Read Online Scriber by Ben S. Dobson - Free Book Online

had seen Bryndine and her company fight. A girl was dying from her wounds as we spoke; wounds taken saving our lives. She might have been dead already. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to punch Logan in his jowly red-cheeked face. But before I could, Bryndine intervened, begging Logan’s pardon and escorting me away to see her cousin. It was for the best—I would only have hurt my hand, and looked a fool. I am not skilled at violence.
    Uran Ord’s tent had already been erected by that time, a massive canvas structure that dominated the camp around it. Tent is almost too small a word to describe it—it was closer to a personal pavilion, probably large enough to fit the entire population of Waymark, if not comfortably. From a spire on the top, the banner of the Ord family—twin towers, gold on dark grey—flew proudly above the smaller brown flag of the King’s Army. I was not surprised by the ostentatious structure, impractical as it was. Uran Ord was the eldest son of Baron Uldon Ord of Highpass, and his family’s taste for opulence was no secret.
    A cleanly shaven brown-haired man of perhaps forty years stopped us as we approached the entryway to Ord’s tent. He wore a Lieutenant’s red cord on his shoulder.
    “Lady Bryndine, the High Commander is being attended by our medics. No one is to enter.” His expression was sour, and he pointedly avoided referring to Bryndine by rank.
    “This man is a Scriber, Lieutenant Ralsten, and better trained than any in my cousin’s ranks. Are you willing to take responsibility for the High Commander’s death when this man might have saved him?”
    I shifted uneasily—this was the second time Bryndine had mentioned my training. She had to know who I was; of course she did. Even if Tenille hadn’t told her of me, she had lived in Three Rivers most of her life, within walking distance of the Old Garden where the accident had happened. It had been foolish to hope that she did not know me. I resolved to confront her when I had finished with the High Commander, though the idea of broaching the subject myself went against every instinct I had.
    Lieutenant Ralsten scowled at Bryndine, but pulled the entry flap open. “He may enter. You will return to your company and await the High Commander’s judgement.”
    Whatever she had done to anger her cousin, it must have been serious. She saluted and left, making no attempt to defend herself. Curious, I watched her go, until Ralsten cleared his throat to regain my attention and ushered me into the large tent.
    The light inside was dim, emanating from a few oil lanterns set around the Commander’s cot, and the smell of sweat and vomit wafted through the air. Two Army Scribers hovered over the cot where Uran Ord lay, speaking in low, worried tones. They turned as I drew closer, and I gripped my collar, tilting my pin at them so it caught the light.
    “Thank the Mother and the Father, they found someone,” one of them—a tall bald man—whispered with relief. They stepped aside, allowing me a full view of the patient.
    As soon as I saw him, I knew that there was little I could do.
    His face was bruised and misshapen where he had been struck; the upper left side of his forehead dimpled inwards grotesquely beneath his thick black hair. Beside him was a bucket he had clearly been sick in more than once; the odor rising from it was foul. He was conscious, but his blue eyes were glassy and unfocused, and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. A spasm ran through him as I watched, his right arm and leg twitching violently for a moment before falling still.
    “We need to drain the blood from the skull,” the other Scriber, a heavyset man with dark hair, informed me. “But neither of us has the training.” He gestured helplessly.
    “You needed to do it half a day ago. From the look of him, I’m surprised he is not already dead.” Uran Ord would undoubtedly be an invalid for the rest of his life even if he survived; the pressure