‘And yet the very idea holds a morbid fascination,’ the Thane finished for him. ‘Compared to an immortal, our brief lives would soon be over, regardless. In one hundred years, what would it matter how we came by our end? That is certainly the question; what would any one of us do in the King’s place? It is easy to say, and easy to believe that we would do otherwise. But were such a choice to be real, to be laid out before each and every one of us, who can say how any of us would act?’
‘Alive but alone for all eternity,’ Doc mused. ‘It would be a living hell. But it would still be eternity.’
Doc had treated a good many injuries in his time, from blisters and hangnails to knife and gunshot wounds. But he was little prepared for the kind of violence a sword could do. The victims looked as though they had survived an attempted axe-murder. Limbs were broken and hanging by strings of muscle and tendon, chest cavities were laid open, exposing the internal organs, intestines often spilled out of wounds like grey sausage, bones were splintered and protruded whitely from mangled flesh . . .
Blood and the smell of it were everywhere. The infirmary soon acquired the dank reek of a slaughterhouse, and looked more like an abattoir than a place of healing.