"If ye can spare a moment, Milord, I'm ready to report."
Rael looked up from a map covering the huge pinewood table in his tent. A variety of similar maps and charts were arrayed on the table and rolled into tubes propped against the desk. There were writing supplies and a sheaf of fresh paper at the Knight Captain's elbow.
StoneFingers was standing at the flap of Rael's tent. The Dwarf looked like many of his brothers; short and stout, built like an anvil and twice as hard, with a short, wispy beard that was more chestnut than gray, for now. He had thick, stubby fingers that fit his name quite well, perfectly suited to swinging a hammer in a forge or gripping the heft of a battle axe.
Which left most people surprised when they discovered the physician's hands were far more familiar with blades designed for surgical medicine than ones made for killing.
"Have a seat," Rael motioned to a wicker chair on the other side of his table.
StoneFingers settled awkwardly into the chair, too short and too broad to sit the chair comfortably. He reached up with one heavy hand to adjust the thick lensed bifocals perched on the great knob of his nose.
Rael's silvery gaze took the Dwarven physician in critically for a long moment. "Have you eaten today?"
StoneFingers gave a noncommittal grunt.
Rael shook his head and smiled wryly to himself as he rose and walked across the tent to a small stand beside his cot. A decanter of poorly spiced wine, a pair of dented tin cups, and a platter of food sat atop it. Pears and aged grapes, small roasted potatoes and white onions, and some thick slices of salted pork sat on the platter. None of the food was particularly fresh or well flavored, but it was better than most camp provisions these days. Rael poured a cup full of wine and grabbed some of the pork, and set them on the table in front of StoneFingers. The Dwarf gave the Captain a look but offered no argument.
Rael returned to his chair, folded his hands together, and waited patiently as StoneFingers ate his meal.
The Dwarf wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Rael had known the Doctor long enough to know it pained him to do so, but napkins and kerchiefs weren't a high priority at the war front.
"Seven dead, thirteen wounded," StoneFingers said at last. "One Knight, Sir Boras passed. Three Knights, Sir Wilhelm, Sir Jorin, and Sir Kor are wounded. Sir Wilhelm took an axe to the chest. Already got a fever that'd lay a hale man low. I don't think he'll be makin' it. Jorin's ribs been shattered by a war hammer. Lucky one, that lad. His lungs be fine. Sir Kor lost his left arm. Cleaned and cauterized the wound best I can, but there be no way of tellin' if rot'll set in or not. Might be he recovers, and he's still got his sword arm, but he'll never be the same Knight again. Rest of our dead and wounded were foot soldiers. I'll have their names on yer desk on the morn."
"Well done, StoneFingers. I'll arrange for word to be sent to the families of the deceased, and burial arrangements made according to the men's stations and beliefs. Tell the wounded I will make rounds to see them shortly," Rael nodded. He took the news stoically, which was not to say that he took it without pain or grief. On the contrary, the deaths made his chest tight with emotion, and he had to force calm words past the lump in his throat. But war was a long suffering thing, and this one more than most. Men died every day. Good, true men. And more would die tomorrow, and more still if he didn't keep his wits and a head clear for command. A leader didn't have the luxury of dwelling on loss.
"There's more, Milord," StoneFingers said in a heavy tone. The Dwarf's face, which had always been dour and rough, was especially care-lined and weary tonight. "Arthas fell, Milord."
"I know," Rael said, and even to his ears, his voice was hollow and hard. The surge of emotion was harder to quell, now. Arthas had been a good lad, loyal and hardworking and earnest. He'd held his position as squire to the Knight Captain with utmost seriousness. He had been a fast learner and knew his Lord and his habits well. The boy had also been enthusiastically and single-mindedly working on his swordsmanship and other martial disciplines, and though he would never be more than the son of a minor noble with hardly a spit of land to his name, Rael had no doubt that one day his squire would make a fine warrior in his own right.
And now he was dead.
The Dwarven Physician reached down beside his chair. Rael hadn't noticed when he entered, but the Physician had carried something in with him. He placed a single arrow quietly on Rael's desk and sat back in the uncomfortable wicker chair, waiting.
Rael took up the arrow, held it before him, studied it. The arrow was uniquely made, a slender black shaft and a fine head of steel. The arrow head was so wickedly barbed that if the initial shot itself didn't kill its target, attempting to remove the head would rip so much flesh away that death would be a mercy. Feathers of a vivid azure blue fletched the arrow and strange runes were scrawled along the obsidian shaft. It was like nothing the Captain had ever seen before.
