Chapter 105: Weak Doctor
Lysa led Lucard out of Gravehold before the city had fully awakened.
The eastern road was still gray under morning mist. Farmers were only beginning to move toward the fields. A few carts rolled slowly over the hard ground, and sleepy guards at the small road posts barely looked at the old doctor and the mercenary girl walking together. Lysa kept her hood low and her steps quick. She did not speak much at first.
Lucard walked beside her with the old medicine bag hanging from one shoulder.
His white hair and uneven white beard made him look like a tired traveling doctor. His back remained slightly bent. His eyes looked duller than usual. Even his breathing had changed. It was slower, weaker, and more human. If Peter had seen him from far away, even he might need a second look before recognizing the young master under the old face.
Lysa looked at him several times during the first hour.
Each time, Lucard noticed.
At last, he said, "If you keep looking, someone will notice."
Lysa quickly looked forward. "I am checking if the spell is still working."
"It is."
"You do not look like yourself."
"That is the point."
"You still sound like yourself."
Lucard glanced at her. "Then do not make me speak."
Lysa pressed her lips together and continued walking.
The road slowly left the city’s influence. Gravehold’s walls disappeared behind trees and low hills. The land became rougher. Old stone markers appeared along the roadside, some broken, some covered in moss. The Ash Wolf camp was not on the main road. Lysa took him through a side path used by hunters and mercenaries. The ground there was uneven, and dry branches scratched against their cloaks as they moved.
By noon, the broken watchtower came into view.
The Ash Wolf Mercenary Company had made camp around it. Smoke rose from cooking fires. Horses stood tied near the inner circle. Armed men moved between tents. Some were cleaning weapons. Some were sleeping under shade. Some were gambling with small coins near a wagon wheel. At a glance, the camp looked normal, but Lucard saw the small signs of sickness in its command.
The guards were not standing evenly.
The men watched each other too much.
The largest tent had too few loyal-looking fighters near it and too many men waiting near the second largest tent. That meant the real leader was weak, and another center of power had formed.
Merrick had already begun taking the camp.
Lysa stopped before they reached the outer guard line.
"Remember," she whispered. "You are Doctor Rowan."
Lucard looked at her. "That is a bad name."
"It is the name I chose on the road."
"Then choose less next time."
She glared at him, then quickly adjusted her face as two guards approached.
One guard looked at Lysa with surprise. "Lady Lysa. You returned already."
"Yes," she said. "I found a blood doctor in Gravehold."
The guard looked at Lucard.
Lucard lowered his head slightly and coughed once into his sleeve. He made the cough sound dry and annoyed.
"A patient who coughs blood should not be left waiting because guards enjoy staring," he said in an old, rough voice.
The guard frowned at his tone but did not stop him.
Lysa quickly said, "He is rude, but he has treated blood sickness before."
The second guard scratched his beard. "Merrick said no more strange healers."
Lysa’s expression hardened. "My father is still the leader of Ash Wolf."
The guard lowered his eyes. "Yes, Lady Lysa."
Lucard watched the exchange in silence.
The guard had not said Brant Ashwolf. He had said Merrick. That meant Merrick’s words were already being treated like orders.
This was useful information. It means Merrick had taken over the group.
They entered the camp.
Several mercenaries noticed Lysa and came closer. Some greeted her with relief. Some looked toward Merrick’s tent before speaking. That told Lucard which men still belonged to Brant and which had begun bending toward Merrick. He did not need names yet. Faces were enough. People always showed allegiance with their eyes before they showed it with swords.
Lysa led him toward the largest tent.
Before they reached it, a young man came out of the second largest tent.
Merrick.
Lucard recognized him without needing an introduction. He had the soft handsome face of a man who liked being believed. His clothes were better than the other mercenaries’. His sword was polished. His hair was neat. His eyes went to Lysa first with concern, then to Lucard with suspicion, then back to Lysa with warm worry placed over cold calculation.
"Lysa," Merrick said, walking quickly toward her. "Where were you? I was worried."
Lysa’s face stiffened for a small moment.
Lucard noticed.
Yesterday, she might have run into his arms. Now doubt slowed her by one breath.
"I went to Gravehold," she said. "I found a doctor."
Merrick looked at Lucard.
"A doctor?"
Lucard gave him a bored look through the disguise. "That is what she said."
Merrick’s smile became slightly tight. "Forgive me, old sir. We have seen many healers lately. None helped."
"Then you hired bad ones. Don’t compare me with them."
A few nearby mercenaries looked surprised.
Merrick’s eyes sharpened, but he kept his polite smile. "My master is very ill. We cannot let just anyone touch him."
Lucard shifted the medicine bag on his shoulder. "Then let him die politely."
Lysa quickly stepped in. "Merrick, enough. He came all the way from the city. Let him see Father."
Merrick looked at her.
His voice softened. "Of course. If you think he can help, I will not stop you."
Lucard heard the lie.
Merrick would not stop her in front of the camp.
Not yet.
They entered Brant Ashwolf’s tent.
The smell struck first.
Blood, sweat, old herbs, damp cloth, and something deeper. Something faintly sweet and rotten under the surface. Lucard’s eyes narrowed behind the old face, but he hid the reaction.