The Wadjet Eye by Jill Rubalcaba Page A

he sat down—
fell
was more like it—on the floor beside the stretcher he had just put down.
    Artemas gave Damon a look so full of contempt that Damon stepped back. He'd never seen Artemas look at him that way. Not even when they had been so angry that they hadn't spoken. Damon didn't care. What did Artemas know about a father like Litigus? When Artemas's mother died, his father had been with his family. Artemas didn't understand.
    "How ... did she ... ?" Litigus looked at Damon with a face like an open wound—raw, disbelieving, full of turmoil.
    "There are men who need my care. I'll explain later," Damon said, turning back to assist the physician.
    Artemas grabbed his arm and nearly spat his words. "Your father needs you now."
    "Well, he'll just have to wait. He can see what
that
feels like."

    "I've seen you do a lot of things, Damon. But I've never seen you be cruel. Until now."
    "Aren't there more soldiers out in the field who need rescuing?" Damon asked. Then he looked away from Artemas, too.
    Damon held the wounded soldier's leg still. The physician seemed unaware of what had passed between Damon and Litigus. His attention was on the thrashing soldier. Damon turned slightly so that he could see Litigus and Artemas without them knowing that he was watching.
    Artemas stormed out of the tent. Seconds later Litigus stood, like a man in a dream, and followed—slowly, each movement awkward, as if he had forgotten how to walk.
    Through the night Artemas and Damon's father came and went. They worked in silence. Each time his father entered the hospital tent, Damon could feel his presence, even before he saw him. Each time his father looked more stooped. Once, when Damon thought Litigus might be going to speak to him, Damon turned quickly, busying himself dressing a wound that he would later only have to re-dress. He had nothing more to say to Litigus.
    It was near dawn, and Damon didn't think his legs would hold him up much longer. The physiclan's eyes were rimmed in red. They would have to take turns sleeping soon. They couldn't keep this up. They needed to get these men to a real hospital. They were running out of supplies as quickly as they were running out of the strength to treat the flow of wounded.

    Just as Damon was about to suggest to the physician that he rest for a few hours, the tent flap parted and Artemas came in carrying yet another soldier. Damon put his face in his hands and asked Thoth for strength. He was so weary he wasn't sure he could shift the men to make room for another soldier. But Artemas did not lay this man down with the others. He brought him directly to Damon. Damon felt the flutter of panic in his chest when he saw the pain in Artemas's eyes. He was afraid to look. Afraid not to.
    "He called for you before he collapsed."
    What had Damon done? This was all his fault.

TWENTY-THREE
    "Lay him here. Gently." Damon cleared a table, sweeping jars and bandages to the floor.

    Artemas cradled Damon's father's head in the crook of his arm while he lowered him to the table. Damon folded his cloak for a headrest and then pressed his ear to his father's chest.
    "Is he—?"
    Damon silenced Artemas with a raised hand.
    At first Damon heard nothing. But then one beat. Then another. Uneven. Faltering. But beating. "He's alive."
But for how long?
    He lifted his father's arm, searching the shoulder for wounds.
His skin feels so cold and clammy. He looks gray, not like the others, who paled from the blood loss. He looks gray.
    Artemas straightened the scabbard at Damon's father's belt. "He was carrying another soldier, protecting him with his own body. From the armor the man was wearing, I'd say he was a legate."

    "Legate?"
    "His commanding officer. He's dead. I'm going back for him."
    "Don't." Damon grabbed Artemas by the arm. "Don't risk your life for a dead man."
    "We can't leave him for the enemy. Your father understood that."
    "And look where that got him." Damon grabbed a blanket from