Page 49 of Bonded By Savages

“What’s he doing? He’s hurt, dammit! He needs to go to the hospital!”I telepath the words, not wanting to shame the wounded creature.

“He waits for us to go first,” says Damian with pride. Damian looks over at the man and knuckles his brand back. The wounded alien can’t help but smile for a moment, before his face returns to stoic blandness.

I take a quick step forward, running my hand over Damian’s arm. “You never have to hide your pain from me,” I whisper, softly so no one can hear. He doesn’t answer. But his aura swells up again with pride.

The hospital is a big, modern building, with black stone exterior, but where the buildings of the rest of the city look like they could come from Old-Earth’s antiquity, these are state of the art. Ships with red crosses take off from a huge landing bay, and I see an Aurelian pulled on a stretcher into the emergency room far off to the right. We walk into the big automatic doors of the hospital.

I’ve seen little hospitals, grubby things on the space station that the poor could afford, but this building is huge and clean. I was expecting more darkness, but everything is lit up and white. A woman at the front is speaking urgently into her smartwatch. Another is speaking to an Aurelian in black robes. The third front desk staff has a holo-vid in front of her, competently waving her fingers in a practiced movement. Each little wiggle of her fingers makes different images appear in front of her. She’s darting through case files with speed when she sees us walking to the front desk.

“Wounded?” she asks quickly, her eyes taking inventory of us and seeing nothing apparent.

“We come to see the five women. We were the ones who freed them from the Toad Lord,” states Damian.

“Hmm. Red 3-B,” she says, without deference in her tone. Her eyes dart over my silver collar, but they don’t even widen. To her, we’re just people.

“Thank you,” says Tarak, and she just nods, already flicking her fingers through files.

She brings her smartwatch to her mouth. “We need another attendant in the burn ward, there was a Reaver fire, they’re stable but need attention.”

“On it,” comes a voice through the watch, as Damian and Tarak lead me towards a hallway.

When we’re out of earshot, I cast another quick glance back at her. “She doesn’t have a collar,” I say, surprised.

“She came of her own will,” answers Tarak.

I’ve got a lot to learn about Obsidious and the Old Ways. They have a strange code of honor indeed.

We walk through a bright white hallway. It’s empty except for a nurse checking a file that comes out in a holographic image from her smartwatch. She purses her lips and disappears into a room. Everything’s so bright and sterile, unlike the rest of the world.

“They went with a different color scheme,” I say, looking around.

“You can’t see blood as well on black,” growls Tarak, his aura getting tense. He’s seen a lot of blood in his life. I clam up, shutting my mouth, cursing myself for not figuring it out on my own.

We walk down the hallway. At the end is a set of doors. An Aurelian is leaning into it, chatting with a big grin on his face. His toga is barely held together, opened so wide he’s showing off his abs to whoever is inside, and he stands with indolent ease.

“Name and rank!” Damian barks, and the Aurelian snaps to attention, his hand darting towards his Orb-Blade before he sees the twin honors on Damian’s chest. His eyes dart up from the brand to his colored eyes, and the soldier’s mouth gapes, then he slams his fist against his brand and lowers his head.

“Private Brant, sir. I serve General Ra’al.”

“We asked General Ra’al for guards, not lackabouts. I see you lazing again, I’ll bring you into the Arena myself and drive my sword through your fucking heart,” grimaces Damian, his aura white hot. His hand forms a clenched fist, and he looks like he’s about to break the man’s jaw.

“Yes, sir!” says the guard, standing up so straight you could use him as a ruler.

Damian and Tarak lead, and I follow them into the room. Jola’s lazing back on a hospital bed, her black hair as beautiful as always, effortlessly thick and lush. It frames her face, which was beautiful when it was gaunt, but has now fleshed out a little, her lips fuller. Her cheeks are glowing, and she’s smiling up at another big Aurelian guard, her hand stroking his abs. Lelita, the other servant I was closet with, is chatting with a tall, thin Aurelian who has his robes opened, showing his body down to his Adonis line of muscles. He’s got a cocky grin on his face that’s wiped off when he sees Damian and Tarak.

Jola slowly removes her hand from the man. The other three servants I never knew the name of are scared at first, then recognize their savior.

“Thank you,” says one. “You have no idea…thank you,” she says, and a tear streams down her cheek.

“You’re all recovering? Jola, you’re okay?” I ask, but my question is answered just looking at them. Where there were walking skeletons, now I see women, women with hope in their eyes.

“Yes we are. We’re being well taken care of by our brave guards,” says Jola, reaching out and touching the thigh of the Aurelian she was flirting with. He grits his teeth, casting a warning glance down, and to my shock, the warrior looks embarrassed in front of the twice-honored triad.

“Was there any moment there wasn’t a guard at the door?” Damian asks the question to Jola.

“Never. They’re tireless. A triad of Fanatics came by, and the six of them blocked the doorway. They couldn’t even look inside.”

Damian nods. “Very good. General Ra’al picked well,” he says, and the five alien warriors swell up with pride. He looks over at me. “Are you satisfied with their treatment?”

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