Orin turned to his men. Those who could stand were helping the less fortunate move to a clear area where they could tend to their injuries. The mercenary leader held his hands out to the carnage in disbelief. “He’s busy, he says.”
As Rezkin passed, Farson looked at him deadpan and muttered, “Seriously? I am the darkness?”
Rezkin grinned. “Outworlders enjoy theatrics.”
He was in the midst of cleaning, stitching, and bandaging Pride’s wounds when Malcius approached.
“What are you doing? Can you not see that people are injured? You care more for the welfare of the horse?”
Dipping his fingers into the ointment, Rezkin answered quietly. “We cannot afford for his wounds to fester. It would be much more difficult to tend to a feverish battle charger without the aid of a healer or life mage. Also, right now he is worn from the effort and energy of the battle. Later, he will be rested and churlish. Trust me when I say that we do not desire for him to turn his ill temper on us.”
Malcius glanced back to the evidence of Pride’s brutality. “No, I should say not. But you will see to the others?”
“None of you look to be dying.”
Malcius scowled. “This will surely scar,” he said, pointing to the gash on his neck.
Rezkin said, “I believe warriors enjoy showing off their war wounds.” He did not mention that if the laceration had been a thumb’s width to the left, Malcius would have bled out within minutes.
Malcius huffed. “Millins is the worst. Those horrid talons ripped into his back and hips. Kai has already seen to Jimson’s arm. We can all use some stitches and ointment.”
“You already know I intend to assist you, Malcius.”
“Do I? What about the mercenaries? You let that one die last night.”
“To aid him would have been to risk exposure for what was likely a lost cause.”
“You might have saved his life,” Malcius replied.
Rezkin met the young lord’s angry gaze. “And he would have lost it today.”
“You did not know we would be attacked. Or did you?”
Shaking his head, Rezkin said, “No, of course not. Do you think that if I had, I would not have planned for it?”
“What now, then? Will you help the mercenaries, too, or let them suffer and die?”
“I will assist. Let them think I picked up some few healing skills in the army. We shall not mention which army.”
Malcius nodded, seemingly satisfied, until Rezkin said, “Hold this,” as he pulled together split horse flesh. Cautiously, Malcius approached the deadly equine and placed his hands as instructed. A massive black head snaked around, and Malcius yelped as if the horse would bite him. The beast merely rolled his eyes in challenge.
After seeing to the worst of Pride’s injuries, Rezkin cleaned and stitched Millins. Someone had started a small fire, and the mercenaries were busy cauterizing the worst of their wounds. It was a primitive technique, one used by men with no knowledge or skill in the proper stitching and dressing of wounds. Unfortunately, most who did not die from the wound succumbed to infection. The survivors were left with unsightly and possibly disabling scars. In Gendishen, where even mundane healers were often accused of cavorting with evil spirits or demons, people were willing to risk infection over outright blood loss.
Rezkin was in the midst of stitching Millins’s wounds when Wesson squatted beside him in the shadow of the wagon.
“Do you think any of them saw?” the mage asked.
“I do not believe so. If they had, we would surely know of it by now.”
Wesson glanced at the mercenaries pensively. One of them, in particular, was staring at them. “Perhaps, but it could be that they are pretending not to know until they find a purifier. Maybe they are afraid that if I know that they know, we will kill them.”
“We will,” said Rezkin. At Wesson’s disapproving glance, he said, “It is not my preference either, but if allowed to live, they will betray us.”
“You cannot know that. I cannot believe that everyone in this kingdom is so cruel and hateful. They should be given a chance.”
Rezkin gave him a disparaging look. “A chance to betray us?”
“No, a chance to prove themselves.”
Rezkin shook his head. “I recognize your conviction, but if they fail and behave exactly as we expect them to, we will be the losers.”
“He’s right,” said Millins. The sergeant was damp with sweat, and his eyes were glossy, but he was aware enough to follow the conversation. “These people … the sentence for harboring or aiding the afflicted is torture and death. They will not risk that for you.”
Rezkin did not wish to continue the discussion where they could so easily be overheard, so he ordered the mage to check on the others. Although Wesson had no innate healing ability, and he could not have used it if he had, he did have some education in anatomy and mundane treatments. Wesson stood and bumped into Minder Finwy as he left to do Rezkin’s bidding. Rezkin felt the minder’s gaze as he finished the final suture. He applied additional ointment to the wounds and then sparingly applied the bandages. The others still required treatment, and he had no idea if they would be attacked again before he was able to replenish his supply.
As Rezkin collected his supplies, he said to the minder, “If you were hoping to aid the sergeant in his passing, your services will not be required.”
Millins gave the minder a wary look and shook his head.
Finwy smiled and said, “No, it seems you have done well enough to prevent that.” He glanced up to see that the mercenaries were still gathered afar and said, “This is not the behavior I would have expected of the dark warrior who defied Ionius in his own throne room.”
“You were there?” Rezkin said.
“I was.”
“Then you should know already that my concern was for my people. Sergeant Millins is one of them.”
Finwy dropped his gaze to the listless soldier. “Ionius also believes his concern to be for his people, but I doubt anyone would ever find him administering to their needs personally.”
“I have the Skills, we are few, and many are injured. Ionius has plenty of people to see to the needs of others in his stead.”
“You defend him?”
“No, I concur with your conclusion. It is unlikely, however, that he would ever be put to the test.”
“Yet you would not hesitate to kill others who have done no wrong.”
“Would you kill someone to prevent a terrible injustice that has not yet occurred but that you know will happen if you do nothing? Or will you allow it to happen and then punish others for the offense? If you know it is going to occur, are you not also culpable for doing nothing to prevent it?”
“I see your point. It is a most difficult conundrum. I would look to the Maker to guide me.”
“And if the Maker is silent?”
“When the Maker is silent, it is because the experience of making the choice is more important than the outcome.”
“If the Maker denies his counsel when it is requested, then how can one be held accountable for making the wrong choice?”
Finwy tilted his head. “Perhaps neither decision is wrong. Perhaps it is about how we deal with the effects of making that choice.”
“One of those effects being the judgment of others?”
“You will be judged no matter the choice you make.”
“Which is why I do not concern myself with the judgment of others.”
Finwy looked at him doubtfully. “Is that so?”
“I follow the Rules, and so I prevail. Eventually, I will not. The opinions of others concern me only in so far as they either aid or obstruct my plans.”
“Whose rules are those?”
“I do not know who made the Rules.” He turned to check the status of his friends as he said, “Perhaps it was the Maker.”
Followed closely by the minder, Rezkin meandered between the corpses to where the mercenaries were tending their wounded. They rejected his offer of aid, insisting that they were as capable as any field medic. They were not, but Rezkin had no desire to argue the point. His friends were assuaged that he had tried.
“We’ll need the horse to pull the wagon,” Orin said for the seventh time.