Page 50 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
“I mean to knock that pessimism right out of you soon as our shift is done,” his partner said, his blue eyes alight.
Harlan rolled his own eyes and cleaned his saw with carbolic acid, though disease was the least of the man’s worries at the moment. “You forget, Major Fairchild, we’re in the middle of a war, though the higher-ups don’t like to call it what it is.”
“It’s times like these when your mountain accent is thickest, my friend.”
Harlan gritted his teeth. “I’m trying.”
“It’s not a bad thing.” A hand squeezed his shoulder. “No shame in being who you are.”
Except Ezekiel Fairchild knew just how much Harlan wished to hide his past. Harlan finished cleaning his instruments and gestured to his waiting patient. “Make yourself useful and strap this man down.”
Ezekiel walked to the man’s other side. “Make it quick. All three of our newest arrivals have been triaged and are stable, butI think one of them has some sort of disease in his lungs. Not bronchitis. Sounds worse. I’m thinking pneumonia; worst case of it I’ve ever heard.”
“You do your work well, Major Fairchild.”
“It helps that I upgraded my triage equipment.”
Ever the tinkerer, Ezekiel was always trying to improve life on the front. Such optimism was dangerous, but important; he kept Harlan from sinking into the darkest parts of himself.
Fetching the straps from underneath the cot, Ezekiel pulled them tight and secured the buckle at the man’s chest and another at his hips. He then settled closer to the soldier’s right leg and disinfected his hands. “I hate how formal you get when you work. These men would think we’re merely acquaintances instead of friends.”
“You mean the man currently under our poor excuse for general anesthesia?” Harlan grunted. They’d been forced to use alcohol, since their opium stores had gone dry.
Ezekiel just scoffed, but he held the man steady. Harlan positioned himself appropriately above, one hand on the table, one on the saw. He placed the serrated blade just below the tourniquet. He would have only minutes to sever the man’s leg before he cauterized it. If he was off by even a few seconds, the man could bleed out. He’d already lost too much blood. He took a deep breath and visualized the process in his mind, making sure he could foresee every potential outcome.
Though he was but a medic, he was the best the Jaydian military had. Of course, he wouldn’t be half as effective if not for Ezekiel Fairchild and his inventions, but Harlan had no time to think upon those things. The soldier’s life needed saving. Though he despised it, surgery was something he could do well.
He lost himself to the bloody process and hoped for a better tomorrow.
HOURS LATER, SITTING ON A rocky outcropping, Harlan’s fingernails were finally free of blood.
“That was some good work.” Ezekiel took a swig from his flask and passed it to Harlan.
He swirled the contents before imbibing. The mountain whiskey burned his throat all the way down, but it helped rid his body of the tension of the last few hours. While the man had survived the amputation, it was still unlikely he’d last the week. Not Harlan’s fault. Just the way life was, he guessed. The fever had set in too fast.
He’d done what he could. The surgery had been successful. That was the only good thing there was to say.
He coughed a little to clear his throat of the alcohol’s aftermath. He passed the flask back. “Not good enough.”
Ezekiel took another sip and grimaced, ruffling the dark curls that had begun to grow back after his latest military shave. He’d need to cut it again before returning to the capital. “Shocks, you mountain people don’t mess around with your libations.” He replaced the cap and tucked the flask back into his jacket pocket. “It’s not your fault if the man dies. It’s the soldiers who brought him in. They didn’t get him to you in time to prevent the infection from setting in.”
Harlan didn’t look at his friend. His only friend. Only Ezekiel would be able to tell just how much this affected him. He would notice the hatred in his eyes.
The papers claimed these were just rogue bands of Cerls attacking the countryside, but it was more than that. The Cerls were looking for something, using the attacks as a front. If anyone knew the difference, it was Harlan.
He’d lived the first twelve years of his life in these mountains. The Nardens were still in his blood, and he knewthat if he ever got to kill a Cerl himself, he would do so without hesitation. If he could only get out of this medical legion, he could make a difference. With a full-blown war on the horizon, they would soon be too deep to do anything to stop it. But Harlan could. If they let him.
“When I’ve served my time, I’m going to leave and invent something that’ll save men like him,” Ezekiel said, his voice soft.
Red clouds painted the sky as the sun kissed the horizon. Some would say it was a sign of good luck. Harlan disagreed. “In this life, it’s better not to dream.”
Ezekiel laughed. “I did say I’d knock the pessimism out of you this evening, right?”
Harlan allowed himself a small, crooked smile. “Afraid it’s lodged so deep that even a few hits wouldn’t do anything.”
“Not to mention you’re still undefeated in the sparring ring,” Ezekiel huffed. “But regardless, I do think you could stand to lighten up.”
“And as I’ve said before, we don’t have the luxury. We’re soldiers.”
