Tales of the Vangen: The Black Ministry's Betrayal (Book 1)

Chapter 7: A Waste of Good Medicine

Culter hissed as the needle made its first jab into his arm. He watched as the point pierced his flesh, felt the tug as the thread passed through, pulling the wound closer and closer together. Nox's thin fingers hovered close by, his knobby thumb and forefinger clamped around the end of the needle. He pulled the string tightly and went for another pass.

"Ouch." Culter wrinkled his nose. Patch jobs were always a bitch to fix, this one especially so. The corners of his flesh were puckered white, the muscle beneath pink and red and glistening. A grizzly sight to be sure, but Culter had grown used to it by now. He'd opened men up plenty of times before to know what they looked like inside. The needle jabbed into him once more.

"Ouch." Nox glared down at him, his full pink lips twisted into a frown. A splash of bright color on an otherwise ebon canvas brushed here, and thereby a few gray hairs sprouting from his scruffy beard and twisted locks.

"The movement, less perhaps?." Nox's voice was soft and smooth, despite the hard look he was giving.

"It hurts," Culter merely said.

"All pains must hurt." Nox pulled the needle back, the thread tugging the torn flaps of flesh back together. He lifted a nearby candle with his free hand and dragged the sharp-pointed metal over the flame twice and three times before beginning the next round.

Culter didn't mutter another word as Nox finished patching him up. When all was said and done, and the flesh was knitted back into place, Nox pulled the string tight, wrapped the end in a knot, and sliced off the excess with his dagger. He stepped back, turning to fish out whatever it was he was looking for from the satchel hanging off a wall hook.

Culter observed the suture. The pale, pasty flesh looked healthy now that the wound was closed. The dark thread coming up and over in perfect, uniform lines, each end knotted watertight. It was the best patch job he'd ever seen. Cleaner than anything the other Medicae could accomplish. They could learn a thing or two from the Austerlander.

Nox returned with a glass jar in his hand, the liquid inside a foul-smelling bitter yellow color. He dipped two fingers into the stuff and, without warning, smeared it over Culter's wound.

"Gaah!" Culter hissed and wrenched his arm away. Damned stuff stung worse the cut did. At least it had. The sting wore down to a burning cold, making his whole arm go numb. He rolled his shoulder, the pain all but gone now. "What is this stuff?"

"A remedy from my country," Nox said as he stopped up the bottle. "Cleans the wound. Keeps the bitter blood from forming."

"Handy stuff." Culter agreed.

Nox flashed that toothy grin of his, the wrinkles around his lips and eyes crinkling together. He put the bottle away and clasped up his satchel, throwing the strap around one shoulder.

"The other Greenhorns will need this. Go now. Rest. Captain has given us leave today." Nox turned and peeled away the tent flap, disappearing farther into the Medicae tent.

Culter sat there for a moment, waiting until the crunch of Nox's boots had all but faded away. He stared down at his sutured wound, marveling at the needlework. Not even old Gran could have done much better.

"That's a good man, Nox is," Culter muttered to himself. "It's men like him who keep the Vangen going. You can dress a man up however you want, but it's his flesh that ultimately keeps him healthy and dry. I'll take a skin tailor any day of the week." He stood up from the cot, one hand rubbing at the tender flesh beneath his left clavicle.

Most wounds took days to heal. The one on Culter's arm would be a thin line in no time, the scar blending into his pale white flesh. He peeled his shirt down and peered at the ugly rent that ran from his the cusp of his neck down towards his chest.