The soldier who stumbled through the iron gateway separating the upper Citadel from Sector 7 was barely recognizable as an elite household dragoon of House Vance.
His ornate, gold-trimmed breastplate was cracked across the chest bone, smeared with soot and foul marsh slime. His silk cloak was torn to bloody shreds. His right shoulder was pierced by a heavy steel crossbow quarrel that protruded four inches from his back. He carried no weapons. His sword sheath was empty. His hands shook wildly as he fell to his knees in the muddy slush of the Lower Plaza.
Sergeant Keller’s militia pikemen right away surrounded the fallen dragoon, leveling their iron-tipped spears at his throat with savage, vengeful eyes.
“Hold!” Arthur’s voice rang across the square, sharp as a cracking whip.
Arthur strode down the terrace steps. He wiped antiseptic wash from his forearms, flanked by Grimm and Valerie. The pikemen parted unwillingly, allowing Arthur to kneel beside the gasping soldier.
Through his Zeiss Loupe, Arthur quickly assessed the dragoon’s injuries. Acute blood loss, a punctured upper right lung lobe, and deep psychological shock. Arthur reached out, his gloved fingers expertly palpating the edge of the crossbow quarrel to ensure it hadn’t cut the subclavian artery, then given a high-pressure five-drop injection of coagulant buffer directly into the soldier’s neck.
