Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125422 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
I linger near the entrance, not wanting to disturb her work. All around me are men, though I spy a couple of wounded women. Some bear Louhi’s crest, breastplates taken from the armory below. Ironic, considering she’s the one who gave the blows.
I have to admit, it pains me to see them like this—so many wounded, so many who won’t ever return home whole. Even though we won this battle, it looks more like a disaster narrowly survived.
A young soldier whimpers to my left. She looks only a few years younger than me, her arm twisted at a hideous angle. I kneel beside her, voice low. “Can I help?” She tries to speak, but only tears fall. I take her good hand, holding it firmly. “Hold on,” I say. “Tellervo will see you when she can.”
The goddess hears me and nods from across the room. She finishes closing one wound then moves on to the next patient. But Tellervo can’t be everywhere at once. There are medics from the Finnish army, but they can only do so much as well. I watch Tellervo’s shoulders droop under the weight of impossibility. She uses her forest magic—faint sparks drifting around her knuckles—but some wounds are too massive, too grotesquely complex. Simple lacerations or shallow burns yield to her healing touch, but shattered bones, ruptured organs, or infected injuries demand more time than we can spare. She cannot exhaust herself entirely; she might pass out if she tries to save everyone. She told me that bodies might become immune to her skills.
A strangled cry from the far side of the hall makes everyone tense. Several soldiers huddle around a cot near a collapsed archway. Tellervo stiffens and moves quickly, and I follow, heart pounding. The soldier on that cot gasps for air, blood bubbling at his lips. A deep chest wound, poorly bandaged, has reopened, a medic trying in vain to help as crimson soaks his tunic and drips onto chipped floor tiles.
The medic moves aside as Tellervo kneels, pressing glowing hands to the wound. “Stay still,” she whispers. He tries, but his eyes roll wildly. He coughs, and blood spatters Tellervo’s forearms. I can see she’s fighting a losing battle. His injuries run deep, and time is measured in heartbeats.
She calls on her magic again, chanting softly in an ancient tongue that echoes off the cracked walls. For a heartbeat, I think I see hope flicker in the soldier’s eyes. Then, his body convulses, blood pooling in his mouth. Tellervo tries once more, pushing energy through her trembling fingers, but it’s like pouring water into a sieve. The lanternlight seems to dim as we all realize it’s too late.
His breathing rattles then stops. The silence that follows is crushing. Tellervo bows her head, withdrawing her light. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, her voice bouncing softly off the cold stone walls.
A soldier at my side breaks into sobs. Another curses and stomps away. My eyes burn; I’ve seen the dead all of my life, but I’ve always handled them from the other side. I don’t see their deaths; I merely deposit them into their afterlife. This last while, though, it’s everywhere I turn.
Tellervo closes the dead man’s eyes, her hand shaking. She has saved countless lives today, but I can tell this one weighs on her. I rest a hand on her arm. “You did all you could,” I say, my voice hushed.
She nods, knuckles white, sorrow shining in her eyes. “Others need help,” she whispers, rising and turning back toward the rows of wounded. She can’t afford the luxury of mourning now; none of us can.
I step back, struggling to breathe normally. The damp smell of mildew and old stone presses in. Despite winning, despite Hanna’s return, despite forcing Louhi’s troops to retreat from Castle Syntri, we’re still mired in suffering. The war is far from over.
I move toward the exit, where a doorway with a missing doorframe leads outside. I see my father standing beneath a broken arch, his cloak smeared with ash and dried blood he hasn’t bothered to wash off. He beckons silently. I cast one last glance at Tellervo and the wounded and then follow him out into the fractured courtyard.
Outside, the late afternoon sun slants through cracks in the castle’s defenses, finding passage between the dark clouds. Parts of Syntri’s towers now lie in heaps of ice and stone. My father leans against a toppled column. He looks exhausted, silver eyes shadowed, but there’s a firmness in his posture that wasn’t there before.
“I have news,” he says, voice low and measured.
I swallow, heart still heavy from the scene inside. “Good news, I hope.”
His lips twist into a small, tight smile. “Yes, surprisingly. One of our troops got through to the Keskellis. They’ve answered our call for aid and are on their way. They should arrive within a few days.”