Chapter 106: Weak Doctor (2)
Brant Ashwolf lay on a low bed covered with rough blankets. He had once been a large man. That much was clear from the width of his shoulders and the scars across his arms. But sickness had eaten much of him. His cheeks were hollow. His lips were dry. His breathing was uneven. Every few breaths, his chest tightened as if something inside him pulled a string.
An older camp healer sat near the bed, grinding herbs with a hopeless face.
Lysa ran to the bedside. "Father."
Brant opened his eyes slowly.
"Lysa," he said, voice rough. "You came back."
She knelt beside him and took his hand. "I brought a doctor."
Brant’s tired eyes moved toward Lucard. "Another one?"
Lucard walked closer. "Yes. But unlike the last ones, I will not pretend your herbs matter."
The old camp healer looked offended. "These herbs ease his coughing."
Lucard glanced at the bowl. "They ease your conscience."
The healer’s face turned red.
Brant gave a weak laugh, then immediately coughed.
Blood came up.
Lysa quickly held a cloth to his mouth. The cloth stained red.
Lucard watched the blood.
It was not ordinary blood sickness. The blood held tiny movements of mana, so thin that a normal healer would miss them. The mana did not belong to Brant. It was feeding on him from inside.
Lucard placed two fingers on Brant’s wrist.
Merrick stood near the tent entrance and watched.
Lucard let his blood sense move quietly through Brant’s pulse. He did not use enough power for anyone else to notice. He only listened. The heart was weak. The blood was being drained little by little. The lungs were damaged from repeated coughing, but they were not the source. The source was deeper, near the blood channels around the chest.
Something had nested inside.
It was small.
Alive.
Hungry.
Lucard almost smiled. Then he controlled himself.
Lysa leaned forward. "Can you help him?"
Lucard did not answer immediately. He checked Brant’s eyes, tongue, fingernails, and chest. He asked a few simple doctor-like questions. When did the coughing start? What cave? How deep? How many men entered? Did anyone else fall sick? Brant answered between breaths. Two men had entered with him. One died within a week. The other vanished after claiming he heard whispers in his sleep.
That confirmed it further.
Merrick interrupted. "Doctor, can you treat him or not?"
Lucard slowly looked at him. "He has two or three days left."
The tent went silent.
Lysa’s face turned white. "No."
Brant closed his eyes.
The old healer whispered, "I knew it was bad, but..."
Merrick’s reaction was the most interesting.
For one breath, he did not look sad.
He looked afraid.
Lucard caught it.
Merrick had expected Brant to die, but not after a doctor arrived saying the sickness had a name and could be seen. A dying leader was useful. A cured leader was a disaster.
Lysa grabbed Lucard’s sleeve. "You said two or three days. Can you cure him before that?"
Lucard pulled his sleeve free. "Yes."
Merrick’s eyes changed.
There.
The mask cracked.
Lysa did not see it because she was staring at her father. Brant did not see it because his eyes were closed. But Lucard saw it clearly. Merrick’s concern turned into calculation, then fear, then decision.
Lucard continued, "But I need privacy, boiled water, clean cloth, a sharp knife, a basin, and no interruptions."
Merrick stepped forward. "What kind of treatment is this?"
"One that works."
"I should remain. I am his student."
Lucard looked at Brant. "Does your student cough blood for you?"
Brant gave another weak laugh and coughed again.
Lysa stood. "Merrick, please. Let the doctor work."
Merrick looked at her face.
She was desperate. Not suspicious enough. Not yet.
He gave a slow nod. "Of course. I will arrange everything."
Lucard looked at him and knew Merrick would not arrange treatment.
He would arrange chains.
A short time later, Lucard left the tent with Lysa to collect some of the items himself. That was the excuse Merrick used. He sent two men to guide them toward a storage wagon near the rear of the camp. Lysa walked beside Lucard, still shaken by the diagnosis.
"Two or three days," she whispered. "You can really cure him?"
Lucard said, "Yes."
She looked at him. "Then why do I feel worse?"
"Because truth is heavier than hope."
Before she could answer, one of the men behind them drew a club.
Lucard heard the movement and did not turn.
The club struck his back.
He allowed his body to fall.
Lysa shouted, "What are you doing?"
The second man grabbed her arms from behind.
Lysa tried to fight, but her Rank One power was still sealed. She kicked one man in the shin, twisted hard, and nearly broke free. Then Merrick appeared from behind the storage wagon and struck her across the face with the back of his hand.
She fell to one knee, stunned.
"Merrick?" she whispered.
Merrick did not look gentle now.
He looked annoyed.
"You should not have brought another healer."
Lysa stared at him. "What are you saying?"
Merrick looked down at Lucard, who lay still on the ground in his old doctor disguise.
One of Merrick’s men bent and searched Lucard quickly. He found the herb bag, cloth, useless roots, and a small dull knife. No strong weapon. No noble crest. No obvious mana pressure. Lucard’s body felt weak under the blood-shape disguise, and his mana was hidden completely.
"He is just an old man," the mercenary said.
Merrick’s face relaxed a little.
"Good. Tie him. Tie her too."
Lysa’s eyes widened. "Merrick, have you gone mad?"
He crouched in front of her.
"No, Lysa. I have been sane longer than you."
She trembled. "You lied."
Merrick smiled softly, but there was no warmth in it. "I protected you from ugly truths."
"You said Jeff was innocent."
"Jeff was my brother."
"That is not an answer."
"It is enough."
Lysa’s eyes filled with tears again, but this time anger stood with them. "Did he try to sell Jake Vardros?"
Merrick’s smile faded.
That silence answered her.
Lysa whispered, "You knew."
Merrick stood. "Take them below."