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The field hospital was a grim place. A place of blood and suffering. Rows of makeshift beds where soldiers and civilians alike lay groaning in agony, their bodies wrapped in swiftly darkening bandages and their minds trapped in torment. It was a place where living men came to die, and a place where Dead Men came to whine incessantly.
"Ow!" gasped Hopeless. "Careful, doc; that hurts."
"Well maybe you'll think of that before you get yourself stabbed next time." The doctor didn't understand why her patients felt the need to inform her of how much pain they were in. Did they think she didn't know? She'd make a poor physician indeed if she'd never realised that stab wounds and stitches were painful.
"Well, I wasn't trying to get stabbed, Apathy."
"That's Doctor Twist to you, soldier. And I should hope not. I have far better things to do than sew you reckless idiots back together."
"And what, pray tell, is more important to an army doctor than wounded soldiers?"
"Card games, good books, brandy, intelligent conversation…"
"I am intelligent conversation! And surely your sense of duty…"
"Don't interrupt," snapped Apathy. "I wasn't finished. There's also my dogs, knitting, practicing my uilleann pipes, fixing that hole in my tent…. Oh, good morning, sir." Hopeless turned to see Corrival Deuce stood in the doorway, flanked by five of Hopeless' comrades.
"Good morning, Doctor Twist, Hopeless. I've come to see– oof!" Deuce was shoved to one side as Saracen burst out from behind him.
"Hopeless! Are you alright? I was so worried when I heard you'd been stabbed. Is it serious?"
"I'm fine," Hopeless reassured him. "Apathy here fixed me up in no time." Apathy didn't respond to his praise, instead focusing on the pair of knitting needles she'd retrieved from next to her scalpels. "Where's Dexter?"
"He's been stabbed too," explained Skulduggery grimly. "And Anton was attacked, but he made it out unharmed. Another coordinated attempt to take out multiple important figures at once. Very much Serpine's style." Hopeless couldn't blame Skulduggery for his bitterness. Nobody knew Serpine's methods better than he and no one had suffered more because of them.
"We'll catch him," promised Hopeless. "We'll make him pay for what he's done, I swear to you." Everyone present stood in silence for a few moments, brooding on the unimaginable evil that was Nefarian Serpine. Even the other patients had gone quiet, as though out of respect for past injuries much worse than their own.
Then Anton sneezed, completely ruining the moment.
Corrival offered him a handkerchief, and then turned to address the group. "This is the fourth time this year that Hopeless has been targeted by assassins, to say nothing of the many times the rest of you have faced them. It seems that these strikes are becoming more frequent. We must be wary of them."
"Four times?" questioned Saracen in amazement. "You've been attacked four times this year? I doubt I've encountered five attacks in the last decade!"
"Perhaps you're not as popular as you think you are," suggested Ghastly.
"Oh, really? And when was the last time you were targeted, Ghastly? The eighteenth century, was it?"
"I'll have you know I was shot at as recently as 1831."
"Yes, but that was only because you'd wandered into a hunting party." Ghastly was about to make a sharp retort when Skulduggery cut in.
"What about me?"
"Well, what about you?"
"Well, I've actually been murdered, haven't I? Mevolent clearly felt I was dangerous enough that the task could only be entrusted to one of his most devoted generals, rather than a few minor would-be assassins. Ergo, I must be perceived as the most feared enemy of the lot of us."
"No, just the easiest to kill."
"It is not a popularity contest!" burst out Corrival Deuce. "You ought to be more careful, all of you. You never know when one of these fiends might get lucky and end your life."
"No, we don't," admitted Skulduggery, "but if I had to guess, I'd say it would happen on the 23rd of October, 1700." Everyone laughed at that, except for Apathy who was too engrossed in her knitting to notice.
Once the laughter had died out, Corrival turned to look at the Dead Men with a sober expression. "In all seriousness, men; be careful. I'd hate to lose any of you to an assassin's blade, especially if it was through your own arrogance or carelessness."
"Have no fear, my friend," said Saracen. "Strike from security, disappear into safety – that's our motto!"
"We are warriors," declared Anton solemnly. "We know this isn't a game."
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"I just got poisoned, I just got poisoned!" sing-songed Dexter as he danced around the camp. "That makes three assassination attempts this month! I'm in the lead."
"Three?" questioned Saracen. "How do you work that out, then?" Skulduggery was reading a book under a nearby tree. It was only the three of them in the camp, the others having gone to collect supplies from a local village. Lucky beggars – they didn't have to listen to Dexter's so-called singing.
"I got poisoned last night, someone attacked me as I slept on Tuesday, and then there was that lady who came after me with a knife when we were in Madrid."
"That lady was just angry you insulted her cat; she wasn't an assassin."
"I wasn't in battle and she tried to kill me, therefore it counts."
"And I'm not convinced you were really poisoned, either. I think you just had too much to drink the night before last."
"I did not!"
"You did too!"
"Well, let's ask Skulduggery, he can be judge. Skulduggery, was I poisoned?"
"I am not participating in this."
"Oh, come on, Skulduggery, please! You want to prove Saracen wrong, don't you?"
Skulduggery thought about this for a moment. "Will you stop singing if I agree with you?"
"On my word as a Dead Man."
"Very well, then. Saracen, Dexter was poisoned."
"Yes!" hissed Dexter, punching the air as Saracen groaned.
"But," added Skulduggery, "that doesn't mean that you're in the lead, Dexter. If either of you had spoken to Hopeless recently you might have heard that he recently escaped his seventh brush with death."
"Seventh!" Dexter's mouth dropped open. "In one month?"
"In one month."
"Not counting battles?"
"Certainly not. Assassination attempts, every one."
"Wow." Dexter stepped back, looking faintly awestruck. Saracen let out a low whistle.
"Impressive," he conceded.
"It is indeed," said Skulduggery. "Look, here he comes now. You can go ask him about it yourselves." Dexter ran over to their approaching comrades eagerly, while Saracen went to inspect – and eat – their new supplies.
"Hopeless, Hopeless!" cried Dexter, interrupting the conversation he was having with Ghastly. "Is it true you've faced seven assassination attempts this month?"
"Threats to our lives are not a trifling matter, Vex," reproved Anton, fixing Dexter with a stern glare. "We are not in competition to see who can survive the greatest number of malicious encounters. The day we begin to view each other as competitors of any kind is the day our band of brothers falls apart and we become nothing more than walking carrion, awaiting the day when our enemies inevitably strike our heads from our bodies and leave us to rot in the gruesome mausoleum that is the battlefield."
"Oh, uh, yes Anton. Of course. You're right." Dexter turned to Hopeless shamefacedly to mutter his apologies. "Sorry, Hopeless. I didn't mean to imply it was a game or anything. I was just… glad you're alive. That's all. I'll go now." Dexter ran off, away from Anton's stony glare.
"Oh, Anton." Hopeless turned to Anton with a knowing smile as they watched Dexter leave the camp, mumbling something about gathering firewood as he went. "You don't have to be so bitter just because I'm winning, you know."
"I spoke only the truth. These attacks are neither amusing nor trivial. Anyway, it's overall assassination attempts that count, not attempts per month. That means I'm still winning thirty three to your twenty six."
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I think this chapter's a lot stronger than my last one. In fact, it might be my favourite one yet. As always, feedback is welcome so let me know what you think.