Once the physician and his orderlies had finished tending to the wounds of Brass, he almost resembled an Arokanian mummy and could not help but laugh as they offered him one of the much too small white garments. Brass took it anyway and tied it around his waist like a towel. It made a decent loincloth. He was just about to grab his things and leave the compartment, when he overheard a conversation from outside.

"I don't know why you even called me for this. The leg is lost; everybody can see this, so amputate it," a man said in a dismissive tone.

"I know the wound is bad but this warrior is one of the Skulltakers and the king's orders were to treat them just as well as any of his officers."

"Do you think I don't know that? My answer remains the same, however. The leg is lost. So, cut it o—"

The weapon master growled and before he knew what he was doing, ripped open the sheets separating him from the corridor, cutting off the speaker – a skeletally thin man in the pristine white of a royal physician – in mid-sentence. He felt a surge of pure anger wash over him as he got a closer look. He knew the type, the kind of healer who regarded himself as a half-god in white, the kind that does not really want to make you better for the sake of it, but who enjoyed power. He had seen doctors like this casually decide on the fate of friends, judging who lives or dies on a whim, who gets to keep a limb or who loses it, who will find relief from pain and who won't.

The disdainful sneer on the physician's narrow face changed rather quickly once he got a better look at Brass. His huge axe in hand, a musclebound juggernaut of fury, the weapon master crossed the distance to the surgeon in a heartbeat, grabbed him by the throat with one hand and crushed him against the nearby wall, lifting him several inches off the ground.

The physician that had stood at his side almost fell over himself as he turned and fled. "Guards! Guards!"

"That man you were talking about is a friend of mine," said Brass, fixing the bulging eyes of the surgeon. "He has lost his brother on a mission for your king. He will NOT lose his leg as well! Are we clear?"

The surgeon choked, struggling to speak. "I... I can't. It's impossible. The spear shaft is... is barbed. He'll bleed to... to death, if we remove it. Amputation is—"

"Not an option!" bellowed Brass, lifting the surgeon even higher, and then ramming his axe into the wall and between the man's legs. The serrated edge of the magical weapon bit deep into the stone and remained stuck. If Brass let go of the man now, his own weight would drive him on the blade and cut him open.

Who knew, it might even cut him in half...

The surgeon's eyes went wide with abject terror.

Brass forced a smile onto his scarred face. "You have a whole platoon of mages and healers at your disposal you little shit. Get one in here and fix Draemaugh up – it will be much simpler than fixing you up, trust me."

"I... We can't," the surgeon croaked, bulging eyes leaking tears. "Ma... Magic doesn't work in the city since the attack started. We are... we are in the middle of... a... a Rising."

Brass eyes slowly widened as he took in that piece of new information.

A Rising...

A Rising means that everybody in the affected area will return as one of the living dead. It also means that the Everweb, the expression of life all mages drew from to cast their magic lies in tatters now, which makes any magus about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.

Shit.

There won't be any magic portals to get them out of Covenport. They won't even be able to call for help. Brass eyes went wider still, as the enormity of what this meant became apparent. A Rising at this place and time could only mean their enemy was able to control the phenomenon, something previously unheard of. Risings were so common on Ruuin that the people had come to accept them as part of everyday life. They were like earthquakes, storms, or floods – uncontrollable expressions of nature.

At least until now...

A panicked squeal of the surgeon brought Brass back in the here and now. In his surprise, he had almost let the man slide down onto his axe. He shook himself, focusing on the here and now. "I... Do I look like I give a damn? I know your kind always has a backup plan. What about potions? Artifacts? Are you trying to tell me you would cut off King Goorm's leg if he would be lying there?"

The man looked at him pleadingly. "I... I..."

The sound of steel-capped boots hitting the stone heralded a detachment of guards as they stormed into the room. With the expertise of veterans, they fanned out behind Brass, their weapons at the ready while marksmen in the back cocked their crossbows. Nobody dared shoot, however, realizing the precarious situation.

"Let him go or... or else!" an overzealous fellow with something to prove barked.

Brass snorted, his head only slightly turning as two familiar voices rang out.

"Brass! What the hell are you doing?" shouted Idana.

"Yes, what is wrong with you, oaf? added Echser.

"Nothing! All is well. I am merely having a little chat with Draemaugh's surgeon. Just making sure he is properly motivated for his operation. Right?" He squeezed the surgeons' neck some more and the man's eyes began flickering.

"What in Mendra's name is going on here?" somebody shouted.

The voice had the ring of age to it but was strong with authority and cut through the turmoil as efficiently as a scalpel, silencing them all. Brass loosened his grip so that the surgeon could breathe again and risked a glance over his shoulder. The crowd of guards and onlookers parted, revealing an old but still sturdy man in dark robes with the white shoulder cape of a cleric, walking tall with the help of a staff. His features were stern; his mane of receding white hair kept back by a simple cloth that also seemed to cover his eyes. Blind, Brass realized, the man was blind but he didn't walk like a blind man, far from it.

The guards quickly parted at the approach of the stranger and he came to a stop but a few steps away from Brass, slamming his staff down one more time with the finality of a judge calling for order. Like the man, the staff was rather unusual: it shimmered like highly polished copper and ended in two hands holding a big chunk of amber crafted into the shape of an eye.

The blind worked his lantern jaw, shifted his staff so that the eye was staring directly at Brass. "Well? Would you be so kind as to tell me why you are choking the life from one of my best surgeons when he should be tending the wounded?"

Brass ground his teeth. He didn't care for his tone, didn't care for how he felt scrutinized and judged by that amber eye on his staff. "This butcher wants to cut my friend's leg off and I won't have it, do you understand? I have seen my share of field hospitals and know there is always a backup option for those in power. I won't see Draemaugh lose his leg after he has already lost his brother, do you understand? So you better bring out the good stuff because my arm is getting mighty tired."

To undermine his words, Brass let the surgeon slip down just a little, eliciting a whimper. A sharp smell soon filled the air and when Brass glanced down, he saw a spreading patch of yellow on the man's pristine white trousers.

Great...

The new arrival shook his big head in disapproval. "You are one of the Skulltakers, aren't you? I've heard you were a rough bunch but I always thought you were warriors rather than bullies."

Brass fletched his teeth in a feral grin. "Not bullies, we are merely practical and do anything to get the job done."

"Is that so? How far will you take that practicality? I can see you are willing to kill for one of your friends but tell me, are you also willing to die for them, to sacrifice yourself?"

Brass wondered if he could reach out far enough to grab this arrogant bastard by the throat as well and do a dual throttle. "Yes," he growled instead. "I bloody would."

To his surprise the man smiled, revealing a set of particularly strong and even teeth rarely seen in one so old. It was almost like a mask slipping off. Suddenly, he seemed not so arrogant anymore. "Ha! That's what I wanted to hear. A man after my own heart! Worry not, you have served my king well these past weeks and I will be damned if we let good men die while there are men like you and me willing to fight for them." He pointed at the quivering surgeon in Brass's hand. "I still need my best surgeon alive to accomplish this though, so would you be so kind as to stop choking Sebastian."

"But Lord Ashk—" a guard officer managed to get out before the blind man cut him off with a wave of his hand.

Brass blinked. "Who the hell are you?"

The old man grinned. "I'm Nicodemus Ashk; advisor to King Goorm as well as his personal healer. Now, will you let Sebastian go so that we can start saving your friend's life?"

"This little shit here told me magic is not working anymore? Did he lie?"

"No, he didn't. I'm no mere magic user of the Creation School but a Life-Giver, if you are more familiar with that term. Do you know what that means?"

Brass hesitated for a moment and then nodded. Life-Givers were a rare breed indeed, healers able to treat even the most grievous of wounds and illnesses. Echser had told him once that even though some were mages, their powers were more of an innate ability. They could heal others by sacrificing their own life energies, which did not restrict them as much as magical users. Due to this, they were highly priced by all the kings of the Scarred Empire and others with enough coin, power, or influence.

Reaching out, Brass ripped his axe from the stone and took a step back. The surgeon slumped down; wheezing as he greedily sucked in air, and then crawled towards Lord Ashk and the soldiers. It was a rather pitiful sight, but Brass didn't have it in him to feel guilty about what he had done. The man's arrogant voice and the sneer he'd initially had on his face still fresh in his mind.

The blindfolded healer reached down with uncanny precision, grabbing the surgeon by one shoulder and muttering, "Mendra's pity! Get up, Sebastian." He pulled him to his feet, displaying surprising strength for one so old. "Go and sit down for a spell... and get changed while you are at it and meet me back here as soon as you're able. The night is still young and we have a lot of work ahead of us. As for you..." Lord Ashk turned towards Brass who became distinctly aware, that the royal physician had not yet dismissed the guards, their weapons still ready, albeit pointing at the ground.

Ignoring the warnings of the guards, the king's mender walked up to Brass and sighed. "You ripped some of your stitches... Luther? Fix this man up and give him one of the Troll-blood potions, the other Skulltakers too if their wounds warrant it. Knowing our king, he'll probably have them out and earning their keep before the sun has set again."

"Yes, Lord Ashk," the physician that had already tended to Brass said.

Leaning to Brass the royal mender muttered, "That was a brave thing you did there; brave but stupid. Meet me at your friend's bed once you are finished here, then we'll see if your bravery and stupidity will bring you and your friend through the rest of the night."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving Brass wondering at the meaning of his words. The guards, gazing about like desert-stranded frogs, dispersed too, cursing under their breath. Idana and Echser pushed past them and before the weapon master could say anything Idana slapped him in the face so hard the echo made the guards turn back toward them, hands at their weapons. When they realized what happened, they sneered and cackled.

"Ouch!" Brass lifted his hand to his stinging cheek. "What the hell was that for?"

Idana looked more furious than he had ever seen her. "Fool!" she hissed, her green eyes seething with anger, but also shining with wetness. "First Mountain and now you almost got yourself killed? And for what? Would shouting have not sufficed? Talking to the man? Did you have to make a fight out of it? What if they just had shot you? Riddled you with bolts?"

Brass did not know what to say—and truth be told, thought it safer to not say anything—so he just stood there, all his muscles not worth a damn before the anger of this slender young woman. Tears, hot and thick as lead, soon bled from her green eyes, and the sight was like a stab in the heart.

"Fool," she hissed again, turned and walked away.

Brass stood immobilized, feeling quite sick, the looks on Idana's face—the tears, the disappointment, and the worry— frozen in his mind like the afterimage of lightning.

"You really are a stupid oaf, especially when it comes to women," said Echser in a strangely compassionate tone as he stepped up to Brass.

"Like you know anything about women," mumbled Brass.

"What the bugger do you mean? By Science, I'm an expert on women; after all, I dissected quite a few over the years. Why I even had to dissect the love of m—"

Brass lifted his hand to stop him. "Don't want to hear it. Ever."

Echser snorted. "Fine, be like that and flaunt my wisdom. See if I care." With that, he stomped off after Idana.

Brass sighed and shuffled towards his physician. On some days, things wouldn't even go right if you bribed them...

******************************

Heya.

Here is the extra update I promised to celebrate me making the Longlist of the Wattys. A bit late, I know, so thx for the patience. :P

CU all on Friday.

M.