Chapter Six
The noises and smells within the medic’s tents overwhelmed the senses. Subdued cries of pain as wounds were tended to. Clean soaps and harsh medicines. Angry soldiers arguing over their own health. Too much blood spilled.
Archer would have rather been anywhere else—interrogating the remaining Bellacostan soldiers, cleaning up the burned palace, at Silas’ side doing anything at all—but the people he most needed to speak to were all here.
He’d barely stepped into the tent when Medic Hess spotted him and made a noise of strangled rage. “You, check-up, now!” she declared, jabbing a finger at him.
Archer tried to wave her off. “I need to speak with Griselda.”
“You can multitask,” she declared, grabbing his hand and dragging him through the rows of cots. “What were you thinking? Fighting so soon after I’d patched you up? Do you and the general both have a death wish?”
A cluster of people gathered around one of the cots, blocking Archer’s view of the patient.
Somewhere within the crowd, Griselda’s voice rose above the noise as she regaled them with the tale of Alistair’s defeat.
“An icy tundra, no visibility, no allies in sight. Just me and my axe against a mad mage who can manipulate the world around him.”
Medic Hess rolled her eyes. “She’s told this story six times already.” Then she raised her voice and shooed away the off-duty soldiers. “Unless you want me to start stitching you up, wounds or not, get out!”
As the soldiers cleared out, they revealed Griselda reclining on her cot, her upper torso bare except for the bandages wrapped around her stomach and a modesty cloth binding her breasts. When she spotted Archer, her eyes lit up and she tried to raise herself into a sitting position.
“Stay down,” Hess growled, laying a hand on Griselda’s shoulder and gently guiding her back to the cot.
“I’m fine, stop coddling me,” Griselda groused.
“You were impaled by an icicle!”
“A very small icicle.”
Hess gave up arguing with her and chose to prop her up with a pillow instead. “If you’d let one of the Bellacostan healers examine you—”
“Fuck no. You think I’m letting any of those shit-stained magicians near me? You’re good enough for me, Hess. Always have been.”
“Then listen to my instructions,” Hess said through gritted teeth.
Griselda ignored her, focusing on Archer. “Well? How’d it go?”
“Smoothly,” Archer replied.
“Dammit, man, for once in your life can’t you give me some details? Unnaturally colored flames? A hoard of spiders suddenly descending on the funeral? A disembodied voice vowing vengeance as he burned?”
Before Archer could answer, Hess turned her fussing attention to him, demanding he strip, sit, and stay still while she examined the wounds he’d sustained from the prison break.
Once she’d settled into cleaning his back again, he gave Gris the only details he had.
“Everything was normal. He burned like any other body.”
Griselda snorted. “I expected some final trick from him, but I guess even magicians are mortal. One less bastard in the world, at least. Now if only we could find Varro …”
Archer’s mood darkened immediately at the mention of Bellacosta’s disgraced general. “I need to interrogate the soldiers left behind, see if any of them have information.”
“Count me in,” Griselda said, baring her teeth in a fierce grin.
“What part of ‘rest’ and ‘healing’ do neither of you understand?” Hess demanded over Archer’s shoulder. “You’ve already reopened your wound once, Your Majesty.” The medicine she dabbed across his back stung sharply as if to punctuate her point.
Archer didn’t answer to the medic, but he placated her anyway. “I’ll have guards in the room.”
“Those untrained dumbasses aren’t worth their weight in chamber pots,” Griselda growled. “Even if they tried to start trouble, I could handle them with both hands tied behind my back and my axe held between my teeth.”
“They don’t have to be well-trained if you’re stupid enough to open your own wounds and die from an infection,” Hess said.
“Enough,” Archer barked. “We need to follow Varro’s trail before it goes cold. I’m not letting another traitor escape.”
Only a few weeks ago, Archer had thought they were close to eliminating the threats to both Arnsveld and Bellacosta.
Varro was imprisoned; Alistair was mentally broken and incapacitated.
Two advisers remained at large, but Penn had set off after Niall with a strong lead, and frankly, Jacoby was the least of their concerns.
Forced to flee from his position of power, the beady-eyed Treasurer couldn’t do much damage from a distance.
They’d felt so close to a conclusion until the palace fire and Varro’s escape.
Now they’d been shoved several steps back, with Bellacostan soldiers fleeing to join Varro’s side.
Even poorly trained, they threatened the fragile progress Archer and Silas had fought so hard for.
Hess quieted and focused on Archer’s bandages. The subdued silence only lasted until she finished. “I don’t want to see you in here tomorrow, Your Majesty, or the day after either. Give me at least a few days of peace before patching you up again.”
Archer ignored her as he dressed, moving slowly to not tug on the freshly treated wounds. By the time he finished, Hess had disappeared to examine another patient, leaving him alone with Griselda.
“I want you with me during the interrogations,” he said. The smirk had barely formed on Griselda’s lips when he wiped it off. “But only to scent for magic. No fighting, no antagonizing, no accusations. Leave the questions to me.”
“Fine,” she spat. “None of them would put up a good fight anyway.” She squirmed on the cot, trying to stand up.
Archer held his hand out. “Rest a little longer. I have to speak with someone else first.”
She settled back against her pillow and waved him away with a lazy hand. “Then go, you’re scaring off my admirers, and I never finished my story.”
“The story where you singlehanded defeated Alistair?” Archer asked with a blank face.
“I never claim to kill him,” she replied. “I wouldn’t take that honor away from Silas, he earned it. But I softened the bastard up for him.” She grimaced and rubbed the area right above her bandages. “Only wish he hadn’t tried to take my liver with him when he died.”
Archer left Griselda to her convalescing to search the medic’s tent for the other patient he’d come to see.
Dresden lay on one of the cots, face and torso shrouded in bandages.
The only sign of life was the gentle rise and fall of his chest. The last time Archer visited him, a Bellacostan healer had stood at his bedside, easing the pain with magic.
No one was here now, leaving him to rest while they dealt with the other patients.
“How bad is it?” The croaking voice startled Archer. Only one of Dresden’s eyes was visible, and it was still closed, so Archer had assumed he was unconscious or sleeping.
Never one to prevaricate, Archer succinctly listed the biggest problems, “Vision and hearing affected on your left side. You lost the ear, but the healer saved the eye. Left shoulder dislocated and severe burns along your torso.”
“Fuck, guess I’m retiring early.”
Archer suspected whatever potions the healers had given him were dulling Dresden’s emotional response.
Dresden had entered the army at fourteen and climbed the ranks quickly, taking dangerous missions to prove his worth.
He’d been promoted to Captain several years ago and had been a strong contender to replace Griselda as General.
Once the medicine wore off, the devastation and anger would set in.
He’d want revenge, and Archer intended to help him get it.
“What happened after we separated?” Dresden asked.
“No one could break through the wards on Alistair’s prison cell,” Archer explained.
Dresden wheezed a raspy laugh. “Sommers may be a bastard, but he’s a damned skilled mage. So Alistair’s still there? They didn’t free him?”
“No,” Archer said. “Silas executed him last night.”
Dresden was quiet for so long he might have fallen asleep. Then he said, “Didn’t know he had it in him.”
Archer had tried to stand between Alistair and Silas, but in the end all he could do was hold Silas afterwards while he mourned everything Alistair had taken from him, every line the damned mage had forced him to cross.
Clearing his throat, Archer continued his summary of events.
“When I went to the lower floors to find you, I felt the explosion.” He’d only found Dresden in the aftermath, when his injuries made the captain almost unrecognizable.
“Found six of ‘em in Isolation,” Dresden explained. “Close quarters, hard to fight. Two distracted me while the other four worked on Varro’s cell. Couldn’t open it, decided to blow it up instead. Knocked me halfway up the stairs.”
“Did Varro survive?” Archer asked. The upper levels of the prison had collapsed onto the underground levels. If anyone had been left inside, it would take weeks to dig out the bodies.
“Fucker stepped right over me,” Dresden growled. “Left a pile of corpses behind and didn’t even thank them for their service.”
Archer’s jaw clenched. He knew it was unlikely that Varro had died in the explosion meant to rescue him, but Archer had hoped for some lingering injuries at least, something to slow the bastard down and make him lay low for a while.
As it was, Varro could regroup with the soldiers loyal to him and attack the capital city again while they were still reeling from two tragedies.
Dresden’s breathing eased as he fell back into an uneasy sleep. Archer wouldn’t get any more answers from him today, but he’d gotten the confirmation he needed.
Standing up, Archer looked down at the broken soldier and silently vowed to him that the soldiers responsible would meet a worse fate.