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The Praetorian
Part 7
An hour passed. Marcus was shocked at hearing Duncan’s story. Neither captain was quite sure what to do next. Obviously, a report would have to be filed, but this was no ordinary report. A priority message would have to be dispatched to Valor’s Keep. There would be an investigation and testimony would have to be heard from each of the surviving soldiers. Marshal Wallace was sure to receive a posthumous court-martial. It was decided that Duncan’s group would remain at the Palladum until the Keep responded. In the meantime, Marcus begged his counterpart’s leave to obtain advice from a higher authority. Duncan didn’t bother to ask who it was. Usually, the regional marshal was responsible for such matters but Wallace was dead. Duncan didn’t know who would assume this authority and at this point, he didn’t care. The last thing he wanted to do was relive the battle again.
Duncan found himself wandering around the vicinity of the extra barracks where his platoon would be staying. He decided to head for the officers’ quarters where a change of clothes awaited him. Duncan ran his hand along his tattered armor. He was still dressed in the same outfit that he had been wearing during the battle.
Duncan resolved to find the bathhouse, but first he needed to check up on his wounded charges. He jogged down to the lowest level and headed for a nearby bridge. As he did so, off-duty soldiers and civilian attendants looked at him and whispered softly to one another.
The heretical Teivan officer who led his charges through the forest unmolested, mused Duncan sourly. The rumors are already spreading.
He mounted the stairs that led to the bridge’s walkway and strode briskly along the overpass. It was a narrow path, perhaps two meters wide. He glanced down and noted the long fall to the cold river below. There were four archers on duty here and he brushed past them. He reached the other side and descended the stairs. He was now on the western half of the fortress, the part he was less familiar with. He asked for directions from a passing private and made his way to the field hospital. Once there, he sent the troops who had been treated to the barracks, ordering them to get some sleep. He then entered the hospital.
The place was large and spacious. The common room had about one hundred and fifty beds, a quarter of which were filled with the sick and injured. Duncan approached a nurse and asked her to direct him to his people. She led him to one of the far corners, a spot that had been separated from the rest. Duncan’s injured had been transferred from their stretchers into twelve beds, including Blaine, who had stayed behind and was now fast asleep. The captain thanked the nurse and looked at his troops sadly. This wasn’t the first time people had been injured or killed under his command, nor would it be the last. Ordering others to their deaths was an unpleasant fact for a military leader that he didn’t think he would ever be comfortable doing.
“You’re their captain,” came a voice from behind.
Duncan wheeled around to find a doctor staring at him. The woman was short and dark-skinned like Marcus. Her long hair was tied into a tight bun that hung at the back of her head.
“Yes,” he answered. “How bad are they?”
“They’re resting now,” she replied. She indicated the patients closest to her. “These six should make a full recovery. They lost a lot of blood, but none of their wounds is life threatening. Whoever administered their first aid did a topnotch job.”
“Praetorians are trained to do so in battle. We carry our own medical supplies.”
The doctor responded wryly. “So I’ve heard. This captain should pull through as well, though she has a nasty gash in her side. She won’t be up for at least another week. Frankly, I’m surprised she was conscious when she entered the fortress.”
“Captain Blaine is a virtuous fighter.”
The doctor ignored him. “These others, though, I can’t be sure about. The next twenty-four hours are critical. We cleaned up their wounds as best we could, but it may be too much trauma for their bodies to handle. This one’s left lung was punctured. We extracted a grimal claw from the wound. He may not even live through the night.”
She held out the claw and Duncan took it. It was the size of his thumb. It was hard to imagine that such a small weapon could cause so much harm.
“We don’t even know his name,” stated Duncan somberly.
“Pardon?”
“That corporal who had the claw in his lung. He was part of the scouting party that reported to us about Ravelin. None of us knew his name.”
The doctor nodded solemnly and started to walk off. “There’s nothing you can do for them now. When they regain consciousness, we’ll let them know you were here. You don’t look too well yourself. Knowing how to rest and recuperate is as important a virtue as knowing how to fight.”
The doctor headed over to her office and sent a nurse out to monitor the patients. Duncan decided not to argue the point with her. He was too tired.
Stay tuned for the next chapter…
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