I'm A Doctor, Not A Mercenary, Open to any Iscariots

[Galahad Llewelyn]

”Are you fairing well, sir?” Galahad asked the man slumped over on the horse next to him. The concern was clear in his voice and his trained eyes could see that pain etched the man’s features. To see his charge in such a state brought the young man no small amount of sorrow, even more so at the knowledge that Galahad was powerless to stop it. He’d done what he could already for the wounded man, placed bandages on his open wounds, put a splinter on his broken arm and given him herbs to dull the pain. The man had several internal injuries that Galahad didn’t have the opportunity to do anything about. If he had possessed the tools of his trade that he had had available at the monastery, this man’s ailments would’ve been dealt with, but he didn’t have those resources available to him at the moment so the option was not one Galahad could pick.

The man gave a grunt in response, which Galahad imagined he’d heard a ‘fine’ in the rather unintelligible sound. The soldier, as Galahad had judged him to be, struck him as the sort of person to ignore any pain if it was clear that no help could be given to lighten it. Each step the horse took the man winced in pain, but if Galahad was to get the man to his camp quick enough to deal with his situation the horse was the only transport available. The former monk shifted uneasily in his saddle, edgy from the past encounter with the highwaymen and wondering if they had caught onto his fake threat. He held no understanding as to how those men worked, which was why he remained wary. The part of him that believed in the good of humanity couldn’t believe the highwaymen’s actions, which caused him no small amount of mental struggle.

As of yet, he’d fended off the troublesome thoughts by worrying about his current charge. He was following the instructions the soldier had given him, which would, if the soldier was correct, lead him to the main camp of the so called Iscariot Legion. He’d described that the camp would be next to a burned out monastery, the thought itself, combined with the name of the mercenary company, brought Galahad no small amount of worry. He wondered if it would be wise of him to approach the camp at all. While he tended to think of the good in those around him, he was currently well aware of the dangerous places he was walking around in.

Percival, his trusted rouncey, gave a snort, and Galahad turned his attention away from the man on the horse next to him and instead set his eyes on the road ahead. Noting that there was a stone building of some kind coming up ahead, he gave a small worried gulp, clasping his hands together and looking up towards the heavens as he sent a small prayer to the Lord. Then he returned his hands to the reins and sat stiffly on the horse as Percival’s hooves ate up the ground between Galahad and the camp.

When he arrived, he was hailed by a guard, and he, somehow, managed to stutter out his reasons for being there. “Pardon, I have a wounded man here, he...” A slight pause. “Says he’s a member of your company?” His thoughts settled on the state of the man, and the duty Galahad had towards making sure he would be healed. “I’ve dealt with his wounds as well as I could, but I fear I don’t have the sufficient equipment to deal with everything he’s suffering from.” He fell into silence, regarding the man with slight wide eyes, but trying his damned best to not show anxiety.

[Fahd al Badr]

Ace didn't tend to spend a whole lot of time around the main camp unless he was eating or sleeping. It was not because he didn't like his fellow soldiers, but simply because he had no idea how to talk to them half the time, and it was simply more comfortable for everyone involved if he spend as little time in the camp as possible. So in his spare time between working with Skyree or Alimah, he scouted the surrounding area, just in case.

The group was in a sad state of affairs considering where they had been in the past, less than a dozen members left and several of them still wounded from the fight. A vast majority of the company, wiped out in a matter of hours. Though Ace did not talk to his fellow Iscariots very often, he still knew them very well, as they did he, and the thought of their loss still brought up a pang of pain in his heart.

But at least the Commander was still here, and as long as he was here, Ace knew that they'd be alright. They'd recruit, and grow strong again. Until then, they were here to lick their wounds in the shattered shell of the old monastery, and wait for any who had been separated to regroup.

The Turk had caught and field stripped five rabbits, fat on the early spring grasses and too young to know any better, two of them caught by Skyree, though it took considerable cajoling to persuade the Harrier to let go of her prizes after that, but Ace doubted the men would be too disgusted to eat a slightly mangled bit of rabbit.

And that was when he spotted them, two horses coming along the path, from his vantage point in a nearby tree. They didn't look like brigands or bandits, or threats, though he couldn't see them too clearly from this point, so he didn't feel the need to put arrows in their throats where they were walking. One of them rode like a man clearly and recently injured, which raised some alarms, but no need to be hasty.

Ace followed them for some distance, two miles at most, confident in that he would not be seen. He was far too used to the woods now, though different from the forests of his childhood, to worry too much about being spotted by these two, considering they had worse problems on their hands at this point.

He'd better go warn Commander, he'd want to see this.

Ace ran ahead through the game trails that the deer followed, barely leaving a trace of his presence that could be mistaken for human instead of deer, rabbits hanging from his belt and soft fir brushing his armor. He slid into the camp past the sentries, not because the sentries were bad, in fact they took their job quite seriously, but the lack of men had left big gaps in their guard, and Ace was quite skilled at avoiding guards. He slipped into the camp like a shadow, as the man that had been deemed the cook toiled over a cauldron of stew and frowned into it, not enough meat.

Ace carefully laid the rabbits on a tree stump behind the make do chef, slipping out just as quickly before he could be seen. The man turned and spotted the rabbits on the stump, which might have disturbed some people, but most of them were used to Ace's coming and going. The dark man with disturbed eyes made his way to the middle of the camp, headquarters, where the Commander was standing and looking pensively at something.

A scream from above was the only warning that Ace got as he lifted up his hawk gauntleted hand and a feathery missile plummeted from the sky, landing with outstretched wings on his arm and letting out a sound, feathers ruffling and then settling. Ace set his hands on Shaft's back, only to turn his eyes away if the man happened to turn around.

"There are two riders, coming from the east, where Thurgold went. One is injured." He murmured quietly, turning his head to stare at the top of Skyree's head, gently stroking her breast feathers.

[Theodore Wellington]

Theodore could say in all honesty he’d never expected he would come back here – or had ever wanted to. Unlike others, he was not one to shy away from the unpleasant reality of his memories but he did not see the necessity of wallowing in them either. The fact remained however, that the old monastery was the most easily defendable location in the country and that it doubled up as a luscious hunting ground. Ever pragmatic, Shafts had tossed aside his discomfort at the idea and chosen what was the best for the Iscariots, returning to his home of almost a decade.

No matter how many golden days were tied to this place, he knew he would never love it – a blade, if it could remember, might be grateful to the forge fire but it would never be fond of it.

Chasing the morbid thought out of his head, Theodore let his iron-coloured eyes sweep over the company. That disastrous skirmish near Cracovia had been the harshest blow the Iscariots had been dealt since he’d founded the Legion. Bloody worthless Poles, he cursed silently, not even bothered to defend their own land. The imbecile noble who’d commanded the forces had clearly been slapped around by the Empire too much if he’d though one pathetic line of pike would be enough to stop a Tatar charge. A few arrows to thin the ranks and the barbaric horseman had torn through the footmen, leaving them with a direct path to the Iscariots. The battle might not even have been lost, he though with disgust, if the other flank had not panicked and routed at the sight of their fleeing comrades. While his men has scarred the pretty faces of every European army, even they could not handle two hundred horse archers and the foot that went along with it. The Iscariots had retreated in good order, bleeding the Tatars dry as they sought the cover of nearby trees – the barbarians had eventually just ceased the pursuit, deeming that finishing off the few soldiers left would not be worth the price they’d pay for it.

And now they were back to England, trying to fill up the ranks – Shafts allowed himself a rare grimace: he wasn’t looking forward to having to bring up to shape a gaggle of wet-behind-the-ears archers who thought they knew all about war. The soft sound of someone creeping up on him brought him back to reality sharply, his hand slipping towards the wicked, curved dagger at his hip. He relaxed almost immediately when remembering he wasn’t on the battlefield and that he knew of only one person capable of passing under the sentry’s watchful stare so easily – Ace had something to tell him, apparently. The solitary man never spoke unless it was important, no doubt a result of his truly spectacular awkwardness, so it likely meant something was going wrong. Good surprises didn’t happen out of fiction books, in Theodore’s experience.

"There are two riders, coming from the east, where Thurgold went. One is injured."

Shafts didn’t even think to question the information or what Ace had been doing scouting – the Turk had his flaws, like the rest of them, but the veteran firmly believed his subordinate was the best scout in Europe. The man’s silent foot and quick eyes had never failed the leader of the Iscariots, and after all those years he’d come to rely on Ace more than anyone else in the company. The scout would never be a leader or a social butterfly, certainly, but that was not what Theodore required of him. The mention of Thurgold nonetheless caught his attention immediately – the Englishman had been sent to the nearest village to negotiate for food and supplies two days ago, having yet to give any news. The iron-eyed veteran refrained from turning or addressing Ace directly, knowing it would only make his subordinate uncomfortable.

“Skyree, tell him to get his bow and lie in ambush – I will go greet our ‘visitor’,” the dark-haired Commander spoke grimly.

Waiting for the soft fluttering sound that signalled Ace’s departure, the longbowman casually started down the path to the monastery’s entrance, taking an arrow from his pack and half-knocking it as he did so. Passing next to the fire his men had started earlier, he barked a few orders and they quickly gathered their own weapons, taking defensive positions. It was unlikely they were brigands if there were only two, but taking risks when he was this low on effectives was a very stupid thing to do. Before a minute was done, the men had scattered in the battlements and Theodore arrived next to the sentry, crouching down just out of sight. After a few minute’s wait, he saw his man stiffen and hail someone he couldn’t see from his cover.

“Pardon, I have a wounded man here, he... Says he’s a member of your company? I’ve dealt with his wounds as well as I could, but I fear I don’t have the sufficient equipment to deal with everything he’s suffering from.”

Leaving his cover, the veteran appeared to face the newcomer, telling his men to stand down with a simple hand gesture. He took in the sight of the wounded man - it was Thurgold, damn this string of bad luck and damn the bloody, thrice-cursed Poles – and accorded an assessing glance at the one who’d brought him. There was something fishy about the situation, he could already feel it.

“Dominic, take Thurgold to the beddings - we don’t want to worsen his wounds,” he ordered, his voice cold but slightly concerned.

The sentry scrambled towards the horse, taking the reins while staying carefully wide of the intruder. Theodore looked at the intruding young man one last time, before curtly speaking.

“My thanks, traveller. Come, tell me exactly what happened,” it was phrased as a suggestion, but from the fact that Shaft’s arrow was still half-knocked, it was more of an order.

[Galahad Llewelyn]

Galahad would’ve had to be blind to not notice the prickly response his arrival wrought. Those around him were openly hostile, arrows pointed at him, and he stiffly held his reins, knowing that, despite how much he wanted to, praying to the Lord would not release him from this difficulty. He’d have to rely on his own wits if he wanted to avoid bristling with arrows like a deer sorely outnumbered by hunters. Despite his noble intentions, he didn’t exactly want to end up being the newest pin cushion in the collection of the mercenary company he now was facing.

A few tense moments passed, but then a man came out from cover and made a hand gesture. Galahad noted that they all stood down, but still remained wary. He could tell by their faces that they had not had Fortune smile upon them in a long time; their eyes revealed what their pride wouldn’t let them admit out loud. He was perhaps a simple man grown up in a monastic order, but he was experienced with the emotions of others as well as his own. Galahad was aware that their hostile reaction to his arrival was warranted, even if he’d prefer that it wasn’t present. The arrows made his skin crawl uncomfortable and made him feel like a rabbit being hunted. He was no coward by any means, but he knew when he was sorely outnumbered. He wished no harm to these men, but he needed to convince them.

“... we don’t want to worsen his wounds,”

With a great exercise of will, Galahad hindered himself from moving to follow the wounded man. The great strength it took to do this was visible for all to see, as his face contorted into something akin to pain as the man was led off by the other man. He had come across the man, it was his duty to make sure the man made it through and was healed properly. He didn’t know what sort of medical expertise these men had or if they even had a properly educated doctor, which he doubted as such learnt individuals did not make time for ragged mercenaries normally, but he was certain that his knowledge was greater and had full confidence that in his hands the man would return to perfect health.

He was sure the mercenaries didn’t think likewise.

Noting the look the man gave him and being aware of the bow the man held as well as the arrow, ready to fly when its holder wanted it to. At that moment, he seemed to remember himself, shocked and appalled at his lack of manner he swiftly dismounted, but didn’t make any other motions, holding the reins of his horse carefully and keeping his wide, curious, and faintly fearful eyes on the man.

“Come, tell me exactly what happened,”

“Of course, Sir,” he responded, giving a faint bow of his head and his hands came to clasp in front of him, reins still in hand. A manner of holding himself that he’d developed over the years in the monastery. Humble facing this noble man, respectful and he managed to regain some of his calm as he glanced anew at his training in the monastery. His tone turned urgent. “I will tell you everything I know, but please, sir! Your comrade is suffering from several broken bones, fractured ribs that might puncture his lungs if your men aren’t careful. He is in shock after a blow to the head and I need to examine him more closely to find out if he suffers from anything else.” The words rushed out of his mouth, seemingly tripping over each other as he enlightened the man of the soldier’s situation. The words were driven by a burst of courage and his dedications towards any patients he undertook.

“I fear the ride over here might have jostled him more than I would’ve wished, but I had no choice if I wanted to fetch aid quickly. I feel it is my duty to make sure he recovers.” His eyes flashed back and forth, his hands rising slightly as he offered a silent prayer to the Lord. “Er, only if you would allow me, of course.” His eyes came to meet the older man’s eyes directly, uncertainty flashing in his face, but devoid of fear.

[Fahd al Badr]

Commander was surprisingly expressive once one knew him fairly well, and Ace could see the interest of Thurgold's hopefully notfatal return had on his leader, as he came to attention right away. Ace couldn't blame him, the return of one of their members, even injured, was more than enough good news for them, better than they had been lately. Having been reduced this much, they needed every member of the old guard that they could to help train the new recruits. Inwardly, Ace cringed at the thought of newbies, especially if any of them wanted to be scouts with the company. The scout that had usually taught the new ones, sweet faced Norberto, had fallen in the recent battle, and it would inevitably fall to Ace to teach the new ones. As good a scout as he was, anyone could die, including him.

“Skyree, tell him to get his bow and lie in ambush – I will go greet our ‘visitor’,”

Another reason that Ace stayed with the Iscariots was that the Commander knew exactly how do deal with one such as him, and didn't seem at all against using the rather round about way to communicate with Ace that didn't make him very uncomfortable. Though he was quiet and a little slow when it came to social things, Ace was not stupid, and he knew very well exactly who Commander was talking to, yet it was still appreciated.

Ace nodded and thrust Skyree back into the air, and went to go join the welcoming committee at the front of the camp. He faded into the tree line, carefully nocking an arrow to his bow and finding a good vantage point where he could see the newcomer, and potentially shoot him, though there was a good chance that if the boy tried anything he'd be quite dead before Ace's arrow ever hit his flesh.

Ace climbed a tall oak carefully, sitting in the v of the tree and watching to see what would unfold. His dark eyes went to the man's horse, who looked well cared for despite the journey, which said something for him. His mare herself was tied along the picket fence, looking at the commotion with the same curiosity as the other horses.

“Of course, Sir,”

He was polite to the Commander, which already put him on a fairly good foot with the remaining men of the Legion, including Ace. It was the Commander who had pulled them out of that nasty mess with the Poles, the Commander that brought them to this place, and the Commander made sure everyone got at least a bit to eat, even though their supplies were stretched thin. Ace didn't know of a single man that wouldn't have followed Commander into hell and back, up to and including himself.

“Er, only if you would allow me, of course.”

Ace was surprised by the man's insistence that he stay with Thurgold, despite the fact that he had brought their companion to help, and had no further obligation to him. It had been a long time since they'd had a capable doctor around with the right training, and he could see the surprise and glances to the Commander the fellow men were giving him.

At this point, Ace figured that an ambush was a rather pointless excersize, and climbed out of the tree, approaching the scene cautiously and attempting not to get too close. It was fairly clear that the man was no threat, and they could all use a little bit of medical assistance.

[Theodore Wellington]

The young newcomer seemed to be an odd duck, as he dismounted out of what seemed like good manners. Inwardly, Theodore disapproved – it was a foolish choice, and had he been less scrupulous he would have greeted the politeness with an arrow through the throat before claiming the man’s horse. A good horse, after all, would fetch enough that the company would eat well for another few weeks. He might even gather enough for his men to see a proper physician – he personally disliked being inspected by their ilk, but he wouldn’t tolerate any such fussiness from his soldiers if they needed the attention. As it was, the strangely polite lad was in luck and Shafts did not tolerate looting and thieving if his men weren’t starving. If Manners came back in a month or so, however, it would be a whole other story. God disapproved of thieving, the monks had taught him, but since God was suspiciously silent on how he was supposed to feed the Iscariots, Theodore would keep ‘borrowing’ when it was needed.

“Of course, Sir.”

The veteran was mildly amused at the respect implied, even if it didn’t show on his face. The young man was continuing in his bewildering insistence to be courteous, something that caused a raised eyebrow on his part – Shafts held in mistrust people will the polished manner of the nobility, but the intruder seemed much too eager and honest to be one of them. Had the situation been different, he would have taken the time to learn where the strange mannerisms came from, but as it was he had no time to waste on such subjects. Even if the Iscariots had not been in such dire straits, one of his men was bleeding on the ground behind him. That particular detail made his eyes a tad colder when he turned towards the young man.

“I will tell you everything I know, but please, sir! Your comrade is suffering from several broken bones, fractured ribs that might puncture his lungs if your men aren’t careful. He is in shock after a blow to the head and I need to examine him more closely to find out if he suffers from anything else.”

“Dominic, be careful,” the iron-eyed commander barked at his subordinate.

His eyes were harsh as they stayed on the would-be doctor, coldly evaluating the man’s honesty. Physicians did not work for free, whether it was for armies or for citizens. That was the way things had always been, but the polite fellow did not seem to be asking for payment. Theodore didn’t believe in that level of selflessness coming from anyone, however, and the fact that he could not see an obvious benefit to the healer made him wary. But it cost him nothing to let the man speak, and the dark-haired archer held his tongue.

“I fear the ride over here might have jostled him more than I would’ve wished, but I had no choice if I wanted to fetch aid quickly. I feel it is my duty to make sure he recovers.”

Christ in a dress, where did this specimen come from? The sheer zeal to help his fellow men shining in those eyes reminded Shafts of an eager dog, even if the comparison was not very flattering. Whether that was true for the dog or the man remained to be seen.

“Er, only if you would allow me, of course.”

Theodore took a moment to think through the consequences, though he accorded the younger man a modicum of respect for meeting his eyes without fear. An incompetent doctor would cause more damage than the wound itself could, yet so far the stranger had displayed no lack of ability – he seemed to know his trade, even if he was young. The change in the morale of his men didn’t escape Shaft’s attention: almost everyone in the encampment could beneficiate from a bit of medical help, even if they could patch it up roughly themselves. Still, the presence of a true physician would make a large difference. The Iscariots had lost their last doctor to Tatar scimitar and had yet to find any replacement. In truth, Theodore did not expect to find one until they returned to the mainland, where the battlefield always left a trail of field surgeons willing to join mercenaries. This might be an occasion that wouldn’t present itself twice, and the possible benefits outweighed the risks.

“We’ll talk while you do what you can,” he finally conceded, his tone brisk.

Wasting no time to walk towards where Thurgold was being installed in the beddings, the veteran dismissed his men back to their previous occupations. After a second’s thought, he motioned for Ace to follow him – caution had kept him alive so far, and wolves sometimes wore sheep’s clothing. If nothing else, and additional pair of hands might be useful for operations.

[Galahad Llewelyn]

The man before Galahad considered his words carefully, this the young man could see clearly. No doubt the man had doubts about his intentions, but this had not yet occurred to Galahad. As little as he knew of the world, he couldn’t imagine why these men were so suspicious. He was sure that if he’d worn his robes from the monastery he wouldn’t have been met with this suspicion, but he’d left the robes behind with the rest of his life and all he had was the chainmail he wore. In his brief time outside the monastery walls, he’d been accosted several times, been played for a fool and tricked, but still he could not fathom that some would think he brought them ill will. In his mind he wished nothing but good will on these men, but to his great misfortune the mercenaries were not mind readers.

“We’ll talk while you do what you can,”

Galahad bowed his head, relieved at the answer the man gave as he gave thanks to the Lord for looking over him among these men who carried no faith in weary travellers. His hands loosened their grip on each other as he looked up again at the man, an infectious grin on his countenance. The grin was so bright it was almost blinding and it had the effect of shining through his whole manner. It was a testament of joy that efficiently communicated his relief over the commanding officers words.

“Thank you,” he said brightly, gripping Percival’s reins as he followed the man as quickly as he could, noting that a second man accompanied them at the man’s gesture. Galahad thought nothing of it, his attention already fully on the man being moved from the horse to the bedding. Eager to continue his work, he brushed past the commander, not thinking of any eventual consequences that would bring, and tied Percival nearby. He unfastened his saddlebags and hurried over to the wounded man, Thurgold as the other’s had called him, laying them gently down by his feet as he hurried to adjust the position in which his patient lay in.

He set to work without words, first investigating the chest of Thurgold, gently prodding and causing slight gasps when he hit a sore spot. He instructed the man to take a deep breath, which he did, and Galahad allowed himself a brief nod. “Two or three fractured ribs,” he said aloud, more out of habit than any wish to inform the men behind him, but that was also on his mind. “Not as serious as I first believed, but he will need to keep himself still and not do heavy work for several days, in order for them to heal.” He would give the man something to hinder the pain, but that would come later, he needed to continue his investigation.

Further investigation revealed another cut which he had missed on his initial inspection, the soldier had been insistent that Galahad bring him to his camp, which had given the young physician little time do to his work and only enough to tend the most serious wounds and contusions. As he inspected for more wounds diligently, he began speaking, knowing that the men behind would want to know what had brought about such events.

“I came across him fighting a group of highwaymen. I managed to chase off the bandits and saw his condition; I couldn’t allow myself to merely leave him there, so I did what I could to staunch his bleeding, but he was insistent that I bring him here.” Galahad left out the fact that the man, Thurgold, had been almost recruiting him to the company before the man’s condition had deteriorated. “I secured him on his horse and followed his instructions.”

His hands probed the shoulder joint of Thurgold, frowning slightly. “Could one of you secure him? His shoulder is out of joint, I must put it back into place. Be careful of his chest.” The instructions were given to no one in particular, merely the first to react on the words.

[Fahd al Badr]

Ace had seen enough that he decided, rather cautiously, he liked the odd fellow that had ridden into the den of wolves. He was naive in the way he carried himself and how he addressed the Commander, along with a thousand other little details that the experienced scout spotted and filed away for future reference. He took note that Galahad took little notice of him, which pleased him very much. Ace took pride in blending into the background or a group, in becoming unnoticeable. The Commander always seemed to know he was there, though, which is why Ace knew he still had a long way to go before he was invisible to all.

It seemed that the Commander, however, was not nearly as convinced of the boy's innocence as the rest of them seemed to be, but Ace thought that quite sensible of him. That was why the Commander was the Commander and he was a scout, which had kept them alive far more often than not in the past. Though his arrow was still nocked on his bow, Ace relaxed a tad and continued to watch the proceedings as placid as an old milk cow.

It was truly fascinating to watch Commander come to a decision, his face shifting ever so slightly from thought to thought until he reached a decision. If Commander said the word, the boy (though he looked a tad older than a boy, perhaps no older than Ace, though in the realm of experience it was probably quite different) would be sprouting arrows like a hedgehog, and no one would feel any guilt over it.

“We’ll talk while you do what you can,”

As they walked, Ace caught the motion to follow, and obeyed without much question. When it came to a stranger, you always needed to have someone you trusted at your back. The strange doctor, however, seemed very nearly oblivious to what was going on around him, or that one wrong move would spell disaster. Somehow, Ace could not see the boy surviving very long on his own, not with his seemingly trusting attitude and oblivious attention to detail.

As the doctor examined poor Thurgold, Ace seemed to be temporarily distracted by the animal. He offered a hand to the horse and let Percival sniff it as he ran his other hand over the sleek neck and shoulder. The animal seemed well cared for and curious about his surroundings, his tack and saddle bags on correctly. Good. They had no use for a man that didn't take care of his mount.

“I came across him fighting a group of highwaymen. I managed to chase off the bandits and saw his condition; I couldn’t allow myself to merely leave him there, so I did what I could to staunch his bleeding, but he was insistent that I bring him here.”

Ace, who had zoned out from the conversation at hand, though he kept an eye on the boy incase he decided to do anything untoward towards the Commander however, it was just that the words meant little to him until now. If Galahad had fought off the bandits, then he must have some skill with a bow or a blade, which said another way he could be useful to them. Ace's dark eyes flickered to Commander, curious, but then was interrupted.

“Could one of you secure him? His shoulder is out of joint, I must put it back into place. Be careful of his chest.”

Ace moved out silently from next to the horse, kneeling down behind Thurgold's head and very studiously looking at the ground next to his head, avoiding the eyes of both Commander and the stranger. He hated when people looked at him, he really did. Especially this odd stranger.

Deceptively slender but very strong hands held Thurgold down by his good shoulder and where the doctor indicated that there were no broken ribs. See, he had been paying some attention to what was going on. He didn't say a word, but though he was firm, Ace was very clearly nervous about being this close to the main events, yet he could not refuse to help a member of the company, despite his discomfort.

[Theodore Wellington]

“Thank you.”

The fervent smile that accompanied the thanks curled Theodore’s lips, though there was no mirth in the expression – he’d finally recognized that shine in the man’s eyes for what it was: naïveté. It had been a while since he’d witnessed that particular trait in full bloom, as battlefields tended to cure soldiers of such irritating fancies. Blood and guts woke people up to the reality of things, and for a flitting instant he wished the would-be doctor had been subjected to such a treatment, if only so the sheer enthusiasm of the man wouldn’t get on his nerves. He dismissed the thought, in any case, as it was likely that same zeal to help others that had brought Thurgold back to the Iscariots. However grudging it was, Shafts considered himself in the man’s debt for bringing one of his soldiers home. Declining to acknowledge Manner’s effusions, the iron-eyed bowman left him to tie his horse as he reached the stack of beddings where his wounded subordinate had been laid. Eyeing the redheaded, lanky Scotsman that had been his comrade since the company’s foundation, a rare glimmer of concern passed in his eyes.

Thurgold had been fighting at his side since the war against the League of Venice, when they’d killed Italian weaklings under the command of what passed for a general for the French. It had not been a war the French had won, but the constant skirmishes for the control of the northern part of the peninsula had been the place where Theodore had learned the trade of battle. As one of the founding members of the Iscariots, Thurgold Harper had risen to the rank of sergeant when the Iscariots still had the numbers necessitating such a chain of command – he’d held authority over a dozen pikemen, usually steadying the defensive lines while Shafts himself went with the longbowmen.

“C’mander?” a voice half-moaned.

“Don’t waste your breath, Harper,” the veteran ordered tersely, frowning that the Scot deemed it necessary to force himself just to recognize his presence.

Claiming a log next to his subordinate as his seat, the Legion’s commander sat in stony silence as the stranger laid his saddlebags at Thurgold’s feet and started to work. Ace was hovering nearby in that strange manner of his, refraining from attracting the doctor’s attention – another small detail to the scout’s credit was that he knew how to make himself scarce and useful at the same time. Continuing to eye the proceedings without comment, Theodore silently compared Manner’s ministrations to what he’d seen from the Iscariot’s physicians during his years as leader of the company. While Shaft was admittedly much more skilled at inflicting wounds than treating them, his practiced eye recognized the ease with which the physician’s hands moved. It spoke well of him, and the iron-eyed man allowed himself hope that Harper might just make it through this alive.

“Not as serious as I first believed, but he will need to keep himself still and not do heavy work for several days, in order for them to heal.”

The commander nodded in agreement – there was no way Thurgold was getting out of bed for at least a week, no matter what the sergeant might say. Most of the Iscariots were still nursing small wounds or similar discomforts, one of the reasons Theodore had decided to let the company lick its wound for some time before starting to recruit. Equipment had to be refurnished and supplies obtained again, both of which would take some time as Shafts did not allow his soldiers to fight with shoddy weaponry. Funds were thinning like snow under the sun, anyhow, and it was likely he’d have to take asinine assignments from spoiled noble brats to fill the coffins again. Resigning himself to a few idiocy-induced headaches before the month was done, the archer kept his eyes on the doctor’s work.

“I came across him fighting a group of highwaymen. I managed to chase off the bandits and saw his condition; I couldn’t allow myself to merely leave him there, so I did what I could to staunch his bleeding, but he was insistent that I bring him here. I secured him on his horse and followed his instructions.”

The story caught his attention, and by the sound of it held Ace’s too. Thurgold was deadly with a pike and had learned to use the bastard sword at the harsh school of Spanish infantry charges, but even he could not have taken down a group of bandits by himself. The fact that the young man seemed untouched while a hardened veteran was in such a critical state did not escape him either – the doctor had some skill with a weapon, if he’d made it out of the combat alive and with a wounded in tow. The dark-haired mercenary was almost certain he’d seen a longbow tied to Manner’s saddle and the commander inside of him was already weighing the advantages and disadvantages that the Legion would derive from having the physician in their ranks. A thought to keep in mind, at the very least.

“Could one of you secure him? His shoulder is out of joint, I must put it back into place. Be careful of his chest.”

A few decades ago Theodore’s face might have shown the surprise he felt at the sight of Ace volunteering to hold down the Scottish sergeant, but as it was there was no indication of it. Then again the quirky Turk had proved on several occasions he valued his comrades over his own discomfort, so perhaps he should not have been so surprised. His features still expressionless, he heard the ragged cry that tore at the wounded man’s throat when his shoulder was snapped back into place. Satisfied with the physician’s intervention, the iron eye’s scrutiny lessened ever so slightly.

“You have a name, I assume?” Shafts inquired dryly while facing the doctor.

[Galahad Llewelyn]

As a man came forward to aid Galahad in mending the hurts of the man on the bedding, the physician gave his thanks to the man as he glanced briefly in his direction, but paid the man no more attention. While in normal circumstances Galahad wouldn’t have dreamt of almost ignoring a man, this was not normal and he was far more occupied with tending to his patient than worrying about social ettiquetee. He was sure the mercenary, whom he now recognised as the quiet man the commander of the company had signalled to accompany them, wouldn’t find offence in Galahad’s change in manner. From his brief exchange of words with the commander, it almost appeared as if his courtesy was frowned upon. It was of little consequence however, Galahad had work to do.

With firm hands he gripped Thurgold’s upper arm, just above the elbow joint. It would take some force to put the shoulder back where it belonged, but as he was used to menial work with his hands his strength was considerable and he would manage. There were devices that could do the same job with more ease, but Galahad wasn’t about to ask for it when it could be done much more rapidly if he did it himself. He gave a brief warning to the man he was treating before he did the deed of snapping the joint back where it belonged. It barely lasted a second, such was the efficiency behind Galahad’s work, but the pain was an ordeal. He’d heard several similar cries as the one Thurgold had released, but despite the fact that the pain was unavoidable, he offered a small apology and a promise to relieve the pain.

“You have a name, I assume?”

“Galahad,” he offered simply, forgetting to add to the last name he’d been given by the abbot before he’d been exiled from the monastery. He was still getting used to using more than his simple name, which was why the last name of Llewelyn remained forgotten for the moment. A few moments passed, and he managed to recall it. “Galahad Llewelyn.” It was clear that the surname was an afterthought to the young man, but he gave any potential reactions little attention as his eyes remained fixed on his patient.

Gently he unwrapped the bandage around Thurgold’s head, revealing the shallow gash in the man’s forehead. Not a serious wound, but the blow had given the head a bit of a knock, resulting in slight disorientation with the man initially. It seemed to be wearing off. He used water to clean the wound, as well as the other cuts he’d discovered, washing away the blood and dirt and then, reaching into his saddlebags, he pulled out a jar of ointment and applied a small amount to the cut, repeating the motion with the other cuts that he could see. It was a simple substance that would aid in healing the wounds as well as warding away some of the pain. No doubt Thurgold could feel the sting of it.

With care, he applied fresh bandages to the cuts and when that was finished, checked the formerly dislocated arm. He then went to the other side of the cot Thurgold lay on and investigated the splint he’d crafted to immobilise the broken arm. The device was holding up nicely and all Galahad did was tighten the rope he’d used to secure the splint to the arm. He then probed the man’s legs for any potential fractures, but found that they were in good working order, if a bit worn and tired from the fight and general living.

Going back to his saddlebags, he plucked some leaves out of a jar and put them in Thurgold’s mouth, instructing him to chew. His tone of voice was firm and not one to be questioned, revealing his confidence in ordering people around when it came to medical matters. He then looked up to the commander and his shadow. “I’ve done what I can, now it is up to him to heal.”

[Fahd al Badr]

Thurgold was a good man, and a good thread, and it distressed Ace to see him so injured like this. When he had first joined the company, the Scott had been one of the first to be kind to him, and to show him that it was ok if he was a little different. Besides, he was also a senior member of the group, and someone that Commander needed, they all needed. Thurgold couldn't die. Still, Ace hated seeing one of the only people he could call 'friend' in the company in pain. He struggled to talk to the Commander, to notice his presence, and Ace's fingers brushed skittishly along his shoulder, distressed that he found it necessary to talk right now.

Ace couldn't hide the flash of surprise along his features as the boy said that he fought off bandits that of all people Thurgold could not. As a former bandit himself, Thurgold knew how they worked and how they operated, and for him to be caught off guard and defeated while the boy walked away from it was odd, and sent off warning alarms in his head. He looked the boy over subtly when he seemed too distracted to notice him, but he didn't seem to be injured.

Odd.

It was over fairly fast, though Thurgold's scream sent a little bit of pain through his own chest. As soon as the arm was back in the socket, Ace's hand ghosted along the man's jaw in a sort of sad attempt at comfort, hovering over his head temporarily with a pained expression. For a man who was so awkward around people, Ace was surprisingly sensitive to the feelings of his fellows.

"Galahad,"

So the mysterious doctor had finally revealed his name, and Ace tested it on his lips silently for a moment, glancing over at the Commander and his reaction to the whole situation. If he didn't know any better, he thought that Galahad could expect an invitation at some point. So far, it seemed he had impressed their leader.

The head wound was nasty, but it seemed under control, though when the ointment hit Thurgold's head he hissed in pain and his face twisted into a grimace. Ace made a small sound in his throat in obvious distress at Thurgold's further discomfort, fingers brushing along his face as light as butterfly wings.

“I’ve done what I can, now it is up to him to heal.”

".... Thank you...." The words were quiet, so quiet that it one didn't listen closely, he almost couldn't hear it. His eyes were focused on a spot on the ground next to Thurgold's shoulder, studiously avoiding the gaze of the boy or Commander. He went very quiet after that, as Commander took the lead again, as per usual.

[Theodore Wellington]

“Galahad.”

The would-be doctor didn’t interrupt his work to answer, another point in his favour. The obvious concern for what must have been a complete stranger to him would have puzzled Theodore had it not already been obvious the Welsh was a bit touched to the head. All Welshmen were, really, but it was painfully noticeable in this one. Shafts had nothing against madmen, however – after all, any man who chose to make a living out of seeking death on the battlefield relentlessly wasn’t exactly in his right mind. Well, as long as they were useful.

“Galahad Llewelyn.”

The second name was clearly added as an afterthought, the iron-eyed veteran noticed. What an odd fellow, he mused – there were very few explanations as to why the physician would be unused to hear his own surname. He either came from a village so small everyone knew the others by their Christian name or he came from an ecclesiastic organisation. As the accent of this ‘Galahad’ was clearly from out of the region, the bowman was more inclined to believe the second option. It would also go a long way to illuminate the origins of that ludicrous proclivity to help his fellow men: priests and monks were odd that way. Theodore blamed it on the fact that they spent too much time talking with God and not enough with mankind – it left them with the impression that humanity was more than a pack of wild wolves fighting over a scrap of meat.

Manners, as he mentally continued to dub Galahad, unwrapped the bandages around Thurgold’s head, revealing the gash. The effort of repressing his grimace tightened Theodore’s lips – head wounds were nasty, he’d lost many a man to them even when miles away from the battlefield. This one looked under control, however, as Manners continued his treatment skilfully and wrapped new bandages after applying an ointment. The young man knew his business, the commander conceded reluctantly as he watched the stranger finish his inspection before turning to throw his verdict.

“I’ve done what I can, now it is up to him to heal.”

".... Thank you...."

Seeing Ace so distressed had always been a sight Theodore disliked, mainly because he thought it unseemly that a man so spectacularly deadly on the field of battle could be put in this state by events so common in this line of work. The odd Turk had always been one of the softer-hearted men under his command, and seeing him nearly whimpering over a wounded comrade made Shafts prickly. Nonetheless, he knew that the scout’s sweet disposition was not something that could be cured even by the harsh realities of war. The veteran’s iron stare softened faintly and he put a firm hand on Ace’s shoulder, the same gesture a father would use to steady a troubled child.

“Scots don’t die easily, we English have learned that the hard way,” he said calmly, the closest thing he knew to a comforting voice, careful not to look at his subordinate as he spoke.

He nodded his gratitude curtly to Galahad, the closest thing he would ever do to acknowledging the young man’s efforts. Theodore had never been at ease showing the few emotions he felt, and not even the service the Welshman had rendered him was enough to change that. His eyes took an indistinguishable look as he pinned the doctor under his stare again, studying the features intensely as he spoke.

“What do you do for a living, Galahad?” he inquired evenly.

[Galahad Llewelyn]

"... Thank you..."

While Galahad was unable to comprehend the full significance behind the two words the quiet man had uttered, he was able to understand that it was something that was unusual in and of itself. The act of thanking was one he appreciated anyway and it spoke volumes to the comradeship between the two mercenaries and stood as an example to how the rest of the company viewed their people. It warmed his heart to see someone so concerned for another and the quiet manner in which the man presented the sentiment only increased the power behind it, thought Galahad.

The commander’s hand on the other mans shoulder also revealed a strong comradeship to him. They were concerned for one another’s well being and the commander obviously took well care of his men to ensure their furthered survival. He recalled the words of Thurgold, words he had doubted he’d act upon initially, but now having the nature of the Iscariot Legion revealed to him he saw it more of a viable option. Perhaps he could inform the commander of his interest in joining their endeavour, and provide them with medical care. It was unlikely he’d indulge in any killing willingly, however.

“... learned that the hard way,”

A slight inclination of his head communicated his understanding in the Englishman’s words. Traits in different people did reflect on where they came from and if the commander was correct in his judgement of Scots Galahad had no reason to believe Thurgold would become worse and with his additional treatment he highly doubted it would turn for the worse. His confidence in his skills was unmatched, but he knew when to recognise defeat. This was not one of those days. In turn, the commander returned a slight nod in gratitude for Galahad’s work. To Galahad, the thanks was unnecessary, he viewed it as merely his duty.

“What do you do for a living, Galahad?”

The mood of the moment changed drastically with the commander’s change in attitude. He pinned Galahad with a look that was impossible to read and one that made Galahad want to take a step back, but the young man held his ground as he endured the scrutiny he was being subjected to. His eyes threw a glance to the ground as he thought of the question, wondering himself what he did for a living now. It was difficult to pinpoint it, as he had been something of a wandering waif in the short weeks outside of the monastery.

“I... I’ve spent my life in a monastery up until now,” Galahad began, uncertain of what he would say but deciding that beginning at the start of it all would be best. “I’ve worked as a physician, tailor, carpenter and blacksmith, as well as a hunter when the need arose. I’ve only been outside the monastery for a few weeks, in that time I have mostly given aid as a physician.” Galahad refrained from mentioning the fact that anything he’d had when he left the monastery had a long time ago ended up in the hands of thieves.

His hands clasped before him once again and he looked at the commander and his comrade. He was uncertain how to proceed, so he waited for the commander, or his friend, to speak or ask their questions.

[Kerri Norson]

Kerri sighed silently as her mount, Quin, followed the Iscariot Legion archer's horse. Her pale hands fiddled anxiously with the reins. She and the man had been traveling for a few days. It was only this morning, when Ker had been feeding Meara, that the archer had said they would arrive at the Legion encampment later in the day.

"Norson," was said with a tired voice, "we are here."

The young woman looked up from her hands and realized that they were indeed on the outskirts of the Iscariot Legion camp. She got a feeling in the pit of her stomach, nervousness. Kerri was nervous at meeting this commander. Marc, the Legion archer, had told her a few stories of Theodore Wellington. He was a fierce man in battle, and a hard leader.

The two dismounted as they came into the camp. A man came to take their horses; Quin was reluctant to follow the stranger, but went when his rider reassured him with a pat.

Marc touched the female's arm, she and her hound followed behind him. The groom had caught the man up on the camp news. As they walked, Marc informed his recruit as well. Apparently a wounded Iscariot soldier, by the name of Thurgood, had been found and brought in by a wandering physician. The Commander and a famed Legion scout, Ace, had meet up with the wounded man and his 'savior'.

"I suppose we'll just have to interrupt the party, eh Norson?" Marc was quite a talker, but that didn't bother Kerri. She liked the man, and preferred him to talk rather than ask questions.

Kerri and Marc came upon the group. Two men were standing, the wounded, she supposed, was lying on the ground, and the final man was kneeling beside Thurgood.

Marc stopped a foot or two from the men and silently waited to be noticed. The young woman stopped slightly behind her recruiter, with Meara sitting on the ground beside her mistress.

[Theodore Wellington]

The young doctor’s eyes glanced to the ground for an instant, betraying that the answer to the question was probably more complicated than Shafts wanted to know. It wasn’t the first time he garnered such a reaction by his inquiry, some even becoming aggressive when they considered their privacy invaded – the way people phrased their answer and their reaction to such a simple question told a lot of their personality, it was one of the main reasons Theodore used it. As it was the iron-eyed veteran did not give a damn about how gritty or shameful his people’s past were: as far as he was concerned the day they entered the Iscariots was the first day of their life, everything else was of no importance.

They had murderers and thieves amongst them, he knew – Theodore had seen a warrant for the Simmards sibling’s head when he’d recruited them in London – they had disgraced and abandoned bastard sons – Christian Valérien, the young French adolescent they’d recruited earlier this year, born of his mother’s rape by a Spanish soldier – and even ruined rich men - Old Deirk had been heir to one of Amsterdam’s most prestigious merchant houses before a storm had swallowed both his wealth and his wife. Their ghosts were theirs to hide, all Shafts asked of them was the ability to shoot twenty arrows a minute and to weather an enemy charge without fleeing. The rest was their own business, as long as they followed his rules.

“I... I’ve spent my life in a monastery up until now. I’ve worked as a physician, tailor, carpenter and blacksmith, as well as a hunter when the need arose. I’ve only been outside the monastery for a few weeks, in that time I have mostly given aid as a physician.”

An ex-monkling, then – not an unusual sight in this day and age, but it brought a mirthless smile to Theodore’s lips like it always had. He’d been a monk once too, even if the memories were oh so faint and tainted with what he knew to be a drop of wistfulness. He missed the way things had been so simple and clear-cut back then, when he didn’t have to make decisions like choosing between starving a village before the winter of feeding his own men, like burning an old man’s bridge so the Legion couldn’t be flanked. The world was harsh outside the monastery walls and the golden world only those privileged few could taste, it would be an unpleasant lesson for the young man. God knew he could still the coppery taste of blood and the acrid smoke in his eyes from his own awakening, that fatal summer night. If nothing else the Iscariots would give him a place to sleep where he wouldn’t be robbed and meals every day.

“The Iscariot Legion has been around for a long time – almost fifteen years now – but we paid the piper for all our victories during our last campaign in Poland. We’re far from our old numbers and the times will be rough for a few months before we can get everything under control,” the tall soldier appraised neutrally.

He was speaking the truth in a calm, impartial tone, laying out the reality for Galahad to see without any childish romantic notions clouding his vision. If the Welsh was to become one of them, he would know exactly what he was getting himself into – lying or bullying to enrol soldiers had never been one of Shafts’s tactics. Those recruits ran at the first spot of trouble, and the Iscariots had no place for cowards in their ranks.

“We will, however, return to what we were before the year is done,” he finished in a tone of cutting steel, the iron will and ruthlessness that had shattered enemies from every European kingdom seeping in his eyes. “We have yet to find a physician, and your presence would be as beneficial to you as it would be to us, I think.”

The sound of someone shuffling behind him brought his attention to the two people now standing at the outer edge of the makeshift hospital – Marc Witthem, one of his archers, and a dark-haired woman flanked by a large Irish hound. The veteran eyed the canine with interest: he’d seen them used as battle-dogs by the Irish and the French, tearing through a line of armsmen like it was made of parchment.

“Witthem, report,” he ordered coolly, raising an eyebrow.

“Found a recruit, sir!” the man answered with the same cheerful grin he constantly wore.

“Indeed?” Shafts muttered to himself. “And what would your name be?” he asked the woman.