Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(49)

They got Max into the tub, still in his armor. The water covered him up to his chin, with his head resting on a supporting incline. Muttering darkly to himself, Foss reached in and adjusted the incline, lowering it until the water covered all of Max but his lips, nose, and eyes. Then he knelt behind Max and thrust his hands into the water, closing his eyes.

"Give him room to work, recruits," Captain Cyril said in a quiet voice. He pointed at the opposite corner of the tent, and the bloodstained young men hastened to obey him.

Tavi bit his lip, staring at his friend. Max's skin looked strange-waxy and colorless. He couldn't see if Max still drew breath.

"Healer," Cyril murmured a moment later.

"Give me some quiet here," growled Foss, his rumbling basso threatening. After a good half a minute, he added, "Sir." He went on muttering to himself under his breath, mostly colorful vulgarities from what Tavi could hear. Then Foss drew in a breath and held it.

"He's been hurt before," Tavi said to the captain. "Do you think he'll be all right?"

Cyril never took his eyes from Max. "It's bad," he said shortly.

"I saw him run through. That should have killed him. But he was up and walking inside four hours."

Cyril's gaze moved to Tavi, his expression remote, hard, though his voice remained very quiet. "Your babbling might distract Foss. If you want to help your friend, put your bloody teeth together and keep them that way. Or get out."

Tavi's cheeks flushed with warmth, and he nodded, closing his jaws with an audible click. It was a physical effort to stop talking. Max was his friend, and Tavi felt terrified. He did not want to lose him. His instincts screamed at him to shout, to order the healer to work faster, to do something. But he knew that he couldn't.

Tavi hated the helpless feeling that knowledge sent through him. He'd had a lifetime to get familiar with it, when his lack of furycrafting continually put him at a disadvantage in virtually every facet of his life. He would have given anything to have a healer's skill at watercrafting, to be able to help his friend.

The captain was right. The best thing he could do for Max was to shut his mouth and wait.

There wasn't a sound for nearly two minutes, and every second of it felt like a week.

Then Foss exhaled a low, agonized groan, bearish body sagging forward over Max.

Max suddenly jerked and drew in a ragged, choking breath.

Foss grunted, still sagging, and his rumbling voice sounded unsteady. "Got him, Cap," he said after a moment. "It was real close."

Tavi heard Cyril exhale slowly himself, though he kept his face from any expression. "I thought Lady Antillus was here today," he said. "How is it that she was not here to care for Maximus?"

Foss shook his head and slowly sat up again, drawing his arms from the bloodied water to sit down immediately on the canvas floor. "Lunch with her son, she said."

"Ah, yes. Family lunch," Cyril said. "How is he?"

"Bad, Cap. He's tougher'n a gargant leather boot, but he bled out more than I've ever seen a man survive."

"Will he recover?"

Foss shook his head again. "Wound is closed. He's breathin'. But losing that much blood can do bad things to a man's head. Maybe he wakes up. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he wakes up, and he ain't himself no more. Or can't walk. Or he wakes up simple."

"Is there anything we might do to help him?"

Foss shrugged and from his sitting position fell wearily onto his back, rubbing at his forehead with one blunt-fingered hand. "Don't know that he needs anything but time. But I'm just an old Legion healer. Maybe the High Lady knows better than me, or can see more than I can about him."