Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Read Online Free PDF Page B

any man survives the Olgrym and the Shel’ai only to die of thirst, I’ll be very unhappy.” He glanced back up the Path of Crowns. “I’m going back to the House of Healing to check on our wounded. If there’s any other business that doesn’t involve Doomsayer on our doorstep, it can wait.”
    He started back up the walkway without waiting for a reply.
    The House of Healing looked nearly identical to the House of Questions, wherein for centuries, strategies had been planned and prisoners interrogated—a fact that Briel noticed for the first time as he ascended the steps and passed a line of pillars and statues.
    Did they really carry all the wounded up these steps?
    He shook his head and resisted the impulse to order them demolished and replaced by a more accessible ramp. Once inside the sprawling marble structure, he returned the salutes of two guards with a quick nod, then simply followed the screams.
    He passed more statues of gods and goddesses—Tier’Gothma, Armahg, Maelmohr, and Dyoni—before he paused beside one devoted to Zet. Portrayed as a fierce, haughty warrior in draconian armor, his six wings angled gracefully from his back. Briel wondered if the sculptor had thought to leave gaps in the armor or if the wings were part of the armor itself. He scowled up at the statue.
    I don’t know if you ever even lived, but if so, it’s a fine damn mess you left for us.
    Composing himself, he pressed on. The wounded were being tended in a great, sprawling chamber that reeked of filth and decay. Briel pinched his nose. He marveled that it could be worse inside than it was at the gates. Then he saw the cause: the chamber had no windows near the ground. The only windows in the entire chamber were the ornate, arrow-thin slits high on the arched walls.
    Pretty, but useless… like most everything else here.
    He forced himself to breathe, but the stench made him swoon. Resisting the impulse to retch, he studied the Sylvan clerics—all of them devoted not to the gods but to the Light—who rushed to and fro, tending the wounded and the dying. The chamber had long since run out of beds, and hundreds lay on the cold stone floor, bloody and shivering.
    Briel’s revulsion turned to pity. Clearly, the clerics were horribly outmatched. Used to treating just the occasional injury or mild bout of sickness, they had been forced to handle at least a thousand men whose bodies had been beaten, burned, or cleaved within an inch of death. Briel realized he should have forced the Wyldkin to stay, if only for their skill at treating wounds.
    Nearby, a young, exhausted cleric probed a screaming man’s wound with steel calipers while two other clerics tried to hold the man down. Seeing at once what was wrong, Briel hurried over.
    “He says there’s something in the wound, Captain,” the cleric said. He paused to wipe blood from his face, onto his sleeve. “Must be an arrowhead, but I can’t find it.”
    Briel gave the wide-eyed patient a piteous look. “Can’t be an arrowhead. Olgrym don’t use arrows.” He gently pushed the cleric aside and took his place. He gripped his own tunic with the hand of his broken arm so that the arm would stay in place as he leaned forward, probing the outside of a ghastly rend in the man’s side. The man whimpered. “Gods, didn’t you give him any blood-tea for the pain?”
    The cleric held up his bloody hands helplessly. “We have run out, Captain. Almost no herbs left, either. And we barely have enough wine to clean the wounds.”
    Briel shook his head but said nothing. He pressed the man’s flesh a moment longer then nodded. “There’s nothing in there. He’s just mad from fever. Don’t use boiled wine on this one. Boil water, then let it cool—but not much. Don’t sew him up, either. The wound’s already infected. Cover it with clean linen and let it seep.”
    And watch him die before sundown.
    The clerics nodded.
    “I’ll see if I can find you more herbs,” Briel promised. As