Chapter 49

“It’s for you, if you need to be sick. Do your business and then pass it around.” When Tristan hesitated, the surgeon added, “There’s no shame in it. I’ve done it myself a time or two.” Tristan leaned over and emptied a week’s worth of food into the bucket. He stared at the half-filled bucket in surprise. He’d been too traumatized to realize he felt nauseous. Tristan was embarrassed at his weakness for just a moment, before Sam and Adelard quickly followed suit. Only the surgeon and Braeden abstained. “I’ve seen worse,” Braeden said with a shrug. “Thank you all for your help,” said the surgeon. “Now get out of my sight.” He returned his attentions to the patient, slathering his leg with a concoction of eggs, turpentine and the gods knew what else. Adelard and Tristan exchanged twin looks of horror and then glanced away. “He’s prickly,” said Sam once they’d walked a short distance. “Aye, but he’s the best surgeon in the West, short of our doctor in Luca,” Adelard said. The Uriel beckoned at a woman wearing a starched white wimple and carrying a pile of fresh linens.  “Elspeth, where are Raj and Kelly?” The woman called Elspeth adjusted the bundle of linens to her hip. “They went home to their wives while you were assisting His Royal Grumpiness. They’ll be fine, don’t you worry. Well, excepting Raj’s pinky, but there’s not much Asa could do with the missing bit at the bottom of a demon’s belly.” “Thank you, Elspeth.” She dipped into a curtsy and then strode purposefully down the aisle, her long black skirts whisking about her ankles. “Your men—Raj and Kelly—they don’t stay here at the encampment?” Tristan asked. Adelard shook his head. “No, they live with their families in East Pirama. And they’re not my men, not really.” Tristan wrinkled his forehead. “What do you mean?” “I think it's easier if I show you. Come, follow me.” Adelard marched them out of the infirmary and towards an expansive fenced off area at the rear of the encampment. Tristan’s mouth gaped open. Hundreds of men were practicing inside the enclosure, evidently a training yard of sorts. But it didn’t resemble the training yard of The Center. The men were painfully green and many were severely out of shape, either so skinny that Tristan could have lifted them by a single finger, or their well-fed stomachs protruded out past their weapons. As for their weapons, well, they weren’t what Tristan associated with a formal training yard. A few pairs dueled with wooden practice swords, but the vast majority practiced against one another with peasants’ weapons—cudgels, staffs, pitchforks and the occasional hunter’s bow-and-arrow. “Are these your latest recruits?” he asked. Adelard snorted. “These men? Gods, no. Our standards may not be as high as yours, Paladin, but they’re pretty damn close. This training program is our newest initiative, and maybe our proudest accomplishment,” he said, leaning against the fence. “So if they aren’t recruits, and they’re not current Uriel, who are these men?” “The city folk of Pirama and some of the neighboring towns. You see, Paladin, what we realized when we came to this city is that the Paladins can’t defend everyone, and neither can we. The demon attacks are too frequent and their numbers too great. This is our solution.” Tristan watched as one of the men from Pirama attempted to dodge an attack and tripped over his own feet in his effort to move out of the way. “You’re putting them up for slaughter.” “They’re up for slaughter either way. This way they at least have a fighting chance.” Adelard pushed back from the fence, gripping onto a post. “And they’re not all so rough around the edges. Raj and Kelly are probably our finest examples of what this program could amount to.” That revelation caught Tristan off guard. He’d seen them fight—they hadn’t the skill or finesse of the Paladins, nor of Adelard or Donnelly, but their contributions on the battlefield had been most welcome. “They’re not Uriel?” “Just citizens of Pirama who want to fight for their home.” Adelard rested his chin against the fence post. “Can you imagine if every one of these men in here could fight like Raj and Kelly? Or even half of them? This city would be a different place.” “We’d be out of a job,” said Sam, crossing his arms over his chest. Adelard whirled around. “No, Sam. So long as there are demons, the people will always need a champion, someone to lead the defensive effort. What we’re offering them is self-defense. Freedom from the constant fear. To keep our knowledge and our skills to ourselves—” Adelard frowned distastefully. “That’s selfish and cruel.” “I think it’s brilliant,” Braeden said, his face flushed. “What you’re doing here, that is.” Tristan looked sharply at Braeden. The trainee was rarely so outspoken, and his color deepened under Tristan’s gaze.  “Why did you bring us here?” Tristan asked the Uriel. “Why are you showing us this?” A small smile touched the Uriel’s lips. “You don’t know much about us, do you, Paladin Lyons? Well, know this—we’re not fools, whatever you might think. We’re fully aware that whatever you’ve seen here today, you’ll report back to your High Commander. We not only expect it, we encourage it.” “Why?” asked Tristan. “Why would you want me to tell your enemy commander about your exact whereabouts?” “If you think the High Commander doesn’t already know we’re here, then more fool you. But he’s not our enemy commander, and he doesn’t have to be. Tell him what you’ve seen here, Paladin. Tell him that the Uriel and Paladins are not at counter-purposes.” “What makes you think I believe that?” Adelard stared at him hard. “You don’t, Paladin, not yet. But you will.”