"Ron. Oh, God, my hand hurts so much. Change my bandage for me."
The weak voice came through the echo of the torrential rain pounding against the stone walls. Colonel Ron, who had been intently studying the map in his hands, pursed his lips.
He put away the map he carried with him, tossed a few more pieces of firewood into the campfire before him, then turned and helped the ashen-faced Fraser sit up from his bedroll.
Fraser was in bad shape.
Even the slightest touch of his skin made Ron feel how feverishly hot Fraser was. Based on his experience at the Maginot Field Hospital, Ron could tell that Fraser's wound had probably become infected. It might have been worse:
Those damned filthy gnolls had tainted his good friend with the power of an evil god.
But Colonel Ron had no way to ease Fraser's suffering right now. All he could do was take the bottle, now only a third full, from his psionic pack, unscrew the cap, and give Fraser a swig to help him hold on to his sanity.
It was a method Ron had learned from the Transians. It might make the injury worse, but when facing mental contamination from the forces of Chaos, a firm mind was clearly more important than a resilient body.
"I'm telling you, you look awful, you know that? Fraser, you smell like a pile of gnoll shit."
As he changed the bandage on Fraser's badly injured left arm, Ron joked:
"If the girls back home knew their dreamboat had turned out like this, I'm afraid all those lovely springtime dreams of theirs would be shattered."
"Shut up. Stop talking so much. My head's killing me. In the hallucination I had while I was unconscious, I saw my grandma beckoning to