Venn Ve'nira T'elerean Vrennen was contemplating the theoretical applications of wound-knitting when the main doors of the Temple of Healing burst inward with the sort of dramatic flair usually reserved for natural disasters or particularly enthusiastic tax collectors.

  The woman who strode through them was easily the tallest person Venn had ever seen, and that was before accounting for the unconscious man cradled in her arms as if he weighed no more than a bag of feathers. Behind her trailed a smaller man with a bow, looking decidedly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

  "This man needs healing," the tall woman announced with the sort of calm certainty that suggested the universe generally arranged itself to accommodate her preferences. "He was attacked by bandits. Where do I put him?"

  Elder Adra looked up from her evening correspondence with practiced dismay. "I'm terribly sorry, but the Temple of Healing doesn't accept emergency cases. We're a place of learning. There are forms to fill out, waiting periods to observe, insurance crystals to verify..."

  The tall woman's eyebrows performed a subtle dance of disbelief. "He's dying."

  "Yes, well," Elder Adra adjusted her spectacles, "death is a natural part of the healing process. Or rather, the end of it. We study these things extensively. Have you considered the Eastside Clinic in Westkeep? They're much more equipped for this sort of urgent..." She gestured vaguely at the bleeding merchant.

  "He won't make it to Eastside," the archer interjected, then winced as his companion turned those remarkable eyes on him.

  "Then perhaps you should have brought him there sooner?" Elder Adra suggested with the helpful tone of someone who had never been shot at by bandits. "We are currently observing poisons and remedies with our students. Unless your friend is poisoned..."

  Venn watched this exchange with growing fascination. The tall woman hadn't moved, hadn't raised her voice, hadn't done anything particularly threatening. Yet somehow the temperature in the room seemed to have dropped several degrees, and Elder Adra's next helpful suggestion died unspoken on her lips.

  "Right," the tall woman said slowly, as if working through a particularly challenging philosophical problem. "You won't help him because of... procedures."

  "Exactly!" Elder Adra brightened, pleased to be understood. "We have standards to maintain. The proper way of the blessed Helea."

  "What about the cellar?" Venn heard herself say, surprised at her own mouth for uttering words.

  Every head in the room swiveled toward her. Elder Adra's left eye developed a pronounced twitch.

  "Acolyte Vrennen," the Elder began in a tone that suggested Venn would be scrubbing bedpans until the next lunar eclipse.

  "We need those supplies from lower storage," Venn pressed on, surprising herself with her boldness. "We're still short after the supplies that didn't reach us. The rare compounds, the blessed salts, the emergency materials we can't access because of the... situation."

  The tall woman shifted the merchant's weight infinitesimally. "What situation?"

  "Rats," Venn explained.

  The archer perked up and raised an eyebrow. "Rats? Just get some cats."

  "Giant rats," Venn clarified. "Possibly mutated, I think. Definitely organized. They've built fortifications."

  There was a moment of silence while everyone digested this information.

  "Have you tried giant cats?" the archer suggested.

  The tall woman's lips twitched in what might have been amusement. "We'll handle your rat problem. You handle his bleeding problem." She nodded toward the merchant. "Fair trade?"

  Elder Adra's face went through several fascinating color changes before settling on resigned beige. "The likelihood of success is minimal. Twelve senior acolytes have already attempted to clear the cellar. The rats have projectile weapons now."

  "Projectile weapons," the tall woman repeated. She blinked, but her facial expression was kept flat.

  "They've learned to use the poison darts from our old training equipment," Venn said, still surprised that she was talking. "They're remarkably accurate for creatures without opposable thumbs."

  "Of course they are." The woman looked around the receiving area. "Where do I put him while we work?"

  Elder Adra, apparently recognizing defeat when it stood six feet tall and carried a sword large enough to use as architectural support, gestured weakly toward an examination table. "Third door on the left for the cellar. Please try not to damage the infrastructure. The last group set fire to the pickle storage."

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  "Flaming pickles," the archer muttered. "Sounds delicious, if you ask me."

  The tall woman deposited the merchant with surprising gentleness for her stature, then turned to her companion. "Ready, Rast?"

  Rast checked his bow with the enthusiasm of someone told that they've volunteered for experimental surgery. "After you, Bormecian."

  They disappeared through the eastern corridor, leaving behind a profound silence that was almost immediately broken by Elder Adra muttering about injuries and who would be responsible.

  Venn found herself straining to hear what was happening below. For several minutes, there was nothing but the usual temple quiet punctuated by Elder Adra's increasingly creative bureaucratic cursing.

  Then the sounds began.

  It started with what could charitably be called vigorous furniture rearrangement, if furniture had opinions about where it wanted to be and expressed them violently. This was followed by a series of crashes that suggested someone had decided the cellar had too many shelves and was rectifying the situation with prejudice.

  "Sweet Helea," one of the other acolytes whispered. "What's happening down there?"

  The answer came in the form of what sounded like someone dropping a bell tower down a flight of stairs, if the stairs were fighting back and the bell tower was angry about it. Squeaks that belonged to no earthly creature echoed up through the floorboards, followed by what was definitely creative profanity in at least two languages.

  "Giant rats," Elder Adra said. "I specifically mentioned they were giant."

  More crashes. A sound like someone playing drums on cookware with enthusiasm but no rhythm. What might have been either a war cry or someone stubbing their toe on something particularly vindictive.

  Then silence.

  The kind of silence that suggested either complete victory or complete disaster.

  Rast stumbled through the door first, looking like he'd been dragged through all Nine Hells and back again. His left thigh showed clear semicircular tooth marks that suggested something had tried to taste him and found him acceptable. Three small darts protruded from his neck like the world's least festive decorations.

  "Who," came the Bormecian's voice from behind him, each word carrying the weight of significant displeasure, "puts poisoned training equipment where rats can reach it?"

  She emerged looking like she'd fought a small war and won, but only on points. Her arms showed numerous scratches and what were definitely bite marks, her armor bore new decorative punctures, and she was favoring her left leg slightly. Her right leg was entirely exposed where there once were leather pants. Despite this, she moved with the grace of someone for whom pain was merely interesting information rather than a deterrent.

  "Oh," Elder Adra said with sudden recognition. "We forgot to mention the training equipment."

  Reyn's expression suggested several responses, none of them suitable for a temple. Instead, she simply said, "We'll need healing. Him first." She jerked her head toward Rast, who was looking increasingly green.

  "Of course," Venn said quickly, moving toward the archer. "Let me just..."

  "Not finished," the Bormecian said, and turned back toward the cellar.

  "But you're injured!" Venn protested.

  "Yes." The Bormecian didn't even turn around as she disappeared back through the door.

  What followed made the previous symphony of destruction sound like a gentle lullaby. The crashes were harder now, punctuated by squeaks that rose in pitch until they passed beyond human hearing. At one point, something that sounded suspiciously like an explosion rattled the temple's foundation.

  "She's limping," Rast said as Venn worked to extract the darts. "Must have hurt her pride."

  "Her pride?" Venn asked, carefully applying antivenom.

  "I believe it's the only thing that really hurts a Bormecian Barbarian," Rast explained. "The rest is just... inconvenience."

  "Do you know her well?"

  Rast laughed. "Who? Reyn? No, not at all. She killed my business associate couple of days ago. Now we're here."

  "Oh." What else was Venn supposed to say?

  When the second silence fell, it had an air of absolute finality.

  Reyn re-emerged carrying what was unmistakably the severed head of something that had too many teeth, too much attitude, and too little sense of self-preservation. She set it on the nearest table with a wet thud that suggested significant weight.

  "Cellar's clear," she said. "Your supplies are accessible. Also, you'll need new shelving. And possibly new floor boards in the southeast corner."

  "What happened to the floor boards?" Elder Adra asked with a tired voice.

  "They were in the way."

  Venn stared at the various wounds decorating Reyn's visible skin. The warrior was definitely favoring her left leg now, and her breathing had a careful quality that suggested ribs might be involved. "You need treatment."

  "I need food and sleep," Reyn corrected, though she accepted the chair Venn quickly provided. "Heal them. I'll be back in two days."

  "Two days?" Elder Adra blinked. "But your injuries..."

  "Will heal." Reyn stood, wavering only slightly. "Two days. Make sure they both live. We have bandits to discuss."

  She headed for the door with the determined gait of someone who refused to acknowledge that their body had opinions about recent activities.

  "Wait!" Venn called. "At least let me bind those wounds. Maybe a light mending spell. You're dripping on our floors."

  Reyn paused, looked down at the small puddle forming beneath her, and shrugged. "Fair point."

  Ten minutes later, after basic field dressing that Reyn bore with the patience of someone humoring a child, the warrior departed. She left behind the rat head, blood stains that would require blessed salts to remove, and the distinct impression that the Temple of Healing had just experienced something outside its usual careful procedures. Which had become rather usual lately.

  "Well," Elder Adra said, staring at the grotesque trophy with the expression of someone thinking about their entire worldview. "I suppose we should... inventory what supplies are now accessible."

  Venn nodded, her attention on the door through which Reyn had limped with stubborn dignity. She'd seen warriors before, even treated them. But she'd never seen someone treat grievous bodily harm as a minor inconvenience like that. She didn't know much about Bormecians, she realized.

  Two days. She found herself oddly eager to see what condition the Bormecian would return in. Probably walking perfectly normally and complaining about the weather rather than the dozens of rat bites she'd endured.

  But first, there were patients to heal, supplies to retrieve from a cellar that probably looked like a war zone, and the small matter of explaining to the night shift why there was a giant rat head decorating the receiving area.

  Elder Adra was already composing what would undoubtedly be a twelve-page report on improper procedures and regulatory violations. But even she couldn't hide the relief that their supply crisis was solved, even if the solution had arrived in the form of a limping, bleeding Bormecian who treated giant mutant rats like a minor household chore.

  The Temple of Healing had seen many things in its centuries of operation. But Venn suspected they'd be talking about the warrior who cleared their cellar and then politely asked them to mind the blood on the floors for years to come.

  She picked up the rat head, studying its impressive dentition. Perhaps she'd have it mounted. A reminder that sometimes the best healing happened when you threw procedure out the window and let warriors do what warriors did best.

  Even if they insisted on limping away afterward, too proud to admit they needed help.

  Two days. Venn was already preparing extra bandages.