On Azrael's Wings Read Free

inspect her bracers, she frowned at the blood still caking the leather. Rather than wear them, she slid the knives usually sheathed at her wrists into soft boots.
    Striding out of her tent, the general stopped to look over the camp with a judicious eye. Most of her soldiers were going about their chores - cleaning weapons and armor, seeing to horses and gear and attending guard posts. A significant number were still missing and Azrael could only assume that Atol’s cohort was still burning bodies. The surgeon’s tents looked calm, a positive mark in Azrael’s books, as she made her way to them.
    Ducking inside, she was pleased to note several empty pallets. Across the room, she could see her surgeon working on a soldier, several assistants holding down flailing limbs as the patient thrashed against the pain. There was a grunt and the clank of metal as a bloody knife tip was dropped on a table.
    “All right, lad, we’re almost done,” the surgeon said. “That was the hard part.” Indeed, it must have been, for the patient stopped fighting, panting heavily, his face the color of curdled milk. “You’re lucky it lodged in your rib and not your lung. Let me stitch you up and you’ll be good as new.”
    Azrael moved closer, startling one of the men into standing at attention. “At ease,” she murmured, coming around the table to watch the proceedings.
    If the surgeon was nervous at his new audience, he didn’t indicate it. After sprinkling powdered herbs into the wound, his hands firmly sewed the jagged edges together. “He’s the last,” he said. “Everyone else has been treated.”
    “Casualties?” the general asked, gaze dispassionate.
    “Other than the three you took care of?” the surgeon asked, raising an eyebrow. He smirked at the silent stare. “Just one other. Neck broken, probably from a fall.”
    “Wounded?”
    Finishing the stitches, the surgeon tied them off. “Seven walking with assorted bumps and broken bones. Three, including this fellow, who’ll need to stay down for at least a few days.” He set his instruments aside and waved at a pallet. “Take him over there and give him wine,” he ordered his assistants.
    Azrael followed as the surgeon walked to a worktable, washing his hands in a basin. “Are you prepared for tonight?” she asked.
    Grimacing, he shook his hands to remove most of the water, scooping up a clean cloth to dry himself. The surgeon turned to glare at her. “Yes. I’ve heard about your little celebration,” he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “I’ll be ready for the upcoming bruises, lacerations and rapes.”
    “Good.” The general refused to rise to the bait. “We’ll be on the road in three days. I want all of them ready to travel.”
    The surgeon knew nothing he could say or do would change the evening’s plans. With a pensive expression, he bowed his head. “As you wish, Lord.”
    Satisfied, Azrael left him, moving to the occupied pallets to check on her men.
    The sun was beginning to set when Azrael finished in the surgeon’s tent. She’d visited with all the wounded, speaking to each about their injuries and how they were incurred. Though her manner was harsh, she instilled them all with a sense of dignity and accomplishment before she left, giving them words of encouragement and praise.
    Outside, the scant clouds on the western horizon turned red and gold. A bonfire was being built in the central clearing and the cook tents were doing brisk business preparing for the upcoming festivities. The camp’s population had grown, indicating the last of the troops had returned from their assigned duties. Azrael had only a couple of things to do before she could relax.
    Approaching her tent, the general noted an increase in the number of her personal guard; her officers were no doubt waiting inside. She answered the soldiers’ salutes as she passed, stepping inside her quarters and waving the captains back into their seats after they leapt to attention.