Chapter 25
Grim Tidings
"To the nine hells with all of this sand!" Sully roared in frustration as she slid once again on the surface of a dune, her horse stumbling to keep up with her slide. Several mutters of agreement rose up among some of the other more heavily armored Shepherds. "How in the hells do these Plegians even survive in this wasteland!?"
"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," Robin said lightly as he shifted his weight slightly to avoid sliding himself. "I could do without this heat, though."
"I don't know how you're wearing that heavy cloak," Lissa gasped as she stumbled along at the head of the column with Robin, Frederick, Chrom, and Walter. "My dress isn't anywhere near that dark, or that heavy, and I'm still baking!"
"Perhaps Robin is of Plegian descent," Frederick supplied neutrally. "It would explain why he wears Grimleal robes."
Robin looked troubled at that. "Maybe you're right," he said worriedly. "Could you give it a rest about my coat though? I'm rather fond of it. If I was 'Grimleal', I don't remember it, so it's just a coat to me."
"I have no personal issues with your wardrobe," Frederick rebutted as Robin ground to a halt, looking distracted. "I am simply pointing out that you wear the robes of a religion directly opposed to that which is most common in Ylisse. Perhaps if you would simply get rid of it-"
"NO!" Robin roared, startling everyone within earshot. He apparently even startled himself, before taking on a look of intense concentration. Those near him shot him wary looks, worried that the heat had driven him mad, but Robin's look quickly turned to one of frustration. "Dammit!" he cried. "I almost had it!"
"Almost had what?" Chrom asked hesitantly.
"Every time I talk about this coat with someone, I see…" he stopped a bit, before shaking his head. "I can see a face. A woman's, I'm pretty sure, but I'm not certain. It's like looking at someone through thick, misted glass. It must be someone I knew before I lost my memory. Maybe this coat was a gift from her, or maybe it was hers. I think she was important to me; I feel…something, but I can't really place it. It was something good, not anger or hatred, more akin to friendship, or…something else. I almost had a clear picture this time, but…" he let out a wordless cry of frustration. "Forget about it," he said after a moment of dejected silence. "Let's keep marching." Without waiting for the others, he began trudging on ahead, navigating the shifting sands of Plegia almost effortlessly. The others struggled to keep up.
A week ago they had come down from the mountains and entered Plegia proper, deftly evading the largest Plegian army stations and eliminating the smaller ones, constantly leaving dead drops for the Army scouts between them and the main Plegian Army. Walter was discomforted to find that the region was almost as sandy as southeast Hexter. He had little trouble navigating the sand; months of constant warfare in the harsh deserts of Hexter had conditioned him to move efficiently, even wearing his heavy armor. He had even dismounted his horse a while back, giving the poor beast a break. It was nothing he hadn't walked before, after all. No, it was the heat that bothered him the most. With no plant life or water sources to provide something to cool the earth, be it shade or humidity, it became blisteringly hot during the day. With nothing on the earth to retain the heat at night, it could turn to near-freezing temperatures. Walter despised and was disgusted by the Orcs of Hexter, make no mistake, but he carried a grudging respect for them being able to survive and even thrive in this kind of environment. While the Plegian desert was not quite as harsh as Hexter's, he was developing that same respect for the citizens of Plegia.
"There should be an oasis ahead," Chrom said, breaking the tense silence. "Robin, dispatch a scout to scan the oasis. If there are Plegians there, we need to know how many. If we can take the place ourselves, then we will. It will allow us another camp for the Army to use tomorrow. If not, then we can direct the Army to or away from it, depending on what you decide would be best."
Robin nodded absently, before calling for Captain Phila, on scout duty for this portion of the day. Sumia would scout during the morning, Phila in the afternoon, and Cordelia would keep aerial watch on their camp at night. Walter noted worriedly that Phila was breathing rather raggedly atop her pegasus.
"Hold, Robin," Walter said aloud as he walked over to them. The two looked at him curiously as the other Shepherds began coming to a halt, talking amongst themselves. "Captain Phila, when was the last time your injuries were checked?" he asked her pointedly.
Phila was not amused. "I am fine, Sir Walter, but thank you for your concern," she said in a manner that made it clear that she was certainly not grateful for the concern.
"Truly?" Walter asked in a deadpan tone, before jabbing his finger into Phila's chest, where he knew she had taken an arrow. He didn't jab her hard; just hard enough to make the contact known through her armor. Her reaction was telling, however; she cried out in pain and jumped back involuntarily. "It would appear that you are not being truthful," he said smugly.
Captain Phila's face turned dark as she regained her composure. "I. Am. Fine." She insisted through gritted teeth.
"No, you're not," Robin said this time. "If a simple jab is enough to do that, then you're not fit to be scouting a potential enemy position. Keeping an eye on the road is one thing, but there are almost certainly going to be enemy soldiers at this oasis and if they see you…no. I'll have Cordelia take her shift early. Walter, see to her wounds."
"I am not some invalid!" Phila roared, throwing them both a look of purest loathing. "I have taken much worse wounds than this before and fought for days on end! This is ridiculous"
"The strongest of soldiers can succumb to the shallowest of cuts if it becomes infected," Walter rebutted. "You are the one who is being ridiculous. Remove your breastplate and tunic so I can check your injuries."
Phila flushed heavily. "I beg your pardon!?" She practically screeched, drawing looks from several of the other Shepherds. Robin backed away as her face turned a very deep shade of red, both from rage and embarassment. "I have undressed for no man before, and I will not start now! Especially not for mere flesh wounds!"
Walter simply scoffed and ignored the onlookers. "Who do you think it was that mended the worst of your injuries at the castle?" he asked rhetorically. Phila's glare changed to one of dumbfounded confusion. "Most of the clerics were tied up in tending to the other wounded, and few of those remaining were capable of removing those arrows without killing you. To put it more simply, I am the one who treated you," Walter concluded, "so there is nothing under there that I have not seen before. Now, please, remove your armor."
Before Phila could put voice to the many unpleasant thoughts that were clearly flitting through her mind, Lissa stepped forward. "Now now, there's another solution!" she piped up, causing the three to look at her. "I'll check her injuries. I am a trained cleric, remember?"
"That's acceptable," Walter answered. Phila shot him a glare that told him perfectly how much she cared for what he found acceptable or not. "If the injuries are beyond your skill, do not hesitate to ask for aid." With that, he walked away, to find Cordelia. Robin quickly caught up to him as Lissa led Phila toward the back of the column for what minimal privacy one could expect in the middle of a desert.
"She was rather…vehement about that," Robin muttered nervously. "I wonder what for? Is her modesty really that much of a concern for her?"
"She is acting like that because she is currently in debilitating pain," Walter answered bluntly. Robin shot him a questioning glance, and Walter chuckled. "I have been a healer for well ten years, Robin. I have seen my share of injured men, and far beyond my share of wounded soldiers who overexert themselves. One of her wounds is likely infected; perhaps one of her previously broken ribs has broken again from the strain of flying. The heat of the desert is certainly doing her no favors. I expect Lissa to call for me right about-"
"Walter!" came Lissa's worried cry from behind the supply wagon.
"Now," Walter finished succinctly. Robin couldn't help but laugh. "I will leave you to find Cordelia." With that, he left the young tactician to go to Lissa and Phila.
He restrained the smug grin that threatened to surface on his face as he rounded the wagon. Phila stood bare chested but for her left arm preserving her modesty, shooting a hateful glare at Walter that dared him to say or do anything she wouldn't like. Lissa stood behind her, glancing disconcertingly at the woman's back.
"Move your arms," he commanded in a neutral tone as he neared them.
"What?" Phila asked icily, so quickly and sharply that it sounded more like a whip crack than anything.
"Move your arms," Walter repeated, again neutrally. Phila threw him a glare that suggested she would gut him first. "I was the one that pulled the arrow from your chest, Captain Phila. I cared little for your feminine attributes at the time, and I assure you I still do not. Had the arrow I pulled been a half inch to the right, it would have pierced your heart. Had it been less than that to the left, it would have pierced your lung. It is by the Lord's mercy, and no small amount of my own skill, that you continue to breath. I know for a fact that I was unable to heal that wound fully at the time. I need to check that wound."
"I will do no such-"
"Phila, please," Lissa pleaded. "That wound is awful looking; I've never seen something that bad. I don't know where to start." Walter frowned in concern; Lissa was certainly a novice, but not fresh out of the Academy either; he doubted basic cleric training in Bersia differed wildly from Ylisse, and they were taught to treat infected tissue at the Academy. How bad was this wound?
Phila looked at Lissa, glanced worriedly and hatefully at Walter, before sighing. "Fine," she relented. As Walter began to move forward, she moved her free arm upward. "On one condition. You will allow me to cover myself as best as possible before you look at it."
"Oh, for the love of God," Walter groaned, "very well. Your fixation with your modesty is both unnecessary and irritating," he growled as he reached over to grab some bandages from the cart. He tossed them brusquely to Lissa, before walking back around the side of the cart. There he found Maribelle standing, toting a staff that Walter recognized as a healing staff.
"You are a cleric?" Walter asked in surprise.
"Yes," Maribelle responded haughtily. "While I certainly lack Lissa's skill, and most certainly your own, I am no apprentice either. I heard Captain Phila was injured, and I am ready to give aid."
"It is appreciated," Walter said, before lowering his voice. "Though I might prefer the aid of Sully for this endeavor," he finished grumpily. "Phila is being rather unreasonable about this."
To Walter's surprise, Maribelle's face turned rather pale. "Perhaps not so unreasonable as one might think," she responded softly. "Nevertheless, her wounds must be serious if Lissa so quickly requested aid, so I am sure that she will acquiesce."
"We're ready!" Lissa called. Walter nodded, and rounded back around the wagon with Maribelle in tow.
Phila and Lissa had bound Phila's chest in a manner that left the center of her chest exposed while preserving her modesty. The bandages went down across her breasts from her shoulders, under the arms, and back around, as to leave most of her back uncovered as well. Such concerns were immediately driven from Walter's mind upon seeing the wound on her chest. It should not have been anywhere near that bad; the tissue was not red, nor even purple, but a deep black color. The skin on her chest was dead, and it looked like the muscle beneath fared little better.
Walter let out a curse as he stormed forward. He removed his gauntlet and brushed the wound gently; Phila did not gasp or cry in pain. The flesh was truly dead. Walter frowned. He was no novice by any means, but he certainly had left the wound in better shape than that.
"What in the Lord's name have you done to your wound?" Walter wondered aloud as he simply ripped a piece of the flesh off. Phila gasped, but in surprise, not pain. "This wound looks to have been festering for months, yet it was scarcely three weeks ago you received it." He dropped the piece of flesh to the sand, uncaring. It was far beyond salvaging anyway.
"That's not even the worst of it, Walter," Lissa said from behind Phila uncertainly. Walter raised an eyebrow and walked around his patient, and let out a gasp of horror at the state of the Captain's back. It looked as though she had been burned by wyvern fire; there was hardly more than an inch of healthy tissue in any location across the entirety of her back. The remainder of the flesh was either a deep, sickly purple, or outright blackened. Her entire back oozed pus and several other fluids, and smelled strongly of death.
"How in the Lord's name are you still standing?" Walter wondered aloud as he took in the sight of the necrotic flesh. "These wounds…I have seen grown men collapse under lesser wounds. I've seen many more dead from them in days."
"I am no invalid," Phila reiterated, though sounding more strained now; she was no longer trying to conceal her pain. "It will take more than a flesh wound to kill me."
Walter huffed, before digging his finger into the worst looking patch of flesh. Phila grunted a bit in discomfort at the sensation, but Walter knew she felt no pain; this flesh was long since dead. He casually ripped a strip of flesh nearly a finger's length and a half inch thick from her back, before tapping her shoulder. Lissa and Maribelle turned green at the display. "Hold out your hand," he ordered. She obliged, extending her hand palm- upward over her shoulder, and Walter set the diseased tissue into her hand. Phila pulled her hand back in front of her, and he heard her gasp in horror. "This is no mere flesh wound," Walter stated dully. "In truth, I doubt little of the flesh on your back is yet alive. How you manage to ride at all in this state is beyond me, but it stops today."
"You can't do that!" Phila cried halfheartedly, even as she gazed at the strip of her own skin and muscle had dropped in her hand. Walter could tell she was unnerved, though; she likely hadn't thought it to be that bad.
"I can, and I am," Walter stated in a tone that brooked no argument. "If you had managed to survive two more days with this level of infection, I would have been greatly surprised."
"Okay people," a voice said as a figure rounded the wagon. "We've got trouble up ahead, and-dear gods!" the person said. It was Robin, and he was staring at Phila's exposed chest in horror. "What in the nine hells happened to you!?" he screeched shrilly. At any other time, Walter would have found his ability to hit that octave amusing, but things were too dire to appreciate it now.
"Severe infection," Walter replied simply. "Her back is far worse. Whatever trouble is ahead, I am needed here. I would appreciate Lissa and Maribelle remaining as well. This will take much work to treat."
"Uhh…" Robin stated dumbly, still staring at Phila's chest. Phila was now blushing angrily. "Right then. I'll leave you to it. But we'll have no healers…oh bugger it," he said, before grabbing a spare healing staff out of the wagon. "I guess I'll be the cleric this time."
Walter raised an eyebrow. "You know healing magic?" He asked dubiously.
"Not at all, but it can't be much harder than regular magic, can it?" He said blithely. He shot another look at Phila's wound, and turned a light shade of green. The three healers looked at him with deadpan expressions. "Well then, I'm off. I'll leave Panne and Frederick behind to guard you guys. See you in a while." With that, he hurried off to join the rest of the Shepherds to deal with the aforementioned "trouble".
"Maribelle, would you please find me a knife," Walter said as he returned his attention to Phila and her grievous wounds.
"A knife?" Maribelle asked nervously.
"Yes, a knife," Walter answered grimly. "Most of this flesh is diseased or dead, and needs to be removed. If any were to be caught under the skin when it heals, it could renew the infection again. Lissa, do we have spirits in the wagon?" he asked as Maribelle hustled over to the wagon, searching for a spare knife.
"Uh, are you a shaman or something?" Lissa asked dumbly. "What do ghosts have to do with that? And why would we have them in the wagon?"
"Not undead spirits," Walter groaned in exasperation. "Rum, strong wine, anything of the sort? I will need something to disinfect the tissue once we remove the dead flesh."
"Oh!" Lissa said embarrassedly as she caught on. "No, we don't. We have plenty of vulnerary though!"
Walter raised an eyebrow. "Vulnerary?"
"Yeah, it's a salve we use," Lissa explained. "It disinfects and promotes healing. It's so common here, I didn't think you'd not know what it was. We haven't used spirits to clean wounds here in…well, centuries at least. Maybe even millennia."
"That will do," Walter replied. "You two will have to decide how much to apply and where; I am unfamiliar with the concoction." At that, Maribelle returned with the knife, and they began the grim task of removing the dead tissue. They began placing the tissue in an empty box from the cart for later disposal, so the creatures of the desert would not find it and track the convoy, in hopes of an easy meal.
For the first ten minutes or so, Phila could not feel anything and hardly reacted to the cuts, which worried Walter immensely. If this kept up, he was uncertain if she'd ever be able to fully heal; he had already hit the muscle layer, and she was still not responding. Muscle could be rebuilt through medicine and magic, but only if there was living muscle left to grow from. Eventually, when he estimated he was about halfway through the muscle layer, she let out a cry of pain as he ran the knife through another stroke. Walter was relieved;. With newfound hope, he began more carefully removing the flesh, cautiously discovering where living muscle was and gently removing the dead tissue as to not damage what precious little healthy muscle there was. It took over two hours, but Walter smiled as he finally scraped the last of the necrotic tissue away. His smile quickly dropped, however; the woman looked like she had been skinned alive.
"So…now what?" Lissa asked nervously. "We never covered this in my apprenticeship."
"Normally because any patient with this severe of an infection would be dead," Walter stated bluntly, drawing a concerned noise from Phila. "While she lives, however, there is yet hope. First, we must disinfect and repair the damaged muscle, and from there, the skin. This will not be done today, or even over several days, however; we may very well rescue the Exalt before she is fully healed."
"Unacceptable!" Phila shouted. "I won't sit idly by while my liege is in danger!"
"You will if I say you will!" Walter snapped. "You are beyond lucky that you are not dead right now, Captain Phila, and if my words are not enough to convince you…" He grabbed the box, nearly filled to bursting with her dead flesh, walked around to her front, and dropped it at her feet. "This might."
Phila turned deathly pale. "How much of my back was like that?" she asked quietly. "I felt so little pain from the cutting; I had thought it wasn't that bad."
"The short answer is: all of it," Walter responded, glaring at her. "Your entire back will scar, and likely your chest when we treat that. Some of your muscles may not heal properly; it is too early to tell. I've half a mind to send you back to Ylisstol, but if the clerics there are so inept that they allowed it to get this bad, I will not trust them to heal you further." He shook his head and ignored Lissa and Maribelles offended looks at Walter's mistrust of Ylissean medicine. "No, you will remain here, and I will endeavor to get you back to fighting condition before we reach Castle Plegia, but if I say you are not ready for battle, you will not go into battle. Are we clear?"
Phila glared at him defiantly for a moment, before deflating. "Very well," she ceded. "I will defer to your judgement."
"Good," Walter replied, before turning to the other two women. "Now, this whole fiasco has shattered my faith in Ylissean healing magic. As such, I will be training you both in Bersian holy magic. After twenty years and countless soldiers saved by it, I trust it fully."
Lissa looked intrigued, while Maribelle was torn between excitement and still being offended that Walter thought Ylissean medicine was so wortheless. Not waiting for a response, Walter walked back around to Phila's back, and began the first lesson.
It was not easy going, however: Ylissean healing magic differed wildly from Bersian holy magic. Ylissean healing magic worked by using the wielder's magical energy to promote the body's natural healing; very few wounds healed this way scarred, and of those that did, they were usually very clean scars. Infections were defeated by the patient's own magically boosted immune system. It took decades of mastery to treat the level of wounds Walter was looking at, however, and all Ylissean magic required the use of a staff to concentrate and direct the magic properly. Bersian holy magic, on the other hand, required an entirely different method. Instead of using the body's natural healing factor, the caster used magic to outright grow new tissue, and force tears in the muscle and skin to come together and bind, burnt infections out of the system, and forced organs into functioning properly again. It was a much more direct, confrontational, almost brutish way of healing, contingent upon the wielder's own knowledge of the body and skill at manipulating magic themselves. Staves were optional for Bersian clerics, and were normally only used to amplify the wielder's power instead of focusing it. Before Walter had them even attempt to heal Phila, he opened cuts on his own arms, ordering the other two to heal them. As they did that, he covered Phila's back in bandages; it would do little good for them to learn holy magic, only to have to fight another infection created by leaving the wounds open to the desert air. Walter faintly heard the sounds of battle, and even what sounded like a monstrous roar, as he worked on bandaging Phila. He winced in pain as Lissa lost control of the holy magic and the muscles in his arm spasmed; the girl was prone to distraction, he quickly noticed. Maribelle, on the other hand, was slower and less powerful, but concentrated far more easily. It took them well over an hour to heal a knife wound to his satisfaction, and he now bore several scars on his left arm from the more sloppy attempts, and a rather large chunk of flesh missing from where he had cut a large swath out of his arm to teach them how to grow tissue back, but he was finally satisfied that they were ready to treat Phila directly.
"This will be much more difficult," he told them as he gathered his own magic and began removing the temporary bandages, already slick with blood. "I will heal the majority of the wounds; focus your energies, like I showed you, into growing the skin and muscle and bridging the lighter gaps in the muscle. Remember, do not overexert yourself, and do not lose focus," he stressed, looking pointedly at Lissa, who grinned sheepishly. "We will not finish this tonight, there is far too much damage for that. But if we can get enough muscle regrown and skin to cover it, we can slowly treat the wounds over the next week or two." The two young clerics nodded, and they began their work.
Walter frowned in concentration as they set to work, the blinding white glow of the holy magic pulsing over Phila's back. An unknowledgeable bystander might be disgusted at the sight of the muscle in Phila's back moving as if possessed; bunches of muscle leapt across gaps and fused together, skin and muscle grew and crawled toward other patches of tissue as if by their own accord. But Walter smiled internally; Phila's body didn't resist the magic, like some of the men he had treated before, and progress was going smoothly, if a bit slowly due to the two young clerics' inexperience.
After an indeterminable amount of time, and several breaks for water and rest, the healers ceased their work. Phila's back was nowhere near fully healed; there were clear divets and bumps beneath the raw red, warped skin where the muscle had yet to reattach or regrow, but Walter smiled tiredly nonetheless. The framework for the rest of the healing had been laid, and they could stop for the day. He leaned against the wagon as the two girls collapsed, gasping for air. Walter could hear Sully's victorious shouting now; the Shepherds had won whatever engagement they'd been entangled in, clearly, and with no apparent losses.
"I am proud of you both," Walter said tiredly to Lissa and Maribelle, but with a smile on his face. "Never have I seen such inexperienced clerics, let alone ones who learned the magic the same day, do such excellent work."
The two girls blushed a bit at the praise, giving their thanks between gasping breaths, before Walter lifted them to their feet. Phila had leaned against the wagon on one arm herself, breathing raggedly still, but far better than she had before the healing began.
"Just one wound left now, and it's much smaller. We need only heal the wound on her chest, then-"
"Hoy there, comrades!" an unfamiliar voice shouted jovially. The four of them whirled around to see a man striding up to them, grinning widely. He was a large, muscular man with red hair, wearing a green leather hauberk and pants, with a steel broadsword at his waist.
"Who are you?" Walter asked brusquely, stepping in front of the three women, putting his hand on his mace's handle to show the man that he wasn't fooling about. He looked to be a mercenary, and mercenaries always had friends.
"Ho there, friend, Gregor mean no harm!" The man, Gregor apparently, said quickly, raising his hands defensively. "Good grievink, this day nothink but insults and punches to groin! I am mercenary Gregor, your Prince has hired me. Very high cost performance! Gregor is pleased to-" Gregor noticed the bag, and the nearly naked Phila, and changed his tack. "What is goink on here? Is de lovely lady injured? Am also trained in non-magic healink, can bind wounds with expert skill!"
"Thank you, but there is no need," Walter stated. "We have the situation well under control."
"Dis is good news den!" Gregor cheered, before looking at the box again, and frowning. "Say, what sort of injury did de lovely lady suffer? That is an awful lot of dead flesh to be simply sword wound, aye?"
"Several arrow wounds and a severe infection," Walter replied crossly. He didn't need some mercenary second guessing his work. "As I said, we have the situation under control.
"Truly?" Gregor asked skeptically. "Let me see," he said, gesturing toward Phila.
"I think not," Walter replied as Phila growled defensively. "Captain Phila wishes to preserve her modesty, and unless you can account for more than twenty years as a healer, we will wish you a good day."
"Oh, no, not de lady!"Gregor said defensively. "De box. De dead flesh. I wish to see it."
Walter raised an eyebrow; was the man mad? However, he saw little reason to deny him, and gestured Maribelle to bring him the box. Shooting him a glare that told him that she really doubted his judgment, she picked it up and brought it to the mercenary, setting it down by his feet, before hustling back to the relative safety of being behind Walter.
What Gregor did next nearly had Walter throw up, despite decades of seeing the worst war had to offer; he picked a small piece of the dead flesh out of the box, gave it a scrutinizing stare, sniffed it once, grimaced, then popped it into his mouth like a piece of candy.
He heard Maribelle retch behind him, and he didn't blame her; what kind of a madman was this mercenary!? Was Chrom daft, hiring him? Thankfully, the man seemed to come to his senses and spit the dead flesh out, cursing in some foreign tongue and spitting profusely.
"Ewwwwwwww," Lissa moaned behind Walter, and again he couldn't help but agree with that eloquent description.
"Dis very bad," Gregor muttered, before looking over Walter's shoulder to Phila, who was staring at the man in horror. "You, woman, you takink medicine?"
"What?" Phila asked, dumbfounded, before shaking her head. "Y-yes, an apothecary in Ylisstol gave me a tonic to prevent infection. I stopped taking it days ago, it obviously wasn't working. But are you mad?"
"Oh no, was working perfectly," Gregor muttered darkly, ignoring Phila's question. "Where is it?"
"It's right there in the cart," Phila responded, nonplussed. "It's in the bag next to the pegasus knight armor."
"Right, right," Gregor muttered, before rifling through the bag (much to Phila's vocal dislike) and pulling out two green vials, a dire look on his face. "Is dis it?"
"Yes, it is," Phila responded. "Now, what are-"
Gregor interrupted her by smashing the two vials against the side of the cart, shattering them and splattering their contents across the sand. He brushed his hands of the debris quickly, checking for cuts with surprising urgency.
"Was that necessary?" Walter asked condescendingly. "It may have been ineffectual, but there was really no reason to destroy it."
"Oh no, is very effective," Gregor argued, his face grim. "Is not vulnerary or tonic, but is poison."
Walter felt the blood drain from his face. "What?" he asked quietly.
"Am familiar with dis poison," Gregor explained. "Is made from gland of Valmese swamp animal," he explained. "Very rare. Very expensive. Very toxic. Kills flesh and gland is full of bad germs, causes bleeding inside once enough is taken. Am surprised lovely lady not dead; poison is very quick, very effective. Death is very painful, but does not take long... Takes much poison to do this much, even when wounded, yes? Is lovely lady in pain? Inside?"
"N-no," Phila stuttered, aghast at the new information. "I was several days ago, but that's right after I stopped taking it. It faded within a day and I thought nothing of it."
"Very good den!" Gregor said, breaking out in a wide grin. "Is not too late for you den! Will survive, unless wounds break open. Is good Gregor stop by, no? Might have taken poison again after dis, have made things worse!"
Walter nodded in agreement; things definitely could have gotten worse. "You are quite right. I am sorry to have misjudged you."
"Hey, is water under bridge, no?" Gregor answered, grinning. "Am aware I have…roguish appearance, ay? Am glad to have helped new comrades! See? Gregor cost performance very high!" And with that, he walked away laughing jovially.
"What a…strange fellow," Maribelle spoke up after a few seconds of stunned silence. "Still, he did figure out that poison... though my stomach still roils at the way he discovered it. Nasty business, that," she muttered.
"But who would want to poison Captain Phila?" Lissa asked, stating the question on everybody's minds.
"I don't know," Phila answered after a brief period of silence. "But when I find out, I'm going to run them through with my lance," she growled furiously.
"Before any of that," Walter said, "let us treat that chest wound, and report this news to Prince Chrom."
The three then set about healing Phila's chest wound. It was nowhere as severe as her back, but was still worrisome in its own right because the wound led almost directly to several major organs. Nevertheless, they had the wound healed to stable condition within ten minutes. As Walter found the lid to the box of dead flesh and sealed it and the two clerics finished bandaging Phila's back and chest, he frowned in worry. Not only did someone have an axe to grind with Captain Phila, but they wanted her to suffer. Why else would they go through all of this trouble, when simply sticking a knife into her existing chest wound while she slept have done the job all the same? At this point, Walter wasn't just worried for Phila, but for all of the Shepherds: how many of them would Phila's assassin be willing to harm to get to her?