A red flare crossed the clinic roof as Vella looked up from the spearman whose thigh she was stitching.
Twelve war mages dropped out of the eastern sky beyond the forward patrols, staffs already lifting over the clearing.
Forty-two patients lay on cots they could not leave without somebody carrying them, and every one of them knew it. The ones nearest the entrance watched flame gather between the mages' hands, and nobody in the ward managed a word.
"Burn the tents," the leading mage barked, swinging his staff toward the entrance, "leave nobody behind their line to mend the next men they send out."
"Like hell you will," Mara snapped, already hauling the nearest cot behind a partition.
Two attendants lifted another patient clear of the doorway while Vella wiped her hands and stepped outside.
She laid one palm upon the captured sensory array's terminal, and her fingers trembled against the cold housing.
