For a moment Gallatin is frozen with dread. Then he forces himself into action. This looks bad but Cahir is still breathing. He knows it is a severe yet not an instantly lethal injury as the kidneys and liver and all the other major organs are located higher up in the abdominal cavity. The blade must be mostly stuck in the muscle and connective tissue right above the crest of the pelvic bone. If they can stop the bleeding and get Cahir help, he has a chance. However, abdominal wounds can be very messy and there is always the risk of infection. Additionally, besides the gut and plenty of blood vessels there are major nerves in this area of the body that lead to the muscles of the legs. Damn, he better not think of what this could mean for his friend.
"You keep watch until I'm back! Let nobody escape!" Gallatin orders the two horrified Nilfgaardian soldiers while gathering the moaning and groaning Cahir into a bridal carry. It is a good thing his friend, although similarly tall as he himself, is not a heavy man and the way to the main house is not far. Cahir will probably hate it to be carried across the threshold like this, but it cannot be helped. He is too badly off to protest anyway.
With his injured friend in his arms, the elf rushes over to the building. The three servants who escaped from the barn are standing huddled up to one another in front of it, shell-shocked by the events and too afraid to enter because of the threat of the fire bomb.
"Don't just gawk, open the door and help me! He saved your fucking lives!" Gallatin shouts. To be honest, none of them would have needed saving in the first place if not for the Nilfgaardians occupying their farm and the trap for the clan leaders, but, on the other hand, the highlanders could have easily avoided all the bloodshed and violent deaths. Moreover, it was them who killed the man and lady of the house.
Whether the servants indeed feel grateful for having been rescued by the young Nilfgaardian officer, or if they are afraid of the elf and his alleged magical abilities or just respond to his commanding tone of voice, Gallatin does not know, but one of the women opens the front door for him and leads them into the main room. The children are still there, huddled together on the floor with their aunt and so frightened they hardly dare to breathe. Gallatin feels a prick of conscience - no child should go through a situation like this, and they do not even know yet that they have lost both their parents - but, eventually, they will recover from the trauma. Humans usually do.
"Get me a sewing kit and bandages, quick! And I need more light!" he demands. Then he cautiously lowers the pitifully-moaning, only semi-conscious Cahir onto the big wooden table, on his stomach. Gallatin swears. The bloodstain on Cahir's cloak has grown considerably although he has not removed the blade yet.
"Damn you, Cahir, you weren't supposed to get hurt," he murmurs while having a closer look at the dagger in the shine of the candles another one of the servants is lighting for him. It is a slender weapon well-suited to be thrown at a target. The blade is not embedded all the way to the hilt in his friend's back but deep enough to scare the shit out of Gallatin. This is a lot worse than the arrow. Why the fuck did this have to happen now? When they were supposed to leave Nazair tonight and go to Nilfgaard together, unhurt and satisfied with the outcome of Cahir's finally completed mission.
"Here," the first servant whispers, handing him what he requested. "But you can't stay. The flames are visible from afar. Soon people will be here to find out what is going on."
Gallatin nods. The servant is right, he is aware of it. That is why their mounts are already waiting for them, the saddle bags filled with food and everything else they deemed could be useful. They have to leave. But first he has to get this dagger out of his friend, preferably without him bleeding to death.
"This is going to hurt," he says, clutching the hilt of the weapon firmly in his hand. Gallatin does not know if Cahir is lucid enough to understand what he is saying, probably not, but talking, even if it is just to himself, somehow makes the situation feel less grim. He takes a deep breath, silently counts to three, and pulls. Cahit cries out with agony and starts to flail about with his arms in a sudden panic.
"Don't move! I've got you, friend, I've got you," Gallatin soothes while holding him down. Luckily, Cahir soon blacks out from the pain and shock and lies still while Gallatin pushes his bloodied cloak and shirt out of the way and presses a piece of linen firmly onto the wound to stop the bleeding. The white fabric is soaked with blood within the minute.
"Wipe off the blood while I sew," Gallatin then orders the servant. And she does. The narrow wound does not need many stitches and Gallatin is done quickly, but it is deep. Even if it stops bleeding outwardly, there is sure to be internal bleeding. Yet, what can he do to stop it besides pray to all the gods, human and elven, that it will peter out by itself? Nothing. Gallatin swears quietly, feeling far too helpless for his liking. In a hurry, he dresses the injury. The bandage looks a bit sloppy, still, it will keep the suture clean and, hopefully, prevent infection. Suddenly, he hears a commotion from outside and, just a split second later, the door is flung open wide.
"We have to get away from here!" Vach pants. "Peasants are climbing up the hill with torches. They'll be here in a few minutes."
"How's he?" the man then asks, throwing a worried glance at his softly whimpering, motionless commander.
"Alive," Gallatin replies. "Help me get him on my horse and let's ride like the devil!"
Before they disappear into the darkness of the night, carrying Cahir between them, Gallatin turns around toward the servants and the aunt. "There's no fire bomb. And we're sorry for your losses."
Then, they are gone.
The horses are well rested and fed and run through the night at top speed. They have to get out of those goddamn highlands and find the nearest one of the Nilfgaardian forts on the Yelena River as soon as possible. Gallatin has seen them in Cahir's map. According to his rough estimate it must be a three-days ride from here. The highlanders will need some time to rally their men before they can take up their enemies' trail and pursue them in order to exact their revenge for tonight's nasty party. They should have a headstart of a couple of hours. With a little luck, they can make it. The only question is, will Cahir?
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
Come dawn, Cahir seems to be doing better. They are riding at a slow trot to let the horses rest for a while. Tired and aching but fully conscious, he straightens up in the saddle in front of Gallatin with a grunt and gazes around bleary-eyed.
"Welcome back among the living, friend," Gallatin says, relieved after a long night of worrying. He knows he should not celebrate just yet, but it looks like they got lucky and the injury is not as bad as he initially thought it was. Cahir is young and tough, it ought to take more than just a stab wound to kill him.
"Everybody got out alright?" Cahir inquires weakly, his voice husky with pain, the words a bit slurry.
"Yes," Gallatin confirms. "You're the only one who managed to get himself hurt - again. And I told you not to let this double riding become a habit. One could almost believe it's another secret kink of yours," he jests. "But know, human," Gallatin adds when Cahir fails to say anything, "if you like it so much, you can just ask. I don't need you to be half dead for it."
"How— how bad is it?" Cahir asks, too knackered to react to Gallatin's by now so familiar banter in any way. Which is a bit worrying.
"I'm not a healer. But— How do you feel, Cahir?"
"Like run through with a lance?"
"Not a lance, fortunately." A lance wound through the gut would have been pretty deadly without the immediate help of a Sorceress skilled at healing. "You caught a dagger in the back," Gallatin explains. "That bloody, backstabbing traitor Uveld must've thrown it just before we closed the door. Guess he wanted to live up to the expression, the bastard, may he rest in pieces. Nicely burnt ones."
"They're all dead?"
"Yes, every single one of those highland fuckers" Gallatin says with emphasis. "You fulfilled your mission, all the names crossed off your list. Your White Flame will be pleased." And he better be, Gallatin figures. With all the difficulties they encountered, all the blood, the deaths, not to forget a fucking, man-eating monster lobster, it is a damn miracle. Any other commander would have returned to Nilfgaard long ago with their tail between their legs, or be buried in a lonely grave somewhere.
"Cahir, you can feel and move your legs, can't you?" Gallatin suddenly asks, thinking of the limbs.
"Why?" His thought processes still a little sluggish and hazy, Cahir needs a moment to realise the implication. Then it dawns on him. It can only mean one thing— He sucks in a sharp breath as he tries to shift his legs and a flare of searing agony shoots through his lower body, almost as if he was on fire from the inside. With a loud moan, he crumples against Gallatin.
"I'm sorry, Cahir. It was a stupid idea," Gallatin says, tightening his grip around his friend's waist and holding him firmly against his own body. "We can try later, when you're better. Now get some more rest. Once we're at the fort, they'll have a bed for you, and a healer, good food, everything you could wish for. You'll be up and about before you know it."
The fort. This sounds good. They will be safe at the fort. Gallatin will get him there. Everything will be good. With a soft groan, Cahir leans into his friend, too tired and in pain to think about his legs, or anything else. Within a few moments, he is fast asleep.
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
When the horses cannot go on anymore, they make camp by a forest brook. To Gallatin's dismay, Cahir is worse again, shivering and shaking and barely lucid. His skin feels clammy and cold and, not daring to light a fire, they cover him up to his nose with all the furs and blankets they have brought with them. They should have thought of packing some dressing materials, too, but who could have anticipated how the night would turn out? One of the highlander's shirts they took as spare clothes will have to do.
"Cahir, I'm going to change those bandages now," Gallatin says, hunkering down next to his injured friend after the soldiers and he have taken care of the exhausted horses. "And you should drink some more water."
Cahir does not answer and blinks up at Gallatin hazily. However, when his friend holds his canteen to his lips, he swallows the water obediently. There is some blood on the dressings but not too much and, to the elf's relief, the injury does not look infected. It is probably because of the blood loss and the pain that the human is so sick then. All this riding around cannot be good for him, either. Damn, how he wishes Francesca were here and they could put up a proper camp. With her healing magic and plenty of bed rest, Cahir would be back on his feet within a few days. Without magic, there is not much they can do but keep him hydrated and warm, change the dressings regularly and avoid getting caught by the highlanders.
They stay not a minute longer than necessary for their mounts to recover from their nightly flight. Cahir is shivering badly despite all the blankets and whimpers softly when they bundle him up and lift him onto Gallatin's horse again. Gallatin tries his best to make the ride as comfortable as possible for his sick friend but the horse's constant movements must be causing him a lot of pain. Hiding somewhere until he is better is not an alternative, though. For one, the risk of being found and killed by the highlanders is far too high, and second, what if Cahir does not get better but worse? No, the fort is their best, their only option.
As dusk is falling, they make camp on a rocky promontory overlooking the lowlands with the silvery Yelena River meandering through the plains. The sunset is spectacular. But all Gallatin can think of while absentmindedly gazing into the distance is his friend who is lying on his bedroll shivering with fever chills. Although the wound seemed fine in the morning, it has turned as red as the afterglow by now, puffy and exuding a fluid with a putrid smell that does not bode well. At all. Gallatin has seen it happen before with injured elven comrades. The onset of gangrene. If you are lucky and the infected wound is located in a limb and you catch it before it affects and poisons other organs, a healer would amputate the foot or leg or arm and thus give the patient a chance to survive. However, with abdominal injuries this is impossible. And a wet gangrene caused by an injury of the intestine often progresses extremely quickly. It is both devastating and infuriating that he can hardly do more than helplessly watch as Cahir's condition deteriorates with every hour that passes. It is not that far anymore to the fort, with squinted eyes Gallatin can already see the ramparts and buildings in the distance. With no consideration for the poor horses, they could get him there by the morning of the day after tomorrow. But will it be enough? With such a bad case of gangrene it is becoming less and less likely that they will be able to save him even if they have a skilled healer at the ford. Damn this fucking backstabbing, treacherous traitor to the worst fires of hell!
... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
At first light, they are ready to ride on. The foul odour from Cahir's infected wound has become more pronounced and the fever worse. The young commander's clothes are drenched with sweat and he is so delirious, he did not even recognise Gallatin when he gave him more water to drink but mistook him for Emhyr var Emreis of all people. If things were not so dreadfully serious, Gallatin would have laughed out loud. But he feels a lot more like punching somebody hard in the face, or like crying. Yet, he can do neither. None of it would help his friend anyway.
The path down into the valley is difficult for the horses and they often have to dismount and lead them by the reins. It looks very uncomfortable but they have no other choice than to tie Cahir to Gallatin's mount like a big sack of potatoes. Once they are on the plains, travelling becomes much easier again. In the evening they pause to give the horses and themselves a minimum of much needed rest, to eat and drink something and to change Cahir's bandages. The odour from the wound is so bad by now, Gallatin has to suppress the strong urge to puke. At the first unmistakable signs of the severe infection, he removed the stitches so that it would be possible for the pus and putrid fluid to drain off, and the bandages are sticky with the foul-smelling discharge. He cleanses the wound as much and as carefully as possible, however, it might not make much of a difference, if any at all. All through the procedure Cahir has been whimpering and moaning pitifully, obviously in a lot of pain, and the fever is higher than ever. He is so weak by now, he hardly manages to drink more than a few sips of water before drifting off into an uneasy sleep haunted by fever dreams.
"Hold on, friend, just a few more hours until we're there," Gallatin murmurs while wiping Cahir's sweat-covered brow with a wet piece of cloth. Then he rises to his feet. The nightly sky is clear and the silvery light that the pale moon provides should suffice to continue on in the flat, easy terrain.
"I'll take the spare and the pack horse, they're fresher than the others and time is running out for Cahir," Gallatin tells the remaining four Nilfgaardian soldiers. "You come after us in a few hours. Just follow the river."
Vach, the highest in rank of them, nods. During the last couple of weeks, they have come to trust this elf unconditionally. He is a competent leader and a dedicated friend to their young commander. If anybody can save him, it is Gallatin. They help the elf unload the pack horse, lift the delirious Cahir onto its back and tie him to the animal so he would not fall off.
A few minutes later, Gallatin rides off at a gallop through the night, the pack horse with his sick friend next to his own, its reins in his hand.