he steeled himself and turned toward the table again.
"These markings," he said, and others leaned over.
Across the Drisian man's chest, a few symbols were legible, albeit a little marred by the incisions and stitches.
Farren felt a little queasy. "These have been made by... branding irons."
Foxward nodded, his expression grim. "And in Drisian numericals-- they read: three two seven. I'd first dismissed it as it is common practice across Drisia to mark prisoners and...slaves."
He faced them again.
"Until King Krugmann's reign, who banned the system recently. Not slavery-- only the branding."
Eliora took a long sip of her tea and urged him to continue. "Taking an approach from a historical angle, I see."
"Now take a look at Drisia's military laws and we can narrow it down. Former prisoners and slaves are not allowed to enlist. So this man here-- a Drisian soldier-- can be neither one of those," said Foxward, "so my conclusion is: the Drisians are marking the Vasaeni. This man is simply the three hundred twenty-seventh of them."
Eliora gave a nod of approval, and drained the rest of her tea, content with her apprentice's performance. But the rest of the others were anything but content.
"So there are three hundred and twenty six more of these monsters?" Rendarr yelled. "Sweet, sweet Draedona!"
"Or more than that. Maybe there are those who came after him," said Klo.
Do I count? thought Farren.
"Fuck," said Gray, "we're all gonna die."
Chaos ensued, only to be broken by Helmer who craned his neck in through a window. "Sergeant Wolturs, Lieutenant Evander summons you. Near the gates."
Her expression troubled, she dismissed her squad and followed him outside, and with that, the rest of the group began to disperse. Farren was about to step out when Foxward approached his mentor, wringing his hands.
Farren had a feeling she knew what he was about to ask, and what Eliora might say in response. She'd heard that exchange many times before.
"I want to learn intensive healing, Doc," he said finally.
"No,” was her simple answer, just as Farren had thought.
Eliora emphasized her answer by setting down the pewter mug with a note of finality.
"But am I still not ready yet?" Foxward said in a wail, his impatience getting better of his nervousness, "I studied and worked and trained, day and night for all these years-- just as you said. Yet still you refuse to teach me this most crucial aspect of healing!"
In the pause that followed, the old healer stood upright, her face stern and hands folded behind her back. Farren lingered in the doorway and so did Rendarr and Gray, wanting to see how it would play out.
"Intensive healing," she said finally, "is the highest level of healing magic there is. And many have died trying to master it, for if your magical reserves are not enough, it'll start to feed on you. Common healing takes its toll on you as it is."
Foxward hid his bruised fingers under his sleeves. "Then I will work hard to expand my powers, that should do it."
Eliora's expression was doleful. "Healing, a branch of sorcery without a patron God is difficult enough to master. You have no one's blessings to call forth, but only yourself-- the compassion you have within, right here." She jabbed a withered finger over his heart.
"And in these trying times of war and chaos, there aren't many who'd choose healing, for they lack what it takes. You've come this far, son, so don't ruin it by doing something reckless."
Foxward was not getting swayed today, it turned out.
"But if I could master it, maybe those like Corporal Clearstrike wouldn't always have to be the last ones to get healed. There are resistants in other regiments too and they all suffer the same way. Delaying treatment is hardly a solution-- what we need is more healers with proper skills," said Foxward in one breath as though he'd been dying to let it all out.
Farren felt bad about wanting to yank his ponytail earlier.
When Eliora didn't say anything, Forward continued more desperately. "--And you too, Doc, wouldn't have to bear so much workload once I can take care of things here. You can visit home by Spring Fest-- you promised your wife you'd be back," he said, "and I say you oughta keep it. You've been promising her for years now."
Her expression softened. "Rhilio's mercy, you manipulative little bastard," she said, letting out a laugh. "Tugging right at the heartstrings, eh?"
She got to her feet and puffed out a exasperated breath. "Fine, have it your way. We'll start training next week-- just so you'd stop whining."
Foxward looked ready to jump up and down.
"--But you have to stop if the magic starts having adverse effects on you. Then you go back to common healing as usual, no more arguments. Am I understood?" she said, "and another thing. From tomorrow, you get up by dawn and run-- say, ten laps round the village at least."
His grin froze and eyes popped. "...Ten laps?"
"Gotta build up your energy reserves! Intensive healing ain't no joke," she said, "giving up already?"
While Foxward stood there with his mouth hanging open, a wordless agreement seemed to take place between Rendarr and Gray. They came up behind him and slung their arms under his, lifting him off his feet.
"Hey!" He cast around his arms and legs, but was no match for the two. "Er...a little help here, Corporal Clearstrike?"
"Absolutely," said Farren, grinning wide, "I'll make sure you go running everyday and report to good ol' Doc if you try to slack off."
"Don't you worry," said Rendarr, "train with us, and before you know it, you'll be putting her outta business! And learn a bit of hand-to-hand techniques along the way."
And with Foxward swinging helplessly between them, the rest of Sergeant Wolturs' squad left the dreary room in high spirits.
But that did not last for long.
✦✧✦✧
Across the training grounds, Council mages could be seen riding in, flanking a Drisian officer in pale green livery. Behind him, held upright by a standard-bearer, the Drisian flag rippled in the wind, outshining the fire-scorched Midaelian flag above the watchtower.
"The hell do they want this time?" Rendarr said as they trekked their way across the training ground.
"News of the attack must've reached King Forthwind at the capital," said Farren, "that fella must be King Krugmann's emissary. Naught but a matter of treaty obligation, I think."
Rendarr let out a bitter laugh. "And how many treaties have there been between us and Drisia since the Great War?" he said, "forged just to be violated and torn apart."
The train of Council Mages halted just near the main avenue, where Lieutenant Evander and Second Lieutenant Audryn stood, Klo just behind them. Their expressions were tense; the cold disregard in their eyes barely masked by the polite nod the lieutenant gave the emissary as he dismounted. Farren and Rendarr quietly assumed their positions behind their squad leader. The rumblings of an ever rising uproar could be heard over the camp walls, angry shouts of the people of Kinallen slipping through the commotion.
The Drisian representative, ranked captain, had bright blond hair that glinted almost white in the sun; his sharp eyes a rare blue-grey colour. His eyes darted around the camp for a brief moment, taking in the ruined commander's office, then the stony expressions of the Midaelian officers before him.
His thin, pale lips stretched into a smile, unnerving in its mirthless artificiality.
The captain looked awfully familiar to Farren, even though she had no business knowing Drisian captains. Where have I seen him before?
"His Majesty King Krugmann sends his deepest condolences for the loss Kinallen's people have suffered." He nodded curtly.
For a moment, the entire camp seemed to quieten; indignant stares, narrow-eyed glances and angry glares flung themselves upon the emissary who seemed to shrug it all off with his icy indifference and the presence of six powerful Council mages at his side.
When he was met with nothing but cold silence, his venomous smile only widened and he cleared his throat.
"I, Captain Reylan of the Calbridge Division, am pleased to make your acquaintance."