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

on his brain had likely already done irreversible damage. But one could not simply refuse to treat the High Commander of the King’s Army.
    I knelt beside the cot. “Go to Captain Bryndine’s wagon and get the trephining drill from my chest. I’ll also need a sharp knife, and make sure they’re both sterilized by alcohol and fire.” I closed my eyes, trying to think what else I might need. It had been a long time since I had even practiced the procedure. “Something to cut his hair with. Bandages too, this will be messy. And light, I will need more light.”
    The two men scrambled to obey, clearly glad to have passed on the responsibility for the High Commander’s life. Warfare trained Scribers knew combat better than anything; these two had a medic’s training, which qualified them for quick patch-up work in the field, likely even amputating limbs. But in the area of head and brain injuries, the Academy was only just beginning to make strides—few had the experience to confidently treat such ailments. I was no expert myself, having only practiced on false skulls at the Academy.
    Even if I had been able to make the attempt earlier, it would likely not have been enough. From his apparent symptoms I suspected there was bleeding within the brain itself, not just the tissue surrounding it, and the severity of the wound suggested a serious skull fracture, which meant many small fragments would likely need removal. If either of those things was true, the surgery required was far beyond my abilities.
    A young page came into the tent carrying two more oil lanterns, and I directed him in their placement around the cot. Shortly after that, the medics returned with the tools I had asked for. At my direction, they sat Ord up in bed and cut his hair as closely as they were able with a pair of barber’s shears, cleaning the stray hairs away with a wet cloth and wrapping a bandage around his brow to catch the heavy blood flow that always came with a cut to the head. He remained docile throughout, staring ahead with clouded eyes, though several times he cried out to someone who was not there, and the spasms passing along the right side of his body were frequent and unpredictable.
    “Do not let him move,” I instructed as I gingerly set the knife against his bare scalp. Taking a shaky breath, I pushed the blade down, starting the incision.
    Ord let out a tiny whimper as I sliced into his scalp. His blood flowed copiously out over my hands, staining the bandage above his eyes a deep crimson. But he did not struggle—he was too far gone. For all I knew he was reacting to some vision only he could see rather than the knife cutting into his head. Even a fully successful surgery would not return his mind to him, I suspected, but even so I forged ahead. It was the only thing I could do: he was the King’s nephew. If he died while I was in the tent, the consequences would not be pleasant for me.
    I peeled back the skin of his scalp along the incision, revealing the skull. The fracture where he had been struck was immediately obvious; the bone was cracked and depressed inwards, pressing in on the brain. Had I been more skilled, I would have attempted to lift the shards out of the depression, but I did not trust myself to do such delicate work. If I could make the trephination without complications, there was a chance it would relieve the pressure long enough to get Uran to the Academy for further surgery; anything beyond that was outside the limits of my ability.
    Trembling hands forced me to stop, and my stomach heaved, but I mastered my nerves and took the trephining drill in my hand. There was resistance as I began to turn the drill, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to penetrate the bone, but then the teeth engaged and slowly began to bore through.
    By the time I penetrated the skull and the layer of soft tissue beneath, my arm ached badly, and sweat beaded on my brow. Blood spurted around the drill bit, spattering my shirt and