Page 46 of Stormvein
Kiran produces a small lantern from his pack, strikes flint against steel, and coaxes a flame to life. He places it in one of the small niches carved into the cave wall. A warm glow fills the chamber, dancing across the stone walls, and revealing the full horror of what lies before us.
In the unforgiving lamplight, Sacha’s condition steals my breath. The journey has reopened almost every wound, fresh blood seeping through our hastily applied bandages to form spreading crimson flowers against the dirty cloth. His skin has taken on a gray pallor beneath the grime and dried blood, no longer the warm bronze I remember. His lips that once shaped clever words are tinged with blue, and part slightly with each labored breath. The fever burning through him creates a sheen of sweat that catches the lamplight, making him appear almost translucent. Already halfway to becoming a ghost.
I press my hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to cry.
“His wounds need to be cleaned.” Lysa’s voice is soft, worried. She checks his pulse at the neck, her fingers lingering a second too long as she measures how much weaker it is than when we started our journey. “We need water, clean cloth, and whatever herbs might help fight infection.”
“There’s an underground pool further in with water that’s safe to drink.” Varam’s voice echoes slightly off the cave walls. “Kiran, go fill the waterskins.” He shrugs out of his cloak, one of our few remaining clean fabrics, and hands it to Lysa. “You can use this for whatever you need.”
“Ellie, help her with Sa—Lord Torran.” Varam’s eyes meet mine, and I see something unspoken there. Recognition, maybe, of how my hands haven’t left Sacha’s vicinity since we found him. “I’ll go back outside to hide the stretcher and leave markers for Mira and Tarn so they know we’re here.”
Following Lysa’s instructions, we start the painstaking process of trying to treat wounds that haven’t been given any care since he received them. We cut away the filthy bandages we applied at Glassfall Gap, exposing the full horror of the Authority’s cruelty to the lamplight.
Each injury revealed provokes fresh rage inside me. The systematic nature of the torture is the most disturbing aspect. Lysa points out the order in which she thinks they occurred, knowing through experience the progress of infection through each one. Cuts made to cause maximum pain without killing. Burns targeted where nerve endings cluster. Pressure points abused for the most effective impact.
The brand on his chest weeps with pus, and his back tells a story of destruction. Lysa directs my attention to the welts and tears, explaining the different kinds of whips that were used, and how the patterns aren’t random, but purposely placed toenhance the suffering they inflicted. Her tone is matter-of-fact, and the longer she talks, the sicker I feel.
Twice more while cleaning his wounds, his breathing falters. Each time, my heart seems to stop with his. I don’t breathe until Lysa coaxes him back with herbal stimulants held beneath his nose or precisely applied pressure to specific points on his neck. Each revival feels like borrowed time.
“His will is strong,” Lysa murmurs during one such moment, “but his body is failing. The damage is …” She shakes her head, leaving the thought unfinished.
I watch the shallow rise and fall of his chest, counting each breath like it might be the last. Twenty-seven years imprisoned in that tower, only to escape to this. The unfairness of it burns in my throat.
Varam returns before we’ve even cleaned half of the wounds on his body. His face looks carved from stone as he stands to one side, watching.
“They’ve done more damage than I thought would be possible.”
My voice is small and scared when I manage to speak around the lump in my throat. “Will he survive?”
“I don’t know.” Lysa doesn’t stop working. “If he manages to make it through the night, maybe?”
We work in silence after that admission, absorbed in the grim task of cleaning and treating injuries the best way we can. Lysa’s knowledge is invaluable. She sends Varam out for herbs that might be available, explaining their use to me as she applies them. Garamwort to numb the pain, Thrishammolt to replenish blood. She creates poultices for the burns, tinctures for internal injuries, compresses for broken bones that can’t be set properly, all seemingly from magic, although I know that isn’t the case.
I can’t help but compare it with how doctors and hospitals work in my world, and wish I had access to some of the first aid items from there.
When we’re finally done, we arrange cloaks, packs, and travel blankets around Sacha, so he’s still propped up on the side that isn’t as damaged. It’s the only orientation that avoids pressure on both his back, chest, and branded cheek.
I collapse against the cave wall, physically drained and mentally shattered. My hands shake violently when Kiran passes me a waterskin to wash away the evidence of our work. I pour water over my palms, watching as it cascades crimson down my wrists, then pink, then finally clear. But I can still feel Sacha’s blood in the creases of my skin and beneath my fingernails.
“The others should be here soon,” Varam says. “I’ll take first watch.”
“I’ll stay with him.” The words come out rough. “We’ll need Lysa’s knowledge tomorrow. I’ll wake her if …” I shake my head, pressing my lips together.
If he stops breathing ...
If the infection worsens ...
If he slips away while I’m watching ...
No one argues with me. Varam studies my face for a long moment. Whatever he sees there satisfies him. He nods once and makes his way toward the cave entrance, footsteps nearly silent despite his size.
When he’s gone, and the others have settled into exhausted sleep around the cavern, I position myself beside Sacha. Close enough to monitor every labored breath, and watch the faint flutter of his pulse at his throat, but far enough not to disturb him if I need to move. The lantern burns low, casting long shadows across the walls. It’s probably my imagination, but I’m sure they lean toward him, as if his presence calls them to him.
In the quiet of the cave, broken only by the soft percussion of water droplets and shallow breathing, reality finally catches up to me.
We rescued him, yes. We prevented whatever final horror awaited him at Blackvault. But at what cost? He’s been utterly destroyed. He’s sustained injuries that may never fully heal, and not just physically.
What will the kind of torture that caused his injuries do to his mind, to his spirit?
