Roland held back vomit, determined to be a decent soldier. Apparently Judah found the goblins even less appetizing than the gargoyles, for he had abandoned using his teeth altogether. Instead, he alternated using his sharp claws and razor-like tail to impale and discard the foul-smelling invaders.
If the smell wasn't bad enough, the carnage was certainly amply upsetting to turn all but the strongest of stomachs. Without the wind to mitigate the stench and the blizzard to impede his vision, it would be even worse. His medical training had ingrained in him a kind of fortitude for the gross, but not for the grotesque.
The Rhone with him fought valiantly, even as their spears became slick with the blood of the goblins. The creatures' sharpened teeth were horrible to look at, and Roland wondered if they were attempting to emulate the gargoyles in some way.
He cut down another using his sword, as his spear had been knocked from his hands a few moments earlier, and the creature fell into the snow, leaving a streak of gray across the white surface.
Their skin wasn't naturally that color? They must brush themselves with ash and dust to achieve the desired effect of blending into the ground where they lived.
A sharp pang across his back made him spin away from the source of the pain, bringing up his sword just as a second strike was coming down on his head.
The goblin screeched in anger at being thwarted, but its bloodthirsty eyes showed no sign of giving up easily. Roland continued his turn as if he'd never paused, grabbing his spear off the ground, leveraging his block into a slash across the goblin's legs.
The creature leapt easily over the weapon, but didn't brace for the kick which naturally arose out of the spin's continuation. The icy surface of the earth left the goblin unable to maintain its balance, and it fell to the ground, dying with outrage in its eyes and Roland's spear in its throat.
The man grimaced, stretching his back slightly. He couldn't tell the extent of the wound, but it definitely stung. The skirmish seemed to be coming to a close, with the twenty or so goblins that had emerged from the garden slain or gone.
He wasn't sure just how many had gotten loose into the rest of the city, but it was a few at least. Roland panted as he caught his breath in the blizzardy air. One Rhone lay seriously wounded on the ground, but the rest stood in various states of fighting-ready.
King Duncan must have sent some of the best troops to guard the triplets. Roland was thankful.
"Bring the injured man inside," He urged two of the soldiers. "The rest of you, stand watch. Pound on the door three times if a new threat comes. Judah, would you please look out for danger?"
The nearest infirmary was a few blocks away. It made little sense to carry him there when Roland's medical training would be equal to the care the man would receive elsewhere.
The kitchen table was commandeered for the treatment. The man was unconscious, so Roland had to take stock of the wounds himself.
Quickly, he stripped the man of his outer clothes, lifted his eyelids to check his pupils, listened to his breathing and heartbeat, and felt along the bones for major breaks. The heart rate was fast for someone who wasn't awake, and his breathing was oddly shallow.
Roland could find nothing major wrong with the man to cause such symptoms. There were no obvious sources of major blood loss or trauma. Some minor bruises were blooming on his arms under his armor, which made sense in a battle scenario.
Examining the man more closely, Roland discovered a scratch along the back of his thigh. It was not a large wound, but the area around it looked deathly pale and instead of blood, the cut oozed a thick green sludge.
Roland's eyebrows rose in alarm, and his eyes shot back up to the man's face. He remained unconscious, but his shallow breathing took on a new edge of urgency.
Poison. It must be. The goblins' blades must have some ill sort of magic or venom on them. Roland opened his medical kit, eyeing a knife. Was it too late to clean out the wound?
If his heart was beating so quickly, it meant the poison was already into his bloodstream. It was unlikely that even amputation would do much at this point. Roland took some clean cloth and water that must have been heated for tea on the stove.
Swabbing at the scratch to see if there would be blood beneath the ooze, he was quickly disappointed. The apprehension in his belly was growing quickly. The two guards who had carried the man inside had departed, leaving him momentarily alone.
He wished he'd thought to ask one of them to stay as an assistant, or had Phillip step in to help him. Roland knew, however, that his father-in-law had little stomach for this sort of thing.
"You need to stay alive," Roland said to the man. He tried to push his own wound to the back of his mind. That could be dealt with later, and more quickly if he learned from this man's trouble.
The unconscious man did not respond, and Roland pressed his hands around the scratch to try and clear away the pus.
His last meal maintained its position inside his stomach despite the disgusting sight. He heard a slight creak behind him.
"I'd rather you didn't come out just now. It's not a terribly pretty sight on your kitchen table." He said softly without looking up.
"Is it safe?" Finn's voice was quiet as she peeked through the slightly open pantry door. "I heard you speaking."
"Talking more to myself than to him," Roland continued his work, sparing a glance for the curtained window. It was quiet outside at the moment, and after fighting alongside the Rhone, he was confident of their ability to maintain the perimeter around the house for the moment.
"May I help?" She asked next.
"If you wish." He turned his head toward her. At the current moment he was between her eyes and the gruesome sight of the greenish, smelly fluid leaking from his patient. "I did warn you it is unpleasant."
A few footsteps later she was within view of the open wound. She gasped slightly, and turned away. He thought she might vomit, but she was putting more water on the stove.
"I have enough hot water for now," He assured her.
"I'm making tea. It's poison, isn't it? And likely you have no cure since it is of another world?" She tsked.
"Do you have enough?" He asked. The healing tea was rare, and precious. Finn had worked long and hard to scrape together more after the war two years ago.
The patient's shallow breathing was more labored now. Roland hoped it was merely the pain of having the wound prodded and not the end stages of the poison working in his system.
Their skirmish with the goblins had not been terribly long and drawn out. Several had immediately tried to flee towards the center of the city as the others attacked the house. Even if the man had been wounded right away, that would mean the poison was terribly fast–
Roland sucked in a breath as his own wound stung.
He frowned. He was imagining things. Just because this man's wound was infected with something odd certainly didn't mean that all the goblin blades were treated with some kind of poison. There was no evidence that Roland…
Finn gasped.
"You were wounded too, weren't you? Show me!" She demanded. His pained expression was apparently all too easy for her to read.
"I'm fine, for now," He assured her.
"For now? Let me see!" She said again, walking around him.
He felt her hand on his back and flinched.
"Shirt, off." Finn directed. He couldn't resist darting a glance at the pantry door. It seemed she had closed it, with Naomi, Gabe, and the babies still inside. He sighed and complied.
"You're very bossy considering the city is at war and I'm a prince," He teased in a strained voice.
"Hush," She said, helping him off with it. She examined the fabric to make sure the tear was clean and that no pieces were missing to be embedded in the wound. Some of his medical knowledge must have sunk in when he told her tales of his work.
He didn't mean to talk about things like that, but when they did come up in conversation he couldn't resist imparting his wisdom. It seemed she had been absorbing instead of merely tolerating his enthusiasm.
She bent over to examine what he had to assume was a fairly minor cut. After all, he didn't feel blood running down his back, nor did Finn react strongly as if something was horribly wrong.
"Hm." She said finally. "It looks… odd. Not quite as bad as your friend, but not good."
She moved back to the stove and fussed with the teapot as she got out a jar of herb mixture he recognized.
A pained scream broke the tense silence of the room as the Rhone soldier on the table began seizing uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth.