Page 105 of Devil's Doom

The strzyga turns to me, impatient and angry. “Then what else do you propose? Can you open that? Because let me tell you, if I couldn’t, there’s no way a novice like you will know how.”

I shake my head. “No, I can’t open it. But I can cut off his foot and then probably reattach it later. Maybe. I’m almost sure of it.”

In the sudden silence, the upir’s hoarse whisper is clearly audible.

“Do it. Please.”

My stomach roils, but as I stare into his gray eyes, one clear, one bloodied from a burst vessel, I can only nod. I don’t care what the dragons think he did. I don’t care if he’s Woland’s follower. I’ll save this man, because no one deserves to rot in a cell like this one or be torn apart by bloodthirsty beasts while hundreds of people make bets and chant.

“You have three minutes, and then we’ll have to go,” Wera says, her voice tight.

I drop to my knees in front of the upir, not caring how filthy he is. The stink barely bothers me as I cut off the leg of his trousers, using magic, and touch his skin around the shackle to find the best place to cut. It’s too tight, and his leg is swollen. I could do with some oil, but I didn’t bring any supplies.

When I asked Nienad earlier today what I should bring, he told me my magic and my hands. Battle healers don’t carry supplies, only eggs, because there’s nothing you’ll get done with tools faster than with magic alone.

His words, not mine.

Swietko’s face flashes in my mind’s eye when I palpate the swollen shin right above the shackle. It’s unbelievable thatthiswon’t be the first limb I’ll cut off in my life, but at least this time, I get to do it with magic. I asked Nienad almost at the start of my lessons with him how to safely remove a limb. His explanations were terse, but I committed every word to memory.

The chain is so short, the man can’t sit down unless his foot stays right by the wall, and that would mean no space for me. He has to stand, which complicates things.

Steady,I command his leg, and when he wobbles, I huff with impatience and freeze his entire body.

“You won’t be able to move for a moment.”

Then, because I’m not an asshole like Nienad, I disregard my teacher’s rule to “never waste magic on pain relief—they are rebels, they can take it.”

Freeze,I tell his skin and muscles, numbing the area I’m about to operate on.Clean. Steady.

Cut.

It’s a hundred times easier than using a saw, and yet more difficult, too. The blade I cut with is magic, and it only exists in my mind. My only task is to guide it with absolute focus, taking the sharp edge through skin, muscle, and bone. There is a faint sound, soft and wet, and then, the upir’s leg slides apart, the foot staying on the floor, his bleeding stump slowly rolling away as he loses his balance.

“Catch him,” I growl, already directing his blood vessels to slow the pumping, or he’ll bleed out before I manage to sew him back.

Someone stands behind me, treading on my carelessly spread skirts, and steadies my patient. I heave and growl, pushing his swollen foot out of the shackle, until it finally slides out, lubricated with blood.

“Out with him. Into the corridor.”

Lech, who turns out to be the one holding my patient, lays him out on the floor. I drop to my knees and get busy reattaching the foot. My eyes are closed, my magic feeling into the severed skin and arteries as I do my utmost to align everything perfectly.

“Seal.”

Under my hands, his skin grows hot, and I pour more and more magic into him, until a deep shakiness settles in the pit of my stomach, my chest aching and void. Putting a cut off limb back where it belongs demands so much more magic than merely taking it off.

Sweat pours down my back, and behind me, someone coughs, someone mutters, and a moan of wretched agony comes out from a locked cell down the corridor. The torches flicker, the smoke making me want to sneeze.

Finally, it’s done.

“He shouldn’t put pressure on it,” I say, looking up to meet the bemused gaze of my patient. “How do you feel?”

He shakes his head, his mouth loose and shapeless. Wera huffs.

“Are you done?”

“Yes. We can go.”

It takes me two tries to stand. Wera wordlessly offers me her arm while Lech and the other prisoner support my limping patient. Lena closes the cell door, and we’re off, not yet out of danger, but so close to freedom, I almost taste it.

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