3. Escapes, Battles, and Healers

Apologies for the delay- RL got in the way.

Note: This chapter has medical procedures, probably not for the squeamish. I do not claim to have any medical knowledge whatsoever.

March 14, 3019

Four days later, the day of March fourteenth dawned to the far-off sound of a great army marching towards the city. Tarannon sat in his cell in the traitor’s prison, the tramp of thousands of feet stamping on the ground causing the floor to shake slightly, even from miles away. He was shaking as well, but could not tell whether it was from terror or from his various injuries.

His bruises on his ribs from Castamir’s kicking were healing, but he was still sore and stiff. The cut on his head was painful; it burned whenever he moved his head too quickly. He was afraid that some filth from Castamir’s boot had gotten inside, despite his best efforts to clean it before it had closed. He knew that infection was unavoidable, if that was the case. He tried to tend it, but his efforts were rather unsuccessful. He had received no help from the jailor or Castamir, unsurprisingly. Both gave him venomous glares whenever they brought him food, and he simply stared blankly after the first day. He was entirely fed up with trying to garner sympathy from the jailor without use of speech.

His hand was the worst injury. It was constantly lanced through with white pain, whether he moved it or not. He tried to change the bandage regularly, but there was only so much cloth on his shirt that he was willing to waste, as he received no bandages from any of those guarding the prison. The burn still leaked a clear liquid, and the skin was a painful, fierce scarlet. There were nasty blisters all over his hand, some broken open, some filled with an awful greenish liquid. He felt weak and nauseous all the time, and he couldn’t tell if that was a side-effect of the burn or from the onset of infection in his head. He knew that his hand was probably infected, but there was not a lot he could do about it in his present condition.

Denethor should have given me a death sentence, he thought dully. It would have been quicker and less painless. Although perhaps this is my death sentence, he mused morbidly.

He stared out the window apathetically. People rushed by in the dirty alley, carrying children and various possessions as they evacuated the first level, and he could smell orc-stench and smoke on the wind. His doomsday had come, it seemed, and he lay down to sleep until the hour came.

Tarannon was violently jerked awake from his doze by a whistle and a terrible crash. He hauled himself over to the window and saw a great stone flying through the air, destroying a building nearby. People were screaming, and he could see many that were crushed by the debris and bricks. He felt sick as he looked at the scene before him and retreated from the window. He curled back up on his straw bed in the corner, waiting to die, whether by catapult projectiles or the orcs themselves.

He heard footsteps in the hall. He looked out to see Castamir, running as fast as he could towards the exit. Coward, he thought. A moment later, a great stone crashed through the prison. Tarannon covered his head with his arms and pressed himself as far back in the corner as he could. He heard cries from various points in the prison, and the stones thundered down all around. Soon the terrible noise was replaced by the gentle clattering of smaller stones settling, and he dared to open his eyes to see what had happened. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Hope beyond hope, a large hole had been knocked in the far wall from the debris! Could he escape?

Hardly daring to breathe, Tarannon got up and crept over to the hole, peering through to make sure nobody was there, and then climbed through clumsily. He now stood in open air- this entire half of the prison was destroyed, and the other half, the half his cell had been in, was somehow unscathed. He silently thanked whatever god had been watching over him at that moment and stumbled away, picking his way through the stones amid the groans and wails of the injured.

As he neared where the entrance had been, he saw a figure lying where the hall had run. He carefully made his way towards the body and stopped at the prone form. It was Castamir. By the look of it, he had been hit on the head by a piece of the ceiling. Tarannon reached towards his fallen enemy’s neck with his left hand, his fingers trembling as he felt for a pulse. Nothing. He was dead. Tarannon forced himself not to sigh in relief.

He turned Castamir’s body over and unbuckled the belt that held his sword and, through trial and error, managed to one-handedly buckle it around his own waist, then shifted it around so the scabbard rested on his right hip so he could draw the sword with his left hand. Leaving the corpse behind, he left the ruins of the jail , picking his way among the stones.

Tarannon decided that he needed to get as far away from the first circle as he could, as he would eventually need to use a sword if he stayed here, but still remain close enough to help. He looked up at the walls towering above him and saw the trebuchets flinging their own stones back at the enemy. Perhaps I could be of use there… He made his way slowly towards the second level, hoping that his luck would hold until he reached the gate.

By the time he arrived to the nearest trebuchet on the wall of the second level, he was dizzy and faint. He noticed that there were runners for the healers stationed nearby, ready to carry any wounded to the Houses of Healing. Wonderful, he thought wearily. If I collapse, then there will be somebody to pick up my body so I will not trip anyone. He wordlessly began to assist in any way he could, helping to set the trigger by pulling on the rope one-handedly with a group of other men and spotting good pieces of fallen stonemasonry to be loaded. After nearly an hour of this, he felt very nauseous and knew that he would pass out soon if he wasn’t careful. He retreated from the trebuchet to stay out of the way until he recovered, standing on the other side of the street.

“Look out!”

A heavy stone whizzed overhead and buried itself in the building above him. A shower of brick and rock fell about him. He felt a large block hit his head, right where the cut from Castamir’s boot was, and he fell to the ground. He felt a sharp pain as the cut opened up and began to ooze infection. A second brick crushed his left leg and he fell unconscious as the pain overtook him.

Algar had his work cut out for him as a healer’s runner. He had been to the Houses more times than he could count, bearing many wounded men. Now, as he stood in the second circle and beheld the damage from the latest projectile of the enemy, he knew that there were many more that would need to be tended. He ran towards the rubble and picked out the first man he saw. The man looked especially terrible; he had a broken leg and was ashen-faced, a wound on his head oozing a poisonous fluid. Algar grimaced. He needed help to lift this one- it was a fully grown man, and he was only a lad of fourteen.

“Alacar!” he called to his brother. “Alacar!”

His brother, two years younger than himself, hurried to help him. They both put an arm under the man’s knees and an arm behind his back and lifted, creating a chair for him. “Quickly,” Algar said to his brother, “this one does not look like he will last very long.” Alacar nodded in agreement. They quickened their pace.

Miriel had never seen such carnage in all her life. Men were being brought in to the Houses of Healing almost too fast for the staff to handle, even with the additional women who had stayed on to help. She had just finished wrapping a soldier’s ribs when two runners laid a man on an empty cot nearby.

“Some of the wall fell on him,” one boy called to her in explanation. She nodded.

Miriel checked the bandages once more before hastening over to the man on the cot. He looked terrible; one leg was broken, a foul-smelling mix of infection and blood leaked from his head, and his hand was covered with a strip of makeshift bandage. She gently probed the wounds to explore the extent of the damage and placed a hand on his forehead. He was burning up. It could be a side-effect of the infection in the head…

Miriel bit her lip as she thought for a moment. She was best trained in wounds obtained in battle. Infections weren’t her area. She needed help for this one. She looked about the room and spotted a more experienced healer who was nearly finished with his latest patient. “Girion!” she shouted over the din of other healers shouting orders and the roar of battle outside.

“What is it?” Girion asked as he approached the cot.

“This man has an infected head wound that was opened by a falling stone, I believe. I’d stitch it up, but I don’t know what to do with the infection.”

Girion looked at the man’s head carefully then nodded. “You set his leg and I will cleanse his head wound. Give him something to bite on; this will probably be painful. We have to be careful and make sure he does not go into shock.” Miriel nodded and gathered the supplies needed to splint the leg and disinfect the wound. When she returned, Girion had scrubbed his hands and was ready.

“Should we set his leg first or attend to the infection?” she asked.

“I think we should set the leg. The infection is not too bad- most of it has been drained due to the blow to the head. It does not look as though it was that bad to begin with. I don’t understand why he is running a fever so high.”

“Perhaps you should hold him down. I do not think I would be strong enough.” Miriel said. Girion nodded and positioned himself at the man’s shoulders. Miriel had carefully examined the wound before she had called Girion and had seen that it was a clean break. All that was required was a splint. She carefully rolled back the leg of his trousers and unbuckled the sword that was at his waist, leaning it against the wall.

“Ready?” Miriel asked. Girion pressed down on the man’s shoulders. Miriel took hold of the man’s foot and pulled in order to realign the bone. The man’s eyes fluttered open and he began to cry out incoherently. Girion slipped a roll of cloth in between the man’s teeth for him to bite on and held the man steady as he began to thrash in pain. There was a horrible grinding noise, and then the bone snapped into place. The man’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out. Miriel sighed.

“Thank you.”

“Make the splint for him. I’ll clean his head.”

Miriel began to fashion and set the splint in place as Girion bathed the man’s head wound in the disinfectant solution. “It is a blessing he is out for this,” Girion commented. “I think he was concussed when the stone hit him. We will have to look for brain damage later on, if he pulls through all right. I still do not understand why his fever is so high. This really is not that bad.” Girion began to probe the wound with a sterilized scalpel, searching for more pockets of infection. Finding none, he washed the man’s head clean and removed all traces of blood and infection, using gauze to soak up any of the malignant ooze. He placed the used gauze in a bowl to be burned later. Soon, he was satisfied that the wound was thoroughly cleaned and placed a cotton pad over the cut, wrapping the man’s head in a bandage.

Miriel finished binding the splint in place around the man’s leg and began to examine the rest of the man’s body for any further injuries. His right hand was loosely wrapped in a strip of cloth. She unwound the bandage and uncurled the fingers that covered the man’s hand and drew in a breath with a hiss. “Girion, come have a look at this.”

Girion finished wrapping the man’s hand and looked. An ugly burn was spread across the hand, forming a “T”. The hand was swollen, and the skin an ugly red. A few blisters were filled with a greenish fluid, and several were leaking pus. “He is a traitor. And,” he added, the healer in him taking over, “he is infected. That explains the fever.”

Miriel looked at him. “Will we get in trouble for tending to him?” She sounded worried and slightly scared. Girion sometimes forgot how young she was.

He frowned and gave the matter some thought. “No,” he said finally. “I do not think so. I do not recall anything in the law about denying medical treatment to a traitor who would die otherwise. It would be cruel to let him die from his wounds. Besides,” he added, “we have not had the chance to communicate with him, so we cannot get in trouble for that.”

Miriel studied the man’s face. “What do you think he did?”

“I don’t know. We must not tell anyone he is here, for the time being, and we should not notify the soldiers. I could not allow them to take a man who’s in this condition and throw him out, expecting him to leave Gondor on a broken leg and concussed head. Unless he commits some act of violence while under our keeping, I will ask the Warden to grant him amnesty for now, at least until he is well enough to leave the city. He will understand. I am sure.”

Miriel nodded gravely. “We’ll bind his hand so nobody can see for now. If anyone asks about him, we can say that he is a mute.”

“Good idea. But first, we must rid his hand of infection. If something is not done soon, we shall have to amputate.” Girion left the man to find clean gauze and a fresh scalpel, taking the bowl of infected gauze with him to burn it. Miriel set about examining the rest of the man’s injuries, carefully hiding his hand from the view of any other healers. There were bruises starting to form from being peppered by smaller stones, and two large bruises on his ribcage that appeared to be older; they were lighter, greeny-yellow, and beginning to fade.

In about five minutes, Girion returned with fresh gauze, bandages, a scalpel, and two bowls, one filled with a sharp-smelling disinfectant, the other empty and ready to receive soiled gauze. He set everything down and submerged the man’s hand in the solution. “It will take a little while for his hand to be properly soaked,” Girion said. “While I prepare for the surgery, secure a single room for him. One with a lock. We must not take chances. If you see the Warden, tell him about this.”

Miriel swept off down the rows of invalids and Healers tending to them. As she left the main ward, she stood aside for two boys bringing in a man with a long gash down his chest and then nearly crashed into the Warden, who was carrying a large tray of healing herbs and supplies. The Warden scowled at her and then passed by.

“Oh! I am sorry, sir,” Miriel gasped as she followed him. “I was sent to find you by Girion. We have a problem.” Miriel nearly had to run to keep up with the hurried pace of the Warden as he moved down the rows, stopping occasionally to replenish the stores at various stations.

“What is it?” The Warden didn’t look at her, hasty with the commotion of the Houses.

“Perhaps you had better see for yourself. Girion is just over there.” She could see that Girion had just begun the procedure to remove the infection.

The Warden thrust the tray at her. “Make yourself useful and keep going down the ward. I will talk to him in the meantime.” The Warden walked towards Girion briskly.

Miriel quickly emptied the Warden’s tray at each supply station and returned to the man’s cot. Girion and the Warden had just finished talking, and the man’s hand was neatly bandaged. The formerly empty basin now contained a small mountain of soiled gauze. Miriel wordlessly handed the tray back to the Warden, and he stood up.

“The room next to the storeroom has a lock on it, and it is furnished well enough to keep a man inside. You may use it.” He handed a key to Girion, who slipped it into a pocket in his tunic. “I suggest you check on this man hourly until he is in stable condition. We can notify the Guard when he is fully healed. I will also take this,” he said as he picked up the sword leaning against the wall, “and will put it in my office. We can’t have him having a weapon.” The Warden swept off with his tray and the sword.

Girion looked at Miriel. “I think he is stable enough to move.” Girion put one hand under the man’s knee, conscious of his broken leg, and one under the man’s arm. Miriel did the same and they lifted him up and bore him to the room next to the storeroom. The room was sparse: a cot was at one end, a small grate for a fire at the other, and a table for various medical supplies. They laid him upon the cot and covered him with the blanket that they found at the foot. Checking his wounds and his temperature once more, they left once they found his condition satisfactory, locking the door behind them.

“I will keep the key. He is less likely to try to make an escape with me than he is with you.” It was true; Girion was a strong, rather brawny man who didn’t look like someone to trifle with.

“But he is so weak right now. Let me take the key, and I will check on him hourly. Your skills are more needed now, during the battle.” Girion considered this, then agreed.

“We have wasted too much time. Here.” He handed her the key. “He is your responsibility for a few days. Not,” he said grimly, “that there is any hope that tomorrow will come.”