The medical tent smelled of antiseptic, fever, and slow death. Muffled groans and the short rasps of the dying formed a macabre symphony. Zirel led Dylan to a cot isolated in a corner, partially hidden by a canvas screen.
Tonar lay there, a giant reduced to immobility. His gray skin had taken on an ashen, earthy hue. His torso, usually a carapace of muscle, was wrapped in dirty bandages, stained with yellow and dark red in several places. A sweetish odor of rot, characteristic of gangrene, hung around him. His eyes were closed, his features twisted by suffering even in unconsciousness.
Dylan froze, his seasoned soldier's gaze coldly analyzing the situation. He had seen hundreds of wounds. This one was fatal. Several arrows must have pierced vital organs. Infection must have set in, and the blood loss... It was a miracle he was still breathing.
"He's more rock than man," Zirel murmured, his voice choked.
"Leave us," Dylan said without looking at him.
Zirel hesitated. "Dylan..."
