"Hold him still," Marcus barked, straining to keep the fourth tier healing matrix stable. A pair of soldiers shifted their grip, pinning the injured man to the table. "You have his leg?"
"Here, your Grace."
Marcus took it without looking, holding it to the stump. He paused, setting it down with a sigh. "That isn't his leg, it's a leg. They have different kinds of tans. This is only just about possible without his body rejecting the limb."
The soldier shrugged helplessly, Marcus already turning back to his patient. "I'm sealing off the stump, then we're moving to cot eleven. Hold him tightly, he's going to thrash."
Thrash was an understatement. Marcus sealed the wound after dropping two matrices, not wanting to waste the power, and after a few long seconds of flesh creeping over the severed limb the man fell unconscious. Probably for the best.
He double checked his work before moving on, the hill-side field positively covered in wounded. It was a good day for it, warm but not too warm and without rain, and he was also far from the only healer around.
He was one of the few who could reattach severed limbs, which was why he was annoyed that the person tagged with 'limb found' hadn't, in fact, had his limb found.
Marcus shook his head, blood and screaming and death folding together until it suffused the air. He didn't care too much, having seen worse in the School of Life, but the number of wounded was horrifying.
Those he had to take care of, which held pretty specific criteria, already numbered in the low hundreds. Lesser wounds, the kind regular mages could heal, numbered thousands. Thousands and thousands. He'd only seen a small slice of the battle, it seemed, despite going from issue to issue without pause.
The woman, at least, had the correct arm laying next to her in a bed of ice, which he reattached with little effort, and he realized it made for his fiftieth successful reattachment today.
Marcus sighed, moving on after a moment, and things began to blur. Not in the sense he lost track of time, but wounds only stayed horrific for so long. Screaming all started to sound the same, flesh and bone healed more or less identically, and he only startled out of it when he got to the last patient on the field.
The man grunted, seeming remarkably calm for missing his left hand, and looked up at him. Marcus didn't say anything, though after a moment the Dwarven descendant seemed to look past the blood-stained white cloak and realised Marcus wasn't just another healer.
Surprisingly, the stocky man stayed casual. Few did these days. "Saw you fight. Burned thirty Imperials to death in the time it would take me to kill one."
"I killed quite a few people yesterday, so forgive me if I don't recall," Marcus replied, picking up the hand. He inspected it, noting the rough severance and damage to the nerves, and glanced at the man. "This is going to hurt. A lot."
The man shrugged. "Ever had your foot stuck in a bear trap?"
"No, but I've felt my lungs fill with blood." Marcus pushed the short man down, inspecting the arm to see someone had already cleaned the wound and bandaged it tightly. Good. "I'm going to reattach your nerves, and there's no quick way to do that that doesn't hurt. You will be held down during it."
Another shrug, and Marcus got to work. Reattaching severed nerves wasn't hard, necessarily, since infusing Life into the patient would make them want to connect, but if those same endpoints were damaged it would require more energy to fix.
That wasn't the problem. The problem was that nerves were, well, feeling. Pain and touch and heat, all of which they screamed at the brain incessantly until the process was over. Numbing that pain was possible, but aside from taking more energy, the connection would be lesser. Life—healing—energy would be confused without reaction and stress, the hand becoming unresponsive after a few weeks.
Margaret had explained all of that and more, though over the last ten hours Marcus had gotten plenty of practical experience.
The man screamed as Marcus gently pushed the hand against the stump, though it was a different scream than the ones he was used to. Most people screamed without reservation, pain overwhelming the mind. This one, on the other hand, seemed to scream as an outlet. To distract and vent, retaining control even as he bellowed.
That idea was reinforced by the fact that while his whole body shook, the arm remained still. The pair of men holding him down helped, but still. Something like that took a level of willpower most didn't have, and it was a shame the man had no connection to magic or Life.
Marcus grunted once he was done, two tear-filled eyes focusing on him. "Someone will come by to explain the necessary care for the wound, which will take time to fully heal. Expect limited use for at least two weeks, and that's with daily magical healing to speed along the process. You will be put on light duty, most likely administrative."
Turning to leave, Marcus jerked his hand aside as the man moved to grasp his forearm. It was an instinctive action he regretted, though at the moment he was tired enough the feeling didn't sink deep. The man coughed, tone weak, as Marcus waved his soldiers to the next patient. "Thank you."
"You risked your life. The least I can do is risk sleep deprivation."
The stocky man shook his head. "Not for that. Well, for that too, but more for the laws you passed in Redwater. I have a daughter, thirteen years old. She wants to be a scribe. We couldn't afford to hire someone to teach her how to read and write, but now she's taking lessons you funded. Will have a job her heritage would have forbidden. That's why I'm here."
"Rest," Marcus replied, turning fully. Defaulting to distant instruction was better than not knowing what to say. "Recover. The war isn't over yet."
Marcus got back to work, and found the man to be the exception. Most wounded gravely enough to warrant his attention did little but scream and thrash, assuming they were awake in the first place. Hours passed, his magic was running dry even with efficient use, and when he was finally done he found that Elly was waiting for him.
He scrubbed his hands, the brush hard on his skin and still only just able to remove the layer of blood. Elly didn't seem to mind, flicking her gloved hand when he straightened. Marcus handed a scribe his blood-soaked cloak, stretching a sore shoulder as the man moved away.
"How many dead?"
Elly grimaced. "You should sleep. Eat, at the least."
"How many?"
She sighed. "Assuming all the remaining wounded pull through? Nineteen hundred and forty seven. The number might fluctuate slightly, but the captains tallied their men. Roughly ten percent of our overall forces, though another few hundred will never fight again. More will have lost all taste for blood, others have hardened. The latter will be promoted, the former will serve out their contracts, new blood will be recruited with veterans to lead them. The lifecycle of a professional army."
"We're a bit far to recruit new soldiers, let alone possess the time to train them."
"We are," she allowed. "Which is why I've sent my people to recruit from Duke Hargraf's levy forces. Only those willing, of course, but the man can't complain. If his army had actually saved us he would have enough influence and popularity to stop me, but the Empire retreated before they could properly join the battle. You seem apathetic to the losses we took."
Marcus shrugged. "I'm not. But it's just a number, and I've gone through my stages of grief while surrounded by the dead and dying. Knowing it was nineteen hundred and forty seven is just confirmation to something I already knew. Already internalized."
"No warning about pissing off Duke Hargraf?"
"With the mood I'm in, no. If he complains he can start explaining to me exactly why the Empire could move so easily through his lands, why his castle—a castle specifically designed to slow any invaders—fell with such suspicious ease and why, despite trading with the Empire heavily, he didn't see this coming."
Elly raised a placating hand. "I was joking. Probably best if we let you nap before interacting with the rest of the nobility, actually. I'm all for discipline during war, but if I consider something too blunt, it's probably going to start a civil war. A feud at the least."
Marcus shrugged, no particular emotion rising above the fog of cold. It was comfortable, in a way. Numbing. He operated just fine, did what needed to be done, and people didn't see their King having an emotional breakdown while wounded soldiers went untreated.
And then Elly was suddenly very close, a hand being placed on his shoulder. Marcus blinked, focusing on her and offering a smile. She grimaced, which meant it had been a bad attempt at placating her, and she sighed after a moment.
"Definitely a nap. All that fire and brimstone and space fuckery sometimes makes me forget this is your first war. A war where you're in charge, I mean, and not one where it's just happening around you. Come on, muscle man. Time to get you some rest and relaxation."
"Was that an attempt at flirtation?" he asked, some amusement briefly taking hold. "Because while I will admit I've been filling out, I would hardly call myself 'muscle man'."
"I know better than to flirt with someone who takes the scenic route towards getting a hint."
Marcus nodded, pausing halfway through the gesture. "Did you just call me dense?"
"No, I said you take the scenic route towards getting a hint. Very different."
"How?"
Elly shrugged. "Because."
"That is not a proper argument to underline your point."
She smiled. "Yes it is."
Marcus fell silent, huffing as she grinned at him. Something about how convincing a smart person was hard, but convincing a stupid person was impossible. Not that he was going to say that out loud. Elly had significantly more experience insulting people than he did.
They moved on, walking deeper into a camp balancing between victory and horror. They'd fought the Empire and won, made a nation which controlled nearly the entire continent flee, but a tenth of their people were dead for it. Whole companies, sometimes. Others were basically untouched. Scarred soldiers healed by overworked mages talking to those who'd by some stroke of luck hadn't seen the front lines at all.
And everywhere they went, people paused. They'd done that before, royalty tended to be bowed to, but this was different. The mages bowed, the soldiers saluted, but it felt strange. Less habitual, like something one just did. Now it was almost like they wanted to, a-
Elly hummed. "They saw us fight. Not against the Archmage, but before that. Going from battle to battle, holding the lines together with fire and steel. To be a King is to have distance between yourself and your subjects, but that isn't how soldiers see things. For soldiers there is only the mud, the blood, and royalty isn't something they understand. They obey it, for that is what they are paid to do, but like you created distance to them, they created distance to you. Now it has shrunk. Congratulations, husband of mine. You've become something these men and women respect."
"This war is built on lies and Royal Authority is an illusion."
"Counter point; people who fight for a living will admire those who bleed with them. And what kind of lies?"
Marcus shrugged. "I'm not sure. But we both know this isn't just about taking our land. They would have done it centuries ago if they needed it."
"Maybe the dungeon got worse, so now they need more people."
"Possible," he allowed, summoning Xathar. The demon appeared with an excited howl, the sound not matching his appearance at all, and visibly drooped when there was no battle to greet him. Marcus narrowed his eyes. "You. I haven't forgotten about what happened."
Xathar shrugged, walking closer and nudging him in the shoulder. "I am old, he is an Archmage. It was not a long acquaintance, but we parted on good terms. When is the next fight, bush mage? The smell of human blood in such quantities is not one I have enjoyed for some time."
"Are you lying to me, Xathar?"
The demon shook his head. "I am no succubus, to twist my words in endless circles. I am Xathar, and I crush all resistance under my hooves. Lying is not necessary for that to happen. You summoned me for a reason, yes? Let us get to it."
Marcus shrugged, willing to leave it be. The contract forbade direct betrayal, anyway, and he believed the demon. Perhaps he'd get the chance to ask the Archmage, who would have even less reason to lie.
Elly's own horse wasn't far, their trailing guards having kept it on hand, and soon enough they were riding back towards their tent. His tent, technically, but one where they actually spent time together.
When they got there six people were waiting, including both Dukes, Duchess Soema, general Pator, commander Zotor and city watch commander Mirre. Everyone who was anyone, and he just about caught Elly's flinch.
Right, she wanted him to nap before doing something like this. Well, he made a mental promise not to hang anyone, which would have to do. As they got closer, though, it might have worked to their purpose to have him in this state. Whatever those powerful men and women read off his face, everyone straightened. Everyone paid a little closer attention to their tone, the proper niceties and how they framed their questions.
It mostly went by in a haze, if he was honest. Words he knew were spoken but didn't quite internalize, his focus only sharpening when Hargraf cleared his throat. Well, mostly because Elly had tensed when the man had cleared his throat.
"The current military structure has worked well," the Duke said, his tone perfectly complementary. "However, with the addition of both my household forces and the levies raised from my lands, perhaps it is time to restructure."
He could all but feel the argument coming, so spoke up before any time could be wasted. "And how many Imperials have your household guards slain, Duke Hargraf? How many battles have you won? My Queen has won two, and the fact you are finally contributing to this war does not give you leave to criticize the Crown."
Soema didn't say anything, interestingly enough. She did owe her new position as Duchess to him, but she was also in an alliance with Hargraf. Probably waiting to see if the man would push the issue.
Hargraf did not. General Pator grunted. "We won, your Grace, true enough, but I would not go so far as to say this was victory. Fortuitous timing forced the Empire to retreat, yet we are bloodied. Morale is not as high as victory usually ensures, and several of our spatially enhanced wagons were targeted during the attack. A month's worth of supplies were lost, which is an issue only marginally mitigated by the stores of food the Duke's levies brought."
"A full recap of the battle is in order," Elly said, glancing at Soema. The woman hadn't been all that involved, though Marcus knew it was actually for him. "Let us go inside."
Marcus moved, the small group stepping aside to let him enter, and as he did space seemed to wobble. Stretch, his hearing moving backwards even as he kept moving forwards. It let him catch a snippet of conversation between Soema and Hargraf, one he doubted even Elly would have overheard.
"Do not push," the Duchess warned, tone nearly in a hiss despite how quiet it was. "The army loves him, and after this those soldiers will break your levies over their knees."
The Duke's reply was as quiet as her own, tone even. "I am aware. But not pushing would seem out of character, and despite his current apathetic mood the boy has an even hand. Best not to arouse suspicion."
"That boy fought an Archmage and lived," Soema replied, tone hardening. "Enough. We will talk later."
The moment ended, and Marcus frowned internally. He wasn't overly surprised at what he'd heard, but the fact they risked speaking of it here meant they were shaken. Either by him or the battle he didn't know, but shaken.
Everyone filed into the tent, which was a little cramped despite Marcus himself finding plenty of elbow room, and the general cleared his throat. It was not, to his mild surprise, to speak. Instead commander Mirre took that as her cue to take a small step forwards, glancing at Marcus briefly before staring straight ahead.
"Me and the city watch, standing two thousand strong, alongside a few hundred household guards belonging to both Duchess Soema and Duke Helios, fought on the easternmost front. I held overall command, and I now know that my soldiers were the first to engage the enemy. I shall keep my accounting brief, since it is one that happened on all fronts."
Blunt as always. Marcus listened as she spoke, describing relentless Imperials soldiers, powerful mages and constant fighting. Apparently Gorman—a person Marcus hadn't thought about once since the invasion started—distinguished himself by keeping back three enemy mages, and according to Mirre, the Court Mages in general performed quite well.
Her lines held, hundreds died, the Empire retreated. She spoke of it with calm detachment, Elly seemingly growing more and more interested as the commander described judgement calls and rallies.
Marcus felt a hint of satisfaction as the undead horde he'd created saved her line from a rout, blunting the charge of a horde of cat-like summons he couldn't name off the top of his head, but it was only a moment.
The meeting continued, and as the general took over from the commander he blinked away a glimpse of distant stars.