Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Fish hastened to stand aside, most of them throwing hasty, suddenly remembered salutes as Cyril came through. Tavi swept the tent flap aside and held it for the captain, then followed him in.

The healer within was a veteran named Foss. He was most of seven feet tall, built like a Phrygian mountain bear, and his armor was of the style of standard Legion-issue from nearly forty years ago and looked slightly different than the current design. It bore an impressive number of dents and dings, but was impeccably maintained, and the man moved in it like it was his own skin. Foss had a short, thick brush of grey hair cropped close to his head, and deep-set, narrow eyes.

“In the tub,” he snarled to the fish carrying Max, gesturing them to a long wooden watercrafter’s trough filled with water. “Careful, careful. Crows take it, man, do you want to tear the wound open even farther?”

They got Max into the tub, still in his armor. The water covered him up to his chin, with his head resting on a supporting incline. Muttering darkly to himself, Foss reached in and adjusted the incline, lowering it until the water covered all of Max but his lips, nose, and eyes. Then he knelt behind Max and thrust his hands into the water, closing his eyes.

“Give him room to work, recruits,” Captain Cyril said in a quiet voice. He pointed at the opposite corner of the tent, and the bloodstained young men hastened to obey him.

Tavi bit his lip, staring at his friend. Max’s skin looked strange-waxy and colorless. He couldn’t see if Max still drew breath.

“Healer,” Cyril murmured a moment later.

“Give me some quiet here,” growled Foss, his rumbling basso threatening. After a good half a minute, he added, “Sir.” He went on muttering to himself under his breath, mostly colorful vulgarities from what Tavi could hear. Then Foss drew in a breath and held it.

“He’s been hurt before,” Tavi said to the captain. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

Cyril never took his eyes from Max. “It’s bad,” he said shortly.

“I saw him run through. That should have killed him. But he was up and walking inside four hours.”

Cyril’s gaze moved to Tavi, his expression remote, hard, though his voice remained very quiet. “Your babbling might distract Foss. If you want to help your friend, put your bloody teeth together and keep them that way. Or get out.”

Tavi’s cheeks flushed with warmth, and he nodded, closing his jaws with an audible click. It was a physical effort to stop talking. Max was his friend, and Tavi felt terrified. He did not want to lose him. His instincts screamed at him to shout, to order the healer to work faster, to do something. But he knew that he couldn’t.

Tavi hated the helpless feeling that knowledge sent through him. He’d had a lifetime to get familiar with it, when his lack of furycrafting continually put him at a disadvantage in virtually every facet of his life. He would have given anything to have a healer’s skill at watercrafting, to be able to help his friend.

The captain was right. The best thing he could do for Max was to shut his mouth and wait.

There wasn’t a sound for nearly two minutes, and every second of it felt like a week.

Then Foss exhaled a low, agonized groan, bearish body sagging forward over Max.

Max suddenly jerked and drew in a ragged, choking breath.

Foss grunted, still sagging, and his rumbling voice sounded unsteady. “Got him, Cap,” he said after a moment. “It was real close.”

Tavi heard Cyril exhale slowly himself, though he kept his face from any expression. “I thought Lady Antillus was here today,” he said. “How is it that she was not here to care for Maximus?”

Foss shook his head and slowly sat up again, drawing his arms from the bloodied water to sit down immediately on the canvas floor. “Lunch with her son, she said.”

“Ah, yes. Family lunch,” Cyril said. “How is he?”

“Bad, Cap. He’s tougher’n a gargant leather boot, but he bled out more than I’ve ever seen a man survive.”

“Will he recover?”

Foss shook his head again. “Wound is closed. He’s breathin’. But losing that much blood can do bad things to a man’s head. Maybe he wakes up. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he wakes up, and he ain’t himself no more. Or can’t walk. Or he wakes up simple.”

“Is there anything we might do to help him?”

Foss shrugged and from his sitting position fell wearily onto his back, rubbing at his forehead with one blunt-fingered hand. “Don’t know that he needs anything but time. But I’m just an old Legion healer. Maybe the High Lady knows better than me, or can see more than I can about him.”

“Crows,” the captain muttered. He turned and frowned at the recruits, still in their corner-eight of them, Tavi noted, a spear of men who would march in file together and share the standard Legion tent. “File leader,” Cyril commanded.

One of the young men, a tall and gawky youth, came to attention and saluted. “Captain, sir.”

“What’s your name, son?”

“Schultz, sir. “

“Report,” Cyril said. “What happened, recruit Schultz?”

“It was an accident, sir.”

Cyril was silent for a second, staring at the recruit, who swallowed and blanched and grew even more rigid.

“The captain knows it was an accident, recruit,” Tavi said. “Tell him the particulars of it.”

The boy’s face reddened. “Oh. Sir, sorry, sir, yes, sir. Um. We were our cohort’s strongest spear at our sword lessons. First ones to get issued live swords, sir. Centurion Antillar had us running our drills with live blades for the first time, all in a row, sir. He was going to show us to our whole cohort, sir, before they got their blades. He went up and down the line, watching us, calling our mistakes, sir.”

“Go on,” Cyril said. “How was he injured?”

The boy shook his head. “Sir, it was an accident. He had just corrected me and he was walking away from me, where he could watch the whole line of us. And I went through a number eight thrust.” The recruit shifted his feet into a fighting stance and swept his right arm straight up from down low by his leg. Such a stroke from a sword could disembowel a man, and though difficult to use, in the close press of combat it could be devastating. “And the sword… just slipped out of my hand, sir.”

“It slipped,” Cyril said quietly, his gaze level.

The recruit snapped back to attention. “Yes, sir. I haven’t ever had that happen before. It slipped and it flew out spinning and it struck Centurion Antillar in the side of the neck, sir.” He looked down at himself, and for the first time seemed to see the blood all over him. “I didn’t mean it to happen, sir. Not at all. I’m sorry, sir.”

The captain folded his arms. “He had just finished correcting you. He had his back to you. Your sword inexplicably flew from your grasp and struck his throat. You say it was an accident.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

The recruit blinked at him. “Sir?”

“Men have lost their tempers with their centurions in the past. Sometimes they were angry enough to kill them. Perhaps you couldn’t stand Antillar’s criticism of your technique. It’s a hot day. You’ve not eaten. Maybe you lost your temper and killed him.”

The recruit’s mouth dropped open. “ Sir… “ He shook his head. “I’d never, no sir, Centurion Antillar, no sir.”

“We’ll see,” Cyril said quietly. “I will be looking into this more thoroughly. Get back to your cohort, recruits. Schultz. Don’t attempt to leave the camp. The men who I’d send to hunt you down would have orders to execute you on sight.”

The young man swallowed and saluted again.