The air was hot and still. The sun was a round ball of fire in the sky and the absence of any clouds made the heat even more impressive. No birds sang, in fact there was a lack of noise so profound that it was almost a sound in and of itself.
Bryony stank, even to his own nose. He was sticky with blood but he refused to let his mind dwell on that fact as he made himself methodically go through the torn bits of clothing on the other corpses near him. Somewhere in the carnage was a medic's bag. If Bryony didn't find the bag and the supplies within, the wounds making him dizzy and weak would foul and then he would die. Bryone did not want to die.
The silence jangled his taut nerves. The battle magic wouldn't fade for days and until then, no animals would come near the site. His skin crawled with the desire to leave the area; he didn't know for certain how long he'd been unconscious and there was a small chance that the opposition would return, although he had no idea why they would do that.
It wastn't the medic, but Bryony came across a fellow foot soldier who had had the foresight to pack an emergency kit. It was too bad that the dead man didn't have the foresight to leave the battle once the tide turned. It was also possible that the man didn't get the chance to choose; things had happened so quickly. There weren't a lot of supplies in the kit but this was enough to tend to the worst of the holes and slashes leaking essential fluid. Using more rags, Bryone replaced the soaked makeshift bandages and sniffed the air for water.
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