The general settled into the unadorned and rather uncomfortable bed at Fort Char with a wince. Blood still oozed from the stitches in his side after the confrontation with the witches earlier that day. He struggled to find sleep. The humid summer night lay thick upon his skin, making it almost difficult to breathe. It made him feel clammy and confined under the bandages wrapped around his torso.
Talmot had seen worse battles and taken more bitter losses in the past, but this one grated under his skin worse than the ill-made sutures holding his wound closed. One of the fort's healers had sewn him up almost haphazardly, and Talmot regretted not doing it himself in the end. It wouldn't have been the first time.
