"Medical assistance only," I say finally. "Information exchange can wait until I'm not bleeding."
She nods, already signaling one of her soldiers. "Corpsman Anders, bring your kit. Standard field treatment for arterial damage."
A wiry man with scarred hands dismounts and approaches with a leather medical satchel. His movements have the quick confidence of someone who's patched wounds under fire, and when he kneels beside me, his examination is thorough but gentle.
"Deep, but clean," he reports to his commander. "Missed the major vessels, but it's close. He'll need stitches and a pressure wrap, then rest for at least three days."
"Do what you can here. We're not staying long enough for extended treatment."
The corpsman nods and begins unpacking his supplies. Needle. Thread. Bottles of clear liquid that smell like distilled fire. Professional medical equipment, far superior to our field dressings and herbal remedies.
When did Vaelmark mercenaries carry field surgeons?
The question bothers me more than the pain as Anders cleans the wound. Standard mercenary companies rely on basic first aid and prayers to get their wounded back to proper healers. Only military units with extended operational parameters invest in trained medical personnel.
Which suggests these aren't ordinary sellswords.
"Hold still," Anders mutters, threading his needle. "This will sting."
Sting proves to be a massive understatement. The first suture feels like liquid fire being drawn through my flesh, but I've endured worse during my warrior trials. I focus on observing the Vaelmark force instead of the needlework.
Six mounted archers, plus the commander and medic. All equipped with quality gear that shows signs of regular maintenance and recent use. Their horses are well-trainedwarhorses, not the pack animals usually favored by salvage operations. Their positioning around the square follows military doctrine rather than mercenary pragmatism.
They're hunting something specific. Question is what.
"Tell me about the smuggling routes," the commander says, settling into a crouch beside me with casual authority. "How frequently do you encounter independent traders in this area?"
"Varies by season. More activity during the dry months when the roads are passable."
"This trader specifically. Have you encountered him before?"
I glance toward the carter, who's secured most of his cargo and is now eyeing the various armed groups with obvious nervousness. "First time. But his type comes through regularly."
"His type?"
"Artifact hunters. They follow rumors of pre-Blazing sites that might have survived the elemental fires. Usually work alone, move fast, sell to private collectors in the border settlements."
She processes this information. "Any indication these collectors might be connected to larger organizations? Foreign interests, perhaps?"
Now we're getting to it.
The question reveals more than she probably intended. Vaelmark Command isn't just concerned about random smuggling. They're tracking organized procurement operations, possibly tied to hostile intelligence gathering.
"Hard to say," I reply honestly. "We focus on keeping them out of our sacred sites. Who they sell to isn't usually our concern."
Anders finishes the last suture and begins wrapping my thigh with clean bandages. The pressure feels good and secure. Professional work that should hold even if we encounter more fighting on the withdrawal.
"Thank you," I tell him.
He nods and begins packing his equipment. "Keep it clean. Change the dressing daily. If you see red streaking or feel excessive heat, find a proper healer immediately."
"I will."
The Vaelmark commander stands, brushing ash from her armored knees. "Your patrol should be able to reach friendly territory before dark. Avoid unnecessary exertion for the next few days."
There's something final about her tone, suggesting the conversation is over. But as she turns to rejoin her soldiers, I notice something that stops me cold.
A ribbon. She tucked dark blue silk against her skin, barely visible beneath her breastplate. The color and weave match Ironspine ceremonial dress, the kind worn during memorial services and clan gatherings.
