Chapter 66 - Brief respite
I sighed, too tired to even pretend I was unaffected.
How was this even possible? Magic? Faulty armour?
“Am I right to assume that you do not possess any convenient magic to extract the bolt safely?” the surgeon asked, putting the specillumback into his belt.
I nodded, “Are you able to help?”
“Yes,” he replied, surprising me somewhat, before pulling out a tube, alongside a scissor-like tool, visibly blunt, “This is called a canula,” he showcased the tube, “It can be used to sheathe the barbs, after the dilators stretch the wound. For a stomach wound, it would ordinarily grant a couple of extra days of life, at best. If lucky, a chance to seek magical healing,” he eyed me, but said nothing further.
“I am not a healer,” I explained curtly, “But let us see what we can do. After you pull the bolt out of the stomach wall, please hold the wound closed.”
He nodded, and after I cleaned and sterilised the two tools to the best of my ability, got to work.
I watched, the incantation on my lips as the surgeon did exactly as he said. Slowly, he pulled the sheathed bolt out of the stomach wall, before using forceps to hold the wound together.
“Haela,” I incanted, pouring much more than the necessary Power into the spell. The King’s stomach knitted together in front of our eyes. The process was noticeably smoother than usual, something I was just beginning to notice.
It seemed that there were some benefits to nearly losing my mind while channeling enormous amounts of Power.
The barber surgeon deposited the bolt nearby before wiping off his tools, then grabbed one of the bottles lying around, “It is standard to clean the insides with wine, as per de Mondevile’s treatise.”
“Do so,” I commanded.
After a few minutes and another application of Haela, only a scar remained on Roegnar’s stomach.
Whether he would survive or not, I had no idea. Even if I portalled the man to Cintra, the Queen likely would not be able to secure the help of a professional magical healer in time. Such people were rare, their services often spoken for in advance. If Roegnar’s wound got infected, he probably would not survive more than a couple of weeks, if lucky - not nearly enough time.
If I abandoned my post, I could potentially find someone quickly enough - but Marnadal would fall. I did not think Calanthé found Roegnar’s life as valuable as that, and she was my true employer here.
“Have you examined Roderic, Master Surgeon?” I asked the helpful doctor.
He shrugged his shoulders, “A broken spine, along with some other bones, I imagine. The blacksmiths haven’t yet got to him, so there is little to do.”
Why the Captain was not prioritized, the surgeon did not explain, for it was obvious. Triage. Even if Roderic survived, he’d be bed-bound for the rest of his life. A living corpse. Why prioritise the life of someone like that over others who could still be saved?
“Do not waste your time with me, Lady Degurechaff,” The man in question spoke, “I died on the battlefield, though it heartens me that I lived to see you triumph one last time.”
I frowned, “I value you, and your life, Ser Roderic, though I will not lie - the spine and the brain are two parts of the body that even magical healing can often do nothing for. However,” I paused, “You do know what it is that I do, do you not?”
Roderic fell silent at that, “I would prefer to die as a man, than live… changed.”
“Hm,” I responded noncommittally. A not-unexpected response, but such things were often a gradient.
Death, or being turned into an abomination, like the Nazairi nobles? A simple choice. But what if the transformation was not as all-encompassing? At some point, the scales would shift in favour of life.
“Gloir Gláeddyv,” I incanted, and began cutting apart the man’s armour, “You have seen Coen, have you not? It does not have to be such a terrible fate.”
Roderic watched me work for a few seconds in silence.
“Perhaps,” he responded eventually.
We did not talk after that.
The barber surgeon, whose name I learned was Dobromil Posoka, helped me treat him, though there was not much to do. Were his spine not broken, Roderic would have gotten off relatively lightly - A few broken ribs, a broken arm and a broken hip. Tomorrow, he’d be one giant bruise, but as far as we could tell there wasn’t any internal bleeding, or anything similarly lethal.
When I left the tent, I was about ready to fall over and sleep, but there was still work to be done.
“Adda Invaerne,” I cast, the icy feeling invading my mind a welcome respite, if not the intended purpose of the reflex-enhancing spell.
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Aevinne and the guards awaited me outside, alongside a few more members of my guard.
“The enemy has arrived,” she reported immediately.
“I am assuming they are settling in for a siege?” I asked, and received a nod in return.
“What a familiar set of circumstances,” I muttered, “Did we manage to catch any of the Nazairi that fled?”
The tall elven warrior nodded again, “Fifty or so, the majority of those that retreated with us.”
I hummed, “Good, good. Vissegerd should arrive in a few days. Were the dogs led to their kennel?”
The kennel being pretty much a huge, rickety barn. A temporary building, largely to hide them from sight and limit access to the War Hounds.
“Yes,” Aevinne responded promptly.
“Let us be off then,” I said. The walk through the fort was brisk, and I was heartened to see that my men had not been idle while I had been busy with Roegnar and Roderic.
Though the outer wall - primitive as it was for now - was the only proper piece of fortification built, the work on the inner walls had begun as well, though there were no walls there yet - just a ditch, that was supposed to serve as a foundation, but was now being deepened. Behind it, our wagons were largely in position, serving as a makeshift inner wall.
Unfortunately, the keep, which would have a third set of walls, was not even under construction.
Many of the temporary wooden buildings between the inner and outer wall were being torn down - turned into impassable rubble. Barricades, ditches and sharpened stakes were placed strategically to make up for any gaps.
Our preparations would set the construction back once more, but that was a small price to pay.
The rapidly dwindling paths did prove somewhat of a challenge to navigate, prolonging my walk to the kennel slightly - one of the few buildings still standing intact.
I nodded to the group of elven guards outside, and entered.
The three War Hounds perked up immediately, though one was noticeably slower than the other two.
“Matheus, Wilibald, Rhiner,” I greeted, examining the dogs.
Wilibald was unharmed, even his steely fur was nice and clean, a fact he made readily apparent by his happy tail wagging. He had not fought, so it was hardly unexpected.
The second War Hound, Rhiner, was obviously battered, but seemed largely mobile. I would examine him in more detail later, but for now it was obvious who needed my attention the most.
Matheus, the third and last War Hound, was in terrible shape. Amongst many cuts and bruises, two wounds stood out the most - a large bite near his torso, and a crushed front leg.
Both the wounds were crudely cared for. The bite mark was bandaged, while the poor hound had a makeshift tourniquet on the upper portion of his leg.
I would have to thank whoever did that. Makeshift or not, there was a good chance the dog would have bled out without the care.
It did not take me long to come to the conclusion of what had to be done. The leg had to go. Matheus wouldn’t be able to help much in the coming fight, but with a bit of luck and magic, he’d recover.
The War Hound’s treatment did not take long, fortunately. Matheus’ monstrous biology made survival nearly a guarantee, even if he’d take a while to recover.
By the time I left the kennel, the ground started having a strange appeal.
I stared at the earth below my feet. It might not be comfortable, but I’d probably fall asleep within a few seconds if I lay down.
The blood on me had largely dried, messing up my hair. Some of the blood had also slipped down my neck, coating even more of me in the unpleasant liquid. My left hand throbbed. I had yet to properly look at the damage.
Unfortunately, I had neither the time to bathe, nor to examine my hand, and so to the outer wall I went.
As I neared, my eyes found Isengrim standing near one of the gates, talking to another elf.
“It is natural to doubt, Caerith, but we have grasped our fate tightly,” He spoke as I neared, while the elf nodded, before glancing my way, and taking his leave.
“Isengrim,” I approached, “Good work,” I praised, “How is it looking?”
The scarred elf turned towards me, “Not the best,” he admitted, “We’ve counted over ten thousand, nearly five times as many as us, though that is not all. Four thousand are horsed, while the remaining six thousand are well equipped. They are likely the elites.”
I gestured toward the wall, and we climbed up, letting me inspect the Nilfgaardians.
It was as Isengrim said. Black armour gleamed, while banners with their golden sun flew in the air. I felt like a barbarian lord watching the Roman legions approaching. Their numbers weren’t as high as I had initially feared, yet our situation was still precarious.
Their camp bustled, while groups of riders practically encircled the fort, positioned strategically around to prevent any escape.
“A highly mobile force,” I muttered.
“Yes,” Isengrim concurred, “Barring their ballistae, they lack any proper siege engines, so there is that.”
I shook my head, “It gives us time, but it won’t matter much, unless the Marshal moves quickly. We will never hold the walls, they have too many mages.”
“Hm,” Isengrim intoned, “You believe they will try to storm?”
“They are not here for Cintra,” I said confidently, “We’ve been caught in Nilfgaard’s scheme. A ploy to take Nazair and weaken Cintra in one blow, but they succeeded only in the former. So far.”
That taking Nazair was almost certainly their primary objective went unsaid. Hopefully, being largely a target of opportunity would make the enemy disinclined to bleed too much, should Dreadhold’s defense prove able.
“And they don’t have the men to take on the full might of Cintra with them here,” he finished.
“That is so. However, they can still fulfil their original objectives. By razing Dreadhold to the ground and slaughtering us all,” I explained.
“Can they?” Isengrim asked, “Storming a fortified position isn’t pretty, and you’ve certainly bloodied their nose. Can they afford the losses?”
“They have too many mages,” I repeated, “I cannot protect the walls by myself.”
“But you have a plan,” he said after a moment, watching me carefully.
I inclined my head, “The Emperor might think he can stomach the price, but we will disabuse him of that notion.”