The Last Ring-bearer - Kirill Yeskov [31]
Haladdin was of two minds about those flowers. Just as every tulip was beautiful individually, so did the half-acre patches they formed seem unnatural and ominous. It must have been because their color exactly matched that of bright red arterial blood when in the sun, and crimson vein blood when in the shade, like right now. Serge and tulips; ash and blood. Perhaps he would have discerned different connotations at another time.
"About a mile and a half left." Tzerlag, walking in the lead, turned to his companions and nodded towards a bright patch of green oozing out of a large dale onto the yellow clay of the foothills. "What do you say, Baron – we stop for a break now or make one final push and then settle down decent-like?"
"Guys, enough coddling me already," the Gondorian answered somewhat irritably. He could already use his leg almost normally, although he still used crutches, and had even insisted on carrying part of the load. "I'll never get back into normal shape that way."
"All complaints to the doctor, please, I've no responsibility here. What does medicine recommend, eh?"
"Chew some cola, of course," Haladdin quipped.
"Aw, get lost!"
The joke was indeed of doubtful quality: none of them could recall the finale of their forced march to the ruins at the outpost without shuddering. Cola does not give a body new strength, it only mobilizes the reserves it already has. Such mobilization can occur spontaneously, when a man jumps a dozen yards to save his life, or pulls a half-ton stone out of the ground with his bare hands; cola allows one to perform such feats on demand, and then comes the payback: having exhausted his reserves in a critical minute, the person turns into jelly for a day and a half, both physically and mentally.
That was exactly what happened to them that morning, right after Haladdin managed to patch up Tangorn's thigh. The baron soon got the shakes, as the fever of his wound combined with opium withdrawal; he needed urgent help, but neither the doctor nor the scout could so much as move an eye, like beached jellyfish. Some ten hours later Tzerlag did manage to get up, but all he could do was give the wounded man the rest of the Elvish wine and cover him with all the cloaks they had; Haladdin came back to life too late to nip the baron's illness in the bud. He did manage to prevent overall sepsis, but the wound developed a large local inflammation; Tangorn ran a fever and became loudly delirious, which was the worst part – enemy soldiers used the back of the ruins as a latrine and were constantly coming and going, so much so that the sergeant began seriously considering putting him out of his misery before he gave them all away with his mutterings.
Praise the One that this did not become necessary – by the end of the second day the Elvish antiseptics had worked, Tangorn's fever went down and the wound started to close quickly. The adventure was far from over, though. It turned out that, unbeknownst to their officers, the mercenaries had put up a huge vat making araka – a local brew made from manna – in one of the adjoining ruined rooms and gathered there for a drink or three every nightfall. The companions mostly got used to the soldiers (just sit quietly as a mouse during the party in their well-isolated room), but Haladdin vividly pictured some overzealous corporal discovering the source of the 'water of life' and taking the pains to examine every room around: