NOVEL NEXT Chapter 179 - House of Healing
It was the first time Tristessa had entered the Fireclaw Company's local headquarters, located in the heart of Entrana's commercial district. A place for those who wanted more than easy soul jewels and exciting -and high-risk- experiences. A brotherhood of warriors that offered services like protection worthy of a VIP, support for urban military forces, or even to assist adventurers in their search of glory and almost certain Death.
The building of the enterprise was an old abbey of the Vel'Moranian religion, banned by the Empire. Remodeled, now it had other useful purposes, such as housing the mercenary group's quarters, weapons stores, and a smithy. The inner courtyard no longer housed priests praying to a large statue of the Devourer of Worlds and the primordial concept of Chaos, formally located at the geometric center of the site; now, only shattered and unrecognizable remains remained, and the place had been converted into a shooting range and sparring areas, with a flag with three red stripes perched on a pole.
None of that mattered to Tristessa now, except for the chapel across the courtyard. To where Imperial soldiers and mercenaries had carried Bran on a stretcher an hour earlier. They hadn't allowed access to either her or Auron, forcing them to wait outside.
"Damn, this anxiety is going to kill me!" she thought, pacing the front of the church, which now was a House of Healing, only for mercenaries of the company. "Fuck!"
"Will it do any good if I ask you to calm down, lady?" she heard Auron plead, sitting at the top of the stone stairs of the church and watching the mercenaries firing blank rifles at dummies from one end of the courtyard to the other. "You can't do anything for him."
"I know, I know! It's just... If the Mercer-Archeos...! SHIT!" The most frustrating thing for Tristessa, beyond the deep fear that something terrible had happened to the family, was the inability to express to the gunslinger the massive weight of having seen misfortune fall upon them time and time again. Doomed, with no way out, by decree of Lord Moebius on one side and Aurelia Eramisaptor on the other. "For God's sake, may they be safe from those filthy witches…"
"What God do you pray to? One from your world?"
He whispered the last thing, careful to make sure no one was around to hear them. Even checking to make sure there were no silhouettes in the chapel vestibule.
"None. It's just a figure of speech… And you, Auron? Who do you prefer, Valdrek, Nahalith, or soul-jewels?"
"That question is unfair, lady!"
Perhaps Auron's original intention had been to lift Tristessa's spirits. He didn't quite succeed, but he did manage to make her smile.
"Excuse me, are you related to Mr. Bran Jade?"
A woman dressed in a white coat that went from neck to toe emerged from inside the chapel, her face hidden behind a veil on which dozens of small glyphs were drawn with a mixture of ink and charcoal. Only her hands and forearms weren't the perfect representation of whiteness, and not precisely because of the color of her sleeves and gloves: it was because of all the blood, remnants of skin, and dead tissue that dyed them black.
Sanctified and bloodied, the typical image of a Healer.
"We're acquaintances of him," Tristessa responded quickly, her heart beating against her throat. "How is he?"
"I'm pleased to tell you that the worst has come to pass. Mr. Jade is out of danger." The news almost knocked Tristessa off balance as the great surge of relief slammed into her. "You can come inside to see him. I just ask you don't disturb him and let him rest in silence."
"Damn right I…! I-I mean, yes, of course."
Laughing nervously, Tristessa lowered her voice and, together with Auron, followed the healer into the former church.
Without any religious symbols in sight, the nave of the building housed beds for the wounded and sick; and the presbytery—without an altar—had been remodeled into a restricted area with bars to house medicines and chemicals, as the sacristies on the sides of the building.
Throughout the place, several healers assisted patients or performed alchemical procedures in the restricted area. The scent of medicinal herbs, concentrated substances, and fresh blood was abundant, flowing in the air and making the environment heavy. Tristessa observed the physiological conditions of the sleeping or agonizing patients as she passed by, covering a wide range of injuries, traumas, and mutilations, with their respective degrees of severity.
In Bran's case, near the end of the ship's east wing, his condition was certainly worrying despite the fact they had managed to stabilize him: forced to lie on his side, he was half-naked and wrapped in bandages, like a preserved corpse. Several healing thaumaturgical circles had been drawn around him, creating a distortion of the mercenary's surroundings that benefited the recomposition and regeneration of skin and tissue.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
His face had been spared the burns and bandages. He was asleep, his mouth half-open and his eyeballs twitching behind his eyelids as if experiencing a nightmare.
"Those burns were caused by thaumaturgy, and from the magical residue, it's possible to stipulate that Mr. Bran suffered those injuries several hours ago," the healer commented, inviting Tristessa and Auron to sit in the chairs next to the bed. "Blessed be Xiliarra for giving him the strength to endure and reach us."
"This man must have gone into debt to the Gods to escape with his life," Auron commented before sitting back in the chair and crossing his arms. "I don't think I could survive with half my body burned like that."
"Being burned to Death is indescribable, and so horrible it can drive you mad…"
Tristessa's somber manner unnerved the gunslinger for all the wrong reasons; he couldn't tell that in the darkness inside the girl's eyes, she was replaying what she felt when she was turned to ash.
"I'll leave you two alone. Please don't disturb the patient. And if he wakes up, please call me or one of my colleagues immediately."
With that, the healer walked away in the direction of the west wing, where two patients in parallel beds were writhing and moaning in pain, both mutilated by gunshot wounds. Leaving them alone, keeping Bran company. Waiting for him to wake up.
"Lady, I will leave alone once it's the time for the daily meeting at the inn. You stay here, and I will return with Astoria and Severus," Auron instructed her, receiving a silent reassurance from her. "Stay calm. Once he wakes up, you can ask any questions you may have, yes? Don't think the worst."
"…it's hard not to."
And so, the hours passed, in silence so as not to disturb Bran or the patients close to him. The healers were finishing their interventions and alchemical tasks, the day was drawing to a close. Little by little, the former chapel was running out of medical staff.
Eventually, Auron left and Tristessa was left alone, staring into the impassive face of the mercenary she had seen fighting the Dullahan with his great battle axe. Dying in combat, with no chance of defeating an unknown opponent.
Had something similar happened now? Who had been the one responsible for bringing that man to the brink of Death?
Tristessa waited for him to wake up to remove that doubt and many others… But her suspicion was firmly fixed on that woman… That lunatic she-devil.
Listening to her malicious laughter, reveling in the suffering she caused others. Without any remorse.
"Daiana…"
The girl with gray eyes engulfed in flames of rage hissed that name with the disgust and animosity she had felt since the moment she met that witch in a past where everyone had ended up dead. Her hatred was so great that she was hurting herself by clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms and her knuckles turned white.
"…?"
The damage she was inflicting on herself led her to focus her gaze on Bran's left fist. She realized he hadn't relaxed his hand at all since she and Auron saw him leave the Feydra Forest. Not even after being treated by the healers at the Fireclaw Company headquarters.
It was curious… So curious that Tristessa got up from her chair and looked more closely: his fingers were moving, overcome by small spasms.
"What...?" Frowning, Tristessa couldn't react when that hand suddenly opened and caught hers, gripping her wrist with tremendous strength. "Ah... Bran!"
The mercenary had woken up and was staring at her with bloodshot eyes, filled with pure terror. His chest heaved erratically, in parallel with the violent palpitations of his racing heart.
"H-help! I need help!" Tristessa cried, the first thing she could think of to say. His voice echoed throughout the ship, attracting the attention of the few remaining healers. "Bran?"
But before they could reach their side and assist Bran, the mercenary opened his mouth and tried to speak. He tried to convey a message to her, but it was difficult given the shock and the unbearable pain that the burned nerves in his arms and back were beginning to spread.
"T-They're coming. Madame Karla, the boss… W-we can't keep running… T-Tristessa, you must call for help!" he cried, suffering and doing everything possible to make his words heard. Even if the effort was killing him, driving his heart to such extreme rates that it was a matter of seconds before it succumbed to a sudden stop. "The witches, they're going to catch up with us…! The caravan is coming! Ah…ah…!"
Bran was choking on his own saliva, on his own tongue. Within seconds, he began to convulse, and the healers pulled Tristessa aside to intervene.
"Stabilize his heart rate!"
"Come on, breathe! Breathe!"
As Bran fought for his life, the stunned girl slumped into the chair, as if she had lost control of her body and left it to the will of gravity. In the distance, she heard the healers' verbal exchanges and their magical incantations; she couldn't think of anything but what she had hoped for and feared, equally.
Madame Luchie's caravan, the Mercer-Archeos, they were arriving at Entrana. Seeking salvation that could no longer wait.
The Coven was arriving at Entrana. Seeking to kill the exiled family and anyone who dared contradict Moebius's prophecy.
The countdown had begun, and nothing would stop it.