The rush of battle had numbed Jobb from pain. But now, the adrenaline passed through his body, he began to feel. From the worst tears and wears on his leg and jaw, to the smallest scratches and bruises all over his body. He felt them all. They all came in a wave of pain that left him reeling on the hard rock ground. He was sweating hard, yet he felt cold. Very cold. His lips were pale and dry. His eyelids felt heavy, as if iron anchors were tied to them.
He tried to grit his teeth against the pain, but even the act of moving his teeth hurt with his dislocated jaw.
He wished he would pass out, fall into a pain-induced slumber, all so he wouldn't feel the pain, and wake up days later on a warm soft bed with all his injuries fixed up. But he was perfectly awake and sober. Every inch of pain he felt, and they won't stop.
Gaskin was beside him, pitchfork lying neglected on the ground, a piece of bundled cloth in his hand. His hand hovered near Jobb's mouth as he wondered how to put it inside without hurting his jaw. He even began to wonder if Jobb could even accidentally bite his tongue with the state of his jaw. Perhaps he didn't need the cloth.
The thunder of a horse's hooves approached. A horse came galloping towards them, ridden by two. At the reins was a guard, young looking, most of his face hidden by his visor. Riding double behind him was an old looking man, short and stocky in build. He almost seemed invisible behind the young guard.
The horse came to a stop and the riders dropped beside Jobb.
"The sappers were on their way," the young guard said. "But they couldn't race up the uneven terrain quick enough, burdened by the materials and what not. So I raced there and back again with Bruce here."
Bruce the Physician, a rare breed in Shepeste. He had pale white grizzly hair and equally pale white grizzly beard that buried his mouth from view. His bright blue eyes were narrow slits behind the thick, round glasses he wore. He had a hard, leathery face with deep lines like gorges in a canyon.
Bruce said nothing, asked nothing, and gestured nothing. He looked at Jobb as a merchant would appraise an item. His face was flat, without any hint of panic nor fear. Not even a bead of sweat rolled down his face. Even if his mouth was pressed into thin, distressed lines, his beard wouldn't allow him to show it.
He crouched beside Jobb. He reached Jobb's jaw and probed it here and there, eliciting a few squirms and cringes from Jobb.
Bruce nodded, more to himself than anyone, and held Jobb's jaw gently between his rough fingers and held Jobb's head with his other, firmly holding it in place.
"Sit still," he said flatly.
Before Jobb could even comprehend what he was about to do, let alone form a verbal question, Bruce punched Jobb right in the jaw.
A stinging pain shot up from Jobb's spine all the way to the top of his skull, so bad he felt his entire body jerk.
Colour flashed and flooded his vision until he saw and felt nothing else but that sting. He blinked and he blinked hard, but it won't go away.
He had heard the word 'stunned' thrown around. Fighters would say that to describe some pain. Jobb understood the concept, but he never understood it the way one who experienced it would. He understood now.
When the pain subsided, and it felt like it will never, he cried out, "Agh, damn you, Bruce!"
His fists were balled until his knuckles went white, and he was fully intent on wrapping them around Bruce's neck and choking the soul out of him. However, he paused when he realised what he had just spoken. Or rather, that he just spoke.
He grinned ear to ear as he rubbed at his jaw, half smiling and half wincing.
"I'll… be damned."
The mad man just punched it right back in its place. The pain wasn't gone. It lingered, like the echo of a voice in an enclosed dome that is his skull. But it was much better than before.
Gaskin was smiling ear to ear. He clapped Jobb by his broad shoulder. "That's old man Bruce for you. Not even those so-called certified city surgeons can best him! No sir, who needs them?"
Bruce barely acknowledged the praise, such a strange man that he is. He quickly moved on to Jobb's leg wound. He produced a water canteen from his satchel and began cleaning the wound from the dirt and the dried blood. Jobb winced as the cool water brushed his exposed skin. It stung, but also gave an oddly pleasant sensation.
But then came the alcohol. Bruce chewed and spat the stopper off the bottle, and the sickening smell of alcohol stung Jobb in the nose.
Now Jobb is thankful he worked with his jaw first, because now Gaskin gave him a cloth that he can bite into. A small respite to a damned situation.
Bruce wet a clean white cloth with the alcohol. He crouched low, close to Jobb's wound, cloth hovering ever closer towards Jobb's wound.
Jobb winced, and the world seemed to slow to a crawl as the alcohol came closer and closer to his exposed flesh and skin.
Then, just like that, Bruce pressed the cloth to his wound, and the sting of alcohol burnt Jobb.
But the worst was yet to come.
"Torch," said Bruce, and the young guard and Gaskin obeyed.
They held their torches high, making sure to not let their shadows get in the way as they peer closely at the process. The human nature of curiosity despite the gore. They just had to see it.
Bruce produced a sewing needle from his satchel. The small needle glinted softly in the dancing torchlight.
Jobb watched with wide-eyed dread. The small needle, barely the length of his thumb, and thinner than a fishing hook, seemed dreadful now. He had seen such needle plenty of times, and he never felt fear. But being on the receiving end of the needle changed everything. At that instant, it looked more terrifying than the Magebane's wyrmmetal spear.
Bruce held his leg, crouched eye level to the wound, and began sewing it together.
Pain filled Jobb's senses. He balled his fists until his knuckles went bone white. He gritted his teeth, digging them deep and hard into the cloth.
The needle pricked at Jobb for what felt like a thousand times. The pain came again and again, until he felt numb, until he's not sure just how many times he'd been pricked.
He was blinking hard when he couldn't feel the needle again. He thought he had died from the pain.
He looked down, and just realised Bruce was simply finished. Now he was working his bandage neatly around Jobb's leg.
Jobb groaned, letting the piece of cloth fall off his mouth. It was completely chewed out.
"Thank you, Bruce," he said, wheezing, as he finished the knot on the bandage.
Gaskin squeezed Jobb's shoulder, looking mighty relieved.
Bruce only nodded before sitting back. He turned, eyes searching, when he found a body at the centre lifted into a cart by another helped.
The sound of a cart rattling against the hard rock reached Jobb's ears. He turned, and saw people loading the dead onto the carts. They were the rescuers who tried to save Jobb, but here he breathed and there they died, eyes open, mouth frozen in a cry that was cut down.
Jobb stood up, gasping, wincing, needing help, and walked towards one dead man in particular.
Boyd.
The three followed him, standing beside him, watching the corpse of the young man.
Bruce knelt down and turned him over. The wound from the spear drove clean from his back right out of his stomach. His face was pale, sweaty, lifeless. His black hair was matted after it laid in a pool of his own blood, and his clothes were dirty and crusted with brown dried blood.
He beckoned a cart towards him and began lifting Boyd onto the cart. He closed a white cloth over his face, and that seemed to dispel a spell that entranced Jobb into quiet.
Jobb blinked hard and shook his head.
"Damn," muttered Gaskin.
"I told him to run. He did. Did as he was asked. A good kid. But the Magebane threw a spear at him. Right there. Yet he still stood up and got help. I would've died then and there, in that dark mansion, and the world wouldn't know."
"Died the right way, he did," Gaskin said.
Jobb nodded. "As right as he could've been."
Jobb's thick brows drew into a heavy frown. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he would've gritted his teeth hard if only his jaw wasn't hurting.
He turned and walked away from Boyd's body, struggling to, groaning and gasping all the way. Gaskin watched him with wide eyes and caught up to him.
"Where are you going?"
"That bastard that did that to Boyd is still out there."
"Yes, I'm clearly aware he's alive. But what are you thinking?"
"The battle's not over yet."
"Yeah but you're injured."
"I don't need to fight, Gaskin. I can still lead."
Jobb took a step forward, up the Old Hill, but pain instantly shot up his leg. He winced and would've fallen face first into the dead rock had the Gaskin not rushed to stop his fall.
"Lead an army of cripples you do!" said Gaskin.
The young guard came towards them, his horse in tow as he lead her by the reins. He gestured to Jobb to take it. "Here, it's fine! Take her!"
Jobb frowned. "But you need her."
"You need her more than I do. Now go! I don't know how many captain Horndall lost, but I think he's going to need every help he can get."
Jobb looked at the reins offered, pondering, then nodded.
"Alright, thank you."
They helped Jobb climb to the horse's back, all grunting at his big weight. Even Bruce had to step in and give a third pair of hands.
After plenty of pushing, Jobb finally sat on the saddle, sagging a little to the side, catching his breath. He breathed in deep and breathed out hard.
He turned to the three one last time. "Thank you. All of you. I'll see you again when this is all done."
"You better. We deserve a damn feast in your place after all of this."
"I can promise coming back," grinned Jobb. "But I can't promise that."
Jobb dug his heels to the horse's side and pulled the reins. The horse kicked off into a rapid gallop. Rider and horse thundered up the Old Hill, towards the darkness, towards the inescapable pit, towards Magebane.