At this midday time, the sun was at its zenith, and not a single breath of breeze disturbed the sleepy haze that enveloped the buildings and squares of Crimson Rock. The parade ground in front of the barracks of the black mercenaries was completely empty, and even from the nearby forge, the familiar sound of a hammer couldn’t be heard. There was dead silence, and there was not a single living soul around.
Kors turned impatiently to Nik.
“Can you not limp like that? You barely hobble behind, gods, don’t be so nervous!” He frowned in displeasure and annoyance.
“I’m somehow not at ease here…”
“Don’t talk nonsense!” Kors turned away, continuing to walk a little ahead of him, and Nik, trying to keep up, looked at his impeccable posture and firm gait, at how confidently Kors walked through the cobbled courtyard of the Fort, all in black and hung with a weapon that slightly tinkled on his belt when walking. Nik looked at his polished boots with a small square heel, which made the already tall Kors even taller. And at the way how a thick black and shiny ponytail length up to the waist lied on his proudly straightened back. Kors’ ponytail was straight and smooth, like silk, not at all the same as Nik’s, without torn strands sticking out in different directions and without the tip curling upwards, and the white strand of hair, so clearly visible on Kors’ forehead, was lost in this luxurious tail… Nik sighed involuntarily, and Kors, hearing this, turned around. He silently waited for his son to approach, and, taking him by the forearm slightly below the steel shield, squeezed him tightly, as he liked to do, and led him next to him. They approached the outbuilding. Climbing the porch, Kors knocked hard on the door with his fist, although there was a bell nearby. Doctor Cassiel very quickly jumped out to meet them, wiping his hands with a not quite clean towel. He began to bow and crumble in front of Kors in the greetings traditional for true blacks. With a satisfied smile on the corners of his lips, Kors nodded condescendingly and went inside, looking around the room. He saw the door ajar, and the room smelled strongly of medicines.
“Do you keep ill people here? Are they contagious?”
“No, no,” the doctor was frightened, “I dare to assure you of absolute safety.”
And at that moment from the half-open room came the prolonged and agonizing groan of a creature suffering unbearably from pain, and Kors changed in his face, ceasing to smirk smugly. The doctor rushed to the door, hastily closing it.
“What the hell is going on there?!”
“Nothing. Treatment. This is a hospital, sir Kors.”
“Is that Kamiel Varakh?”
No, no…”
“I want to see him!” And Kors, without waiting for permission, pushed the door open with his foot, entering a small room. There was a bed on which the man was lying, but it was immediately clear that this really was not Kamiel Varakh, because this man’s hair was red, bright, it was scattered on the pillow, casting blood red in the sun. There were also bloody spots on the white sheet that covered his body. Kors, clearly not expecting to see something like this, froze in some confusion.
“Sir Kamiel Varakh is in another room, I will take you to him,” the doctor said hastily, trying to go around Kors and enter. Kors interfered with him, blocking the doorway.
“Have mercy,” the red one whispered weakly with his lips. “Kill, I beg you…”
And the doctor, finally jumping into the room, stood between him and Kors, blocking the patient from his gaze.
“What an abomination,” Kors said barely.
“This is not what you thought… I just care… Sir Zagpeace Gesaria asked me to take care of his… mmm… ward, he got a little weak on the long journey…” Doctor Cassiel babbled.
“Ward?” Kors asked skeptically. “You mean this captive red? Call a spade a spade, doctor, I don’t like it when people start playing with me in conversation.”
“Y-yes…”
“I see, Peace is having fun.”
Kors turned his gaze to the metal table where the surgical instruments lay: scalpel, clamps. Everything was dirty and splattered with blood.
“And what organs have you already cut out of this unfortunate man?” Kors asked.
Doctor Cassiel stood before him with a pale face and was silent.
Kors chuckled.
“Don’t be so scared, it doesn’t bother me at all. I brought my… hmm… ward, and you will now take care of him. And Zagpeace’s ward will wait!”
And to the doctor’s relief, Kors turned and went out.
“Yes, yes, please come to my office,” Cassiel said somewhat belatedly and indistinctly.
Kors and Nik followed the doctor up to the second floor and entered his office.
Kors nodded to the chair.
“Nik, sit down.”
And he immediately sat down in the place indicated to him, clutching the belt on his waist with his fingers so as not to make involuntary movements.
“Your ward looks good,” said the doctor. He had already come to his senses a little after an unpleasant incident and looked at Nik, and he dropped his eyes and froze.
“I need medications for hepatitis, something else that restores, useful for an exhausted body,” said Kors in the peremptory tone of a man who understands everything and knows perfectly well what he needs. He slowly walked through Cassiel’s office, scrutinizingly examining the cabinets and shelves on which the medicines were placed.
“Of course, of course,” the doctor answered very quickly and obsequiously, “you are right, sir Kors. Unfortunately, because of the mixing of the blood of different races, half-bloods have many defects that require constant correction. I will find the best restorative medicines for you.”
Kors froze, but quickly collected his thoughts. If Cassiel allows himself such statements, then he doesn’t know that Nik is the son of Kors, and Zagpeace is still keeping that secret.
“And I also want to heal the scar on his face as much as possible,” Kors continued, calming down. “It is too early to introduce Nik to the rest of the blacks as my son, I must first put him in order, heal and educate,” he thought.
The doctor walked over to Nik, who was sitting on a chair, carefully examining him:
“The scar is almost healed,” he said. “There is no inflammation. Positive dynamics is already visible.”
“The weapon of this red was smeared with poison,” explained Kors, “I want to remove this poison.”
“We’ll find an effective antidote, sir Kors,” Cassiel replied confidently. “I think it’s Bothrops, the red ones often use the venom of this snake.” The doctor examined the crippled cheek, but didn’t touch Nik, seeing the initials of Kors on his face and knowing that one should not touch the thing of a noble black without permission. But still, trying to get a better look at the almost healed strip of scar on the lower jaw, he bent too much over Nik, making him flinch and recoil.
“Do you see, sir Kors? These stripes at the bottom, marks from the staples. There are visible dents and hole marks where the steel brackets were inserted,” Cassiel said.
“Yes.”
“On the basis of “Sama” there is a good remedy, it removes even old scars. But when the snake’s venom begins to leave his body, the scar may become inflamed again, be prepared for this and don’t put more braces, this method of unclean ones – to fasten the falling parts of the body with steel braces – is very rough and traumatic, it will only leave new scars.
“I understand,” Kors nodded, “and I won’t let him do that anymore. We are civilized enough not to resort to such wild methods of treatment.”
“Quite