Chapter Eight

As Mangix burst from the thick undergrowth at a dead run, murmuring encouragement to Essandril who now lay limp and unresponsive in his arms, the elven sentries tensed for a moment as their combat instincts took over. Their keen sight took in the massive Pandarian and his casualty and wisely allowed him passage without challenge. He would have run them over without even noticing it, so intent on his destination he was.

Although his chest burned with the strain, Mangix arrived at the Healers Grove, dashing across the clearing. Somehow, a message had traveled faster than him and now a large group of Healer Apprentices and Acolytes lay the elf down on a stretcher, then rushed her quickly into the depths of the Grove where the Healers and Senior Healers worked tirelessly.

Mangix remained outside. No one was permitted to disturb the Healers. The Healing trances were not to be interrupted at all cost, not when they was literally putting people together on the inside with their magics. Those awaiting the outcome of a loved one usually waited outside, and someone had thoughtfully fashioned seating places from a large wooden block. The furry Pandarian collapsed into one of these, sucking in huge panting breaths like he'd run from one border to the next without pause.

In short, like he'd engaged in an exhausting fight, then rushed a gravely injured companion back to the Healers.

One of the Acolytes passed him a bowel of warm restorative soup, the stuff that they dished out to every combatant. The liquid tasted like diluted honey; all the better for the troops who needed every bit of energy they could muster in a fight. Or flight, he mused unhappily, considering his own situation. There was nothing more he could do for her but he wished that he'd been able to foresee the tactical disaster that had culminated in this narrowest of escapes. She would survive. She had to. Beyond his own affection towards this plucky elf, beyond the blossoming friendship, there were still the strategic considerations. For this young promising ranger to be to succumb before she was ordained officially as a Champion (and thus bound by ties of magic and duty to the Tree, perhaps extending her the ability to cheat death or so it seemed) would be considered a major victory for the Scourge.

In war, it was easy to forget all that transpired as long as it did not have any immediate effect on one's personal survival. In fact, that was one of the necessary traits for a soldier to have, to continue fighting as friends died beside them. But for generals, leaders, even squad officers, the ramifications of everything had to be taken into account. Wars had been won or lost on the shortsightedness of their leaders. Or lack of.

His breathing slowed, still not quite normal, but at least short of outright panting. As his senses extended outward again, Mangix became aware of an elf seated near him, dressed in the robes of an Acolyte. Apparently, there was still some matters waiting to be settled.

"Master Mangix?" the elf tentatively began.

"Yes, how may I help you?"

"My Senior Healer instructed me to attend to your injuries, if any. I am to Heal them if you wish. The Healers are very busy." The elf seemed weary, which didn't square with what Mangix knew of the Healers. No one tried to Heal while possessed to less than full alertness and attention. Certainly no one who was tired. Tired people made mistakes, and manipulation of body parts and functions was a place where the price of a mistake was likely death or injury.

No, he would not avail himself of the services of this Acolyte, even if his Senior Healer had judged him good enough to be on par with a full Healer ahead of his graduation. However, he had to tread carefully to avoid giving offense. No sense in antagonizing anyone he didn't have to. Taking a moment to choose his words carefully, Mangix turned to the Acolyte.

"I'm all right, don't worry. You seem really tired, shouldn't you be going to get some rest? No sense in wearing yourself to nothing. Is there anything wrong?"

"Well, I would, but there's lots of work to do. Only the Senior Healers are scheduled to rest, cause we need them at full strength for the real emergencies, like Essandril there. Everyone's overworked at the moment." The elf took a look at Mangix's shoulder. "Did you get hit there?"

"Yes, but it'll heal in a day. Are the Healers understaffed?"

"No, it's just that we started getting lots of casualties about two candlemarks ago, and most of them real bad. Half of them dead on arrival, some survivors in critical condition, the rest of them so traumatized that the Duty Healer declared them all unfit for combat. Essandril wasn't in good shape, but she'll be fine." the elf assured him. "The Senior Healers are really good. We had one just now who managed to get himself literally hacked apart. Looked like raw meat when they rushed him in. Somehow they saved him. He'll be lying in bed for the better part of the month and recovering for most of the year, but he'll walk again." The elf sounded confident. Mangix nodded and made to leave, then turned.

"Send word to me when she awakens, my thanks." When the Acolyte nodded, Mangix hurried from the clearing. He needed to know what had happened. Perhaps they needed some extra help. Rhasta would know. He'd been holding that valley for two weeks.