Culter hissed as the needle made its first jab into his arm. He watched as the point pierced his flesh, felt the tug as clean thread passed through, pulling the wound closer and closer together. Nox's thin fingers hovered close by,  knobby thumb and forefinger clamped around the end of the needle. He pulled the string tight and went for another pass.

"Ouch." Culter wrinkled his nose. Patch jobs were always a bitch to fix, this one especially so. The corners of his flesh were puckered white, the muscle beneath pink and red and glistening. A grizzly sight to be sure, but he'd grown used to it by now. Back in the old days he'd opened men up plenty of times before to know what they looked like inside. The needle jabbed into him once more.

"Ouch." Nox glared down at him, full pink lips twisting into a frown. A splash of bright color on an otherwise dark canvas, despite the few gray hairs sprouting from his scruffy beard and twisted locks.

"Less whining, please." Nox's voice was soft and smooth, despite the hard look he was giving.

"It hurts," Culter said

"All pains must hurt." Nox pulled the needle back, thread tugging the torn flaps of flesh together. He lifted a nearby candle with his free hand and swiped the sharp-pointed metal over the flame three times before beginning a new suture.

Culter didn't mutter another word as Nox finished sewing him back up. When all was said and done, he pulled the string tight, tied the end in a knot, and sliced off the excess with his dagger. He stepped back, turning to fish out something from a satchel hanging off a wall hook.

Culter observed the suture. The pale, pasty flesh looked healthy now that the wound was closed. Dark thread criss-crossed in perfect, uniform lines, each end knotted up watertight. It was the best patch job he'd ever seen. Cleaner than anything the other Medicae could accomplish. They could have learned a thing or two from the Austerlander.

Nox returned with a glass jar in his hand, the liquid inside a foul-smelling bitter yellow color. He dipped two fingers into the stuff and, without warning, smeared it over the wound.

"Gaah!" Culter hissed and wrenched his arm away. Damned stuff stung worse than the cut did. At least it had. The sting wore down to a burning cold, making his whole arm go numb. He rolled his shoulder, the pain all but gone now. "What is this stuff?"

"A remedy from my country," Nox said as he stopped up the bottle. "Cleans the wound. Keeps the bitter blood from forming."

"Handy stuff." 

Nox flashed that toothy grin of his, the wrinkles around his lips and eyes crinkling together. He put the bottle away and closed his satchel, throwing the strap around one shoulder.

"The other Greenhorns will need this. Go now. Rest. Captain has given us leave today." Nox turned, disappearing further into the Medicae tent.

Culter sat there for a moment, waiting until the crunch of Nox's boots had all but faded away. He stared down at the stitches, marveling at the needlework. Not even old Gran could have done much better.

"That's a good man, Nox is," Culter muttered to himself. "It's men like him who keep the Vangen going. You can dress them up however you want, but it's his flesh that ultimately keeps him healthy and dry. I'll take a skin tailor any day of the week." He stood up from the cot, one hand rubbing at the tender flesh beneath his left clavicle.

Most wounds took days to heal. The one on Culter's arm would be a thin line in no time, the scar blending into pale white flesh. He peeled his shirt down and peered at the jagged rent that ran from the nape of his neck to the center of his chest.

That one had taken a long time to heal, and even then it still haunted Culter on some nights. When he'd lie down to sleep, the scar would stretch and pull and itch like mad sometimes, an ugly reminder. It would find him in his dreams, leaving a poison behind that left a bitter reminder of what needed doing.

Come home, it said. Come home and kill the bastard who did this to you. Only then will the pain go away. "Soon," Culter reminded himself. "Very soon, I will do as you say. A few weeks marching at most, and then you and I can pay our dear cousin a visit."

There came a crash of glass beyond a tent flap, men shouting. Culter peeled his shirt up and ran outside. Nox was standing beside one of the wounded, the bottle he'd used before broken upon the ground. The Greenhorn he'd been helping lay bunched up on his cot, teeth bared with anger.

"What the feck was that stuff you put on me?" He snarled. "Are you trying to poison me?" Some of the Medicae staff drew close, trying to calm the guardsmen down, but he was having none of it.

"It is only medicine, my friend." Nox assured him.

"Medicine ain't supposed to burn like that. And I'm not your friend, you damned dirty Southerner! You keep your filthy fecking hands off me or I'll," The Greenhorn never finished his sentence.

Culter didn't realize when he'd stepped beside Nox, nor when he clasped his hand around the Greenhorn's cheeks, pinching them shut. Only that he had and that he was thoroughly upset.

"Guh!" The Greenhorn flailed, hands gripped around Culter's wrist. He stopped fighting the moment the stiletto appeared, eyes growing wide as they stared into the dark nebulous metal all speckled with white.

"Don't." Culter hissed the word out like a snake warning off a predator. The Greenhorn tried to pull away, but had had him firmly in his grasp. "Don't," he said again, holding the weapon a little closer.

That seemed to do the trick. The Greenhorn tried to scream, but only a frothy moan came out.

"Enough!" Nox was yelling at him. "Let him go! I forgive!"

Of course he would, Culter thought. For a man who easily turned men into mist with that crossbow of his, he was always more keen to patch them up then put them down. He'd done it back in Austerland, and his people suffered for it, right until he'd put a bolt in the Warlord's back who'd started it all. 

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He bent down till he was staring directly into the Greenhorn's eyes. They were such cold, dark things. Full of hate and fear. It reminded Culter of himself. A younger self. The boy who'd pissed himself after nearly being gutted.

"Don't. Waste. Medicine." Culter formed the words slowly and meticulously, trying hard to keep his mouth from trembling.

The Greenhorn nodded his head agreeably. With a smile, Culter released him, sheathed his stiletto, and spun on his heels, heading for the door. Neither Nox nor the other Medicae tried to stop him. Most were keen to just get out of his way.

He marched out of the tent and into the cold open air. Mud sucked at his boots as he trudged on with no particular direction in mind. His frustration was like a vice, clamping down hard enough to make his ears ring.

"Damned Nox. Damned Greenhorns. Damned Vangen," Culter grumbled to himself. "The whole lot of them can rot for all I care. I was only trying to help. Back in the ganger days, you'd split a man from ear to ear for wasting good medicine like that, foreigner or not."

Culter rubbed his shoulder, felt the bumpy knots of stitching over his rough spun shirt. "Supplies like that were fought and killed over back in the streets of Byzantia. For Nido's sake, I'd once knifed a man for stealing a crust of my bread once."

Off in the distance, the sound of thunder ripped through the skies. Strange, given that there wasn't a thundercloud in sight. Only when the tremulous boom came back again did he realize it wasn't thunder at all. It was the trebuchets. Plodding up the eastern track, Culter made his way past the barracks and the quartermaster's tent till he'd reached a large open clearing.

Row upon row of trebuchets were lined up neatly in the mud, loaders piling stones high as winches and cranks turned decisively. Culter stood there with bated breath as the firing arms were pulled back on those great death machines before they fire their load. Seconds later, the stones either thudded into the mud churned hill or crunched into the rebel fort's splintered remains.

"Any minute now the rebels will be waving that white flag of theirs, I bet," Culter said. "That hill of theirs ain't much of a hill now and with the caves collapsed beneath them, well, they ain't exactly prime on leaving now."

But to Culter's surprise, no white flag was raised. No signs of surrender. These rebels, the Sons or Daughters of some royal creature that Culter didn't give a shit about, were stubborn bastards indeed. More stubborn than the Red Street Gangers, he reckoned.

Someone called out for Culter from afar. Standing on a raised patch of mud was Regis, one arm raised and waving, his chainmail clinking against his plated metal coat. Culter gave a flick of his fingers in response. The big Northman waved him over. Seeing as he had nothing better to do, he obliged him.

"Good to see you in one piece," Regis said once Culter was within shouting distance. He winced at the sound of the Northman's guttural voice. Like a bear grunting after food.

"Likewise," Culter said.

"Heard about the caves. Nasty business that."

Culter shrugged. "Eh."

The Northman's mouth twitched. "Can you believe it?" He thumbed over at the hill. "Practically half the day I've shelled the rebels in stone, and I've heard not a peep from them. They must have hunkered in somehow. I'd bet my middle finger they've got some sort of vault down in the hill somewhere. Big enough to hold a quarter thousand men.

Culter shrugged again. "Maybe."

The smile was gone now. Whatever conversation left in Regis was slowly dwindling. "The boy, though, Libro, he's come up with a plan."

That caught Culter's attention just then. He'd have shot his eyebrows skyward if he had any. "Has he now?"

"Mmm-hmm." Regis nodded his head, peeking coyly in a sidelong glance. "So good in fact that even the Captain agreed to it. I can tell you that it's going to be quite a bloody venture."

Culter mulled that one over. As far as he cared, Libro wasn't worth his piss in salt. The little coward had found himself a sweet cushy spot in the Vangen jotting down stories that no one but him could give feck all about. But if the Captain liked it, well, that made all the difference.

"You want in?" Regis asked.

Culter didn't even have to pretend thinking it over. "Yes."