Ambrose
Army Camp, Northern Pitoria

The infirmary was cool in the morning light. The dawn chorus of groans, coughs, and snores had given way  to quiet talk peppered with curses and weak cries for help. Ambrose lay on his side in his rickety camp bed looking  to the door, willing the next person to enter to be Catherine. She would smile at him as she approached, walking quickly, leaving her maids well behind, as she used to do when  she saw him in the stable yard at Brigant Castle. She’d  take his hand, and he’d bend and kiss hers. He’d touch her skin with his lips, breathe on her skin, and breathe in her smell.

The man behind Ambrose coughed wheezily, then spat.

Ambrose had been here a week, sure at first that Catherine would visit him, now not so sure. He’d filled each day with thoughts of her, remembering the days he’d spent with her, from the early days in Brigant, when he rode with her along the beach, to the glorious days in Donnafon, where he’d held her in his arms, caressed her smooth skin, kissed her hand, her fingers, her lips.
A cry of pain came from a man at the far end of the room.

What are you thinking? Catherine shouldn’t come here. The place was full of misery and disease. He had to get out and go to her. But for that, he’d have to walk. He’d been injured in the shoulder and leg in the battle of Hawks Field. He’d seen soldiers heal from worse injuries than his, and he’d seen men give up and die from less serious wounds. There had been a moment, after the battle, when he thought he couldn’t go on, but that feeling of despair had left him, and he knew now he would never give up. He’d fight on for himself and for Catherine.

Ambrose sat up in his bed and began his exercises, slowly bending and straightening his right arm as the doctor had instructed. He moved on to the next exercise: rotating his  bandaged shoulder. This was more painful, and he had to do it slowly.

The battle of Hawks Field was won, but the war was far from over. And as for Ambrose’s part in the battle . . . well, he’d tried to save Catherine, but killing Lang was all he had managed. He’d wanted to fight Boris, but the Brigantines had overpowered Ambrose, and it was Catherine, fueled by demon smoke, who had sent a spear into Boris’s chest. She’d saved Ambrose and killed her own brother. How must it feel? To kill your own brother? It was impossible for Ambrose to imagine; his own brother, Tarquin, had been the complete opposite of Boris. Though now they were both dead. And Ambrose had no idea how Catherine felt about anything. Why hadn’t she come? Was she herself ill? So many questions and no answers at all.

“Shits!” He cried out at a sharp pain as he swung his arm too fast.

He had to get out of this bed. He had to get out of this infirmary! The place was miserable. Every bed had a man in it, but few were casualties from the fighting; most had the fever that had swept through the camp. The red fever, they called it, for the color your face turned as you coughed up your guts. Several more had died in the night, their beds lying empty, though Ambrose knew it would only be a short time before another shivering body was laid in the grubby sheets. It was a miracle he hadn’t caught the fever already.

Ambrose swiveled round until both feet were planted firmly on the floor. With the help of a chair back, he could just stand, wincing and wobbling slightly as he put more weight on his left leg. It was weak, but the pain was bearable; he could walk out of here if he tried. The doctors had removed the arrow from his calf and had sewn him up neatly. Most doctors would have amputated for such an injury, but the doctors had operated carefully, given him herbal treatments, liquors, and compresses.

Ambrose had the best doctors—sent by Tzsayn.

He had the best medicine—sent by Tzsayn.

The best food—sent by Tzsayn.

The best clothes and bedding and . . . everything.

Everything except any word from or about Catherine.