Rawk had trouble keeping up. His knee hurt more with every step and his arm was moving on to whatever came after a dull ache. He didn’t want to know the details. “What’s in the bag?”
Clinker clutched the bag tighter. “Everything.”
Rawk shook his head. “Is that where you got your name? All the rattling and clinking?”
He gave it some thought. “Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Kikum.”
There were as many stone and brick buildings as any others now, solid, blocky things that seemed about as exciting as rain on market day. Typical dwarvish construction. No imagination. No... artistry. They probably did the job beautifully, but that was the only beautiful thing about them.
“Everyone says Sylvia’s about the best healer there is,” Clinker said.
“I imagine she is.” Rawk continued on for a few steps after the boy stopped.
Clinker turned and gestured to a door. “She’s in there. She might not be there though.” He shrugged.
The door was unmarked. There was no sign. There was no indication that a healer worked within. “Are you sure?”
“Course I’m sure. Sylvia helped Larsi last year when she got sick. She almost died. I ran up here in the middle of the night to get her. Sylvia that is, not Larsi.” He scratched at his head, messing up his hair even more.
“Right.” Rawk pulled a coin from the pouch on his belt and held it out to the boy. “Don’t tell anyone where you brought me, all right? My friend doesn’t want anyone to know.”
Clinker’s eyes went wide. “Five ithel? Thank you Mr Rawk, sir. I won’t tell anyone.”
Rawk knew it was pointless. Dwarves couldn’t be trusted at the best of times, but a boy? Clinker rattled off down the street leaving Rawk on his own.
After the dwarf had gone on his way, Rawk stared at the door. He didn’t want to go in, but he needed a healer who wouldn’t talk, and he didn’t know of any others. He sighed and went inside. The door knocked against a bell and a familiar voice emerged from beyond a second door.
“I’ll be there in a moment.”
Rawk almost hurried back out the door. He didn’t reply.
From the outside, there may not have been any indication of what the premises was used for, but inside there could be no doubts. He looked at one of the shelves. Corrydart. Hemlock. Bardeegood. Murtle bug shells. Across the other side, near a small counter, were jars with labels like, ‘Cold’, ‘Headache’, ‘Liver Spots’ and ‘Lice’. Bitter and sweet, acidic and smooth, soft and sharp, a hundred different odors seemed to hang in the still air with the dust motes. Rawk sat on a stool near the counter, one hand resting on his lap, near his dagger, the other holding the amulet under his shirt. He was ready. As ready as he could be.
The voice came again. “You only just caught me.” A woman came around the corner wiping her hands on a green cloth. “I was about to close up for...” She stopped in the doorway, mouth open, hands stilled, when she saw Rawk.
“Hello, Silver Lark. How are you?” He tried to sound casual, but he wasn’t sure if it worked. Silver Lark had spent a lot of years trying to kill him and he didn’t know if today was going to be any different.
She stood for long moments. Rawk could almost see the thoughts chasing through her head. Eventually, she cleared her throat and finished wiping her hands. She still didn’t come through the door.
“It has been a long time since I heard that name, Rawk.”
He licked his lips. “Should I call you Sylvia?”
“I would prefer you did. I assume Weaver does not know of my presence or he would be here himself.”
“With a whole troop of Guards, I imagine.”
“Of course. Though you might come on your own if the reward was high enough.”
Rawk laughed though his heart pounded. “If I was after a reward, I’d have more than a dagger.”
Sylvia raised an eyebrow. “A dagger and an amulet that has barely a trickle of power left. Do you think they will save you?”
Rawk shrugged and released the amulet. He watched her even closer than before but the fact that he’d made it through the initial exchanges made him think he wasn’t about to die. It was hard to relax anyway. He resisted the urge to wipe sweat away from his forehead, mainly because there was none there. It just felt like there should be.
“So, to what do I owe the pleasure, after fifteen years?” She didn’t look pleased. She looked wary.
“Closer to seventeen. And it shows. You’re starting to look old, Sylvia.” She wasn’t. She looked surprisingly good. Still slim and tall, with high cheekbones and a perfect nose. It looked like she hadn’t aged at all, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.
“Why thank you. A gentleman as always.”
Rawk couldn’t remember ever having an actual conversation with her before. “No, that’s a compliment. You should know that sorcerers don’t get any respect until they’re old and crotchety. Especially women. Who trusts a young witch to do anything right?”
“Are you calling me a witch?”
Rawk looked around the room. He didn’t want to offend her, he was quite happy to still be alive, after all, but... “Potions? Really?”
“You’re asking me for help and you still think you can lecture me on how far I have fallen?”
That one struck home. Rawk winced and cleared his throat. “Weaver doesn’t actively look anymore.”
“I know. So I’ll just make my potions and keep quiet.”
Rawk tensed as she came into the room and went around behind the counter.
“You’re looking old too,” she continued. “And, last I checked, that isn’t a good thing for a Hero.”
“Nobody cares how old merchants are, and the age of heroes doesn’t matter either. As long as I can do the job.”
“Can you? Most old heroes know when to retire and slip away quietly with their loot.”
“Unlike me, you mean.”
“Exactly. You’ve survived a long time so perhaps it’s time to stop pressing your luck.”
“Friendly advice?”
She grimaced. “Well, let’s call it advice. You haven’t tried to stab me yet, but let’s not throw away forty years of enmity on a whim.”
“At least you’ll get a warning. Apparently my amulet won’t help at all.”
She shrugged. “You choose sorcerers as enemies and you face the consequences.”
Rawk watched as she tapped her finger on the counter, as if each little movement could signal an attack. “Well, let me just make it clear—I’ve known you were here for about ten years and haven’t once tried to kill you.” Now that he thought about it, she’d known where he was as well. He relaxed. A bit.
“So why are you here then?”
And suddenly, Rawk was reluctant. He’d spent most of his life hating Silver Lark. And fearing her. He’d hated and feared all sorcerers, but Silver Lark in particular, and now he intended to ask her for help.
“We’ve known each other too long for this, Rawk. Who do you think I will tell?”
She was right. She was keeping a low profile and unlikely to draw attention to herself, which was why he’d decided to come to her in the first place. He sighed and rolled up his sleeve. The bandages were soaked in blood. There had been pain for quite some time but the tension of talking with Sylvia had kept his attention.
The sorceress raised her eyebrows. “A wolden wolf did this to you? You really do need to retire.”
“It wasn’t a wolden wolf.”
She came back around the counter and started to unwrap the wound. “Really? That’s what they all say.”
“It was bloody huge. At least—”
“I know, Rawk.” She held up a hand. “Now hold still. Thacker had some people watching. Jod was surprised anyone could mistake the creature for a wolden wolf.”
Rawk grunted. “Exactly.” He gritted his teeth against the pain as Sylvia completed revealing the wound on his arm.
“This doesn’t look good. Jod said
it was the size of a horse.”
Rawk could only nod.
“And he says you just charged in and attacked it.”
Rawk nodded again.
“Why? If you insist on continuing with this Hero business, perhaps you should at least admit your advancing years and give matters some thought from time to time.”
“I did think about it. I thought about running, but that would’ve gotten me killed.”
“You thought about running? Maybe not completely stupid after all, though I imagine the audience had as much to do with your decision to fight as did the fear of death.”
Rawk hurried on. “And I thought that if the fight lasted more than a couple of seconds I’d be dead. I had to end it quickly, so I did.”
“Luckily.”
“Maybe.”
“You really are too old, Rawk. Being a Hero is a young man’s game.”
“So I’ve been told. But I don’t have anything else.”
“That’s what I thought. Now look at me.” Silver Lark gestured around the room. After a moment, she laughed.
Rawk smiled. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
“Apart from the maniacal kind in the midst of battle, of course.”
“Of course.” Rawk looked at his arm. It didn’t look good. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“Let me get my needle and thread. The wound itself isn’t a problem—about ten stitches should fix that—but there could be infection.”
When she came back, Rawk winced. “Can’t you just...” He waggled his fingers.
“Magic? You can’t be serious. If I was willing to give myself away, do you really think you would be the person I’d do it for? The last time we interacted, you were trying to kill me.”
“Are you sure?”
“What else would you have been doing? It was at Maradon.”
Rawk smiled. “That’s right. The rebellion thing. King said—”
“Rebellion thing? Otherwise known as a peasant uprising. They were being taxed out of their homes in the longest drought in recorded history. They—”
“Semantics.”
“Those people needed help, Rawk. They needed a Hero. They got me instead. King Terwin needed a conscience and he got warriors.”
“I won though. The King won.”
“Really? Most of the peasants that survived were forced to flee.”
“No big loss.”
“No big loss? Maradon’s economy still hasn’t recovered.”
Rawk thought of pointing out that the Chancellor had embezzled away half of the country’s wealth during the revolt. That was what Terwin had told him, anyway, as part of the reason he couldn’t pay the agreed sum... What if the exodus of peasants had been the real problem? Rawk kept his mouth shut.
Sylvia started stitching the wound and wasn’t being gentle about it. “You will not be getting any magic out of me.” When she finished she disappeared into the back room for a moment and returned with a fresh bandage. She slapped it down into his hand.
“I have to do this?”
“Yes. Later.” She collected two items from the shelves. “Firstly though, you soak some of this in boiling water, then drain the water off and pack the leaves onto the wound for about half an hour. Can you sit still for that long?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s called tea. It’s from Frenable. After half an hour you throw the leaves out and you sprinkle this powder on the wound before bandaging it.”
Rawk started to stand.
“What drugs did you take before?”
“Travis gave me some harawort.”
“Harawort? Really? Beena taught him better than that.” She shook her head and gestured to the tea again. “After you’ve soaked the tea, don’t throw out the water. Put your head over the bowl and cover both with a towel or something so you are breathing in the steam.”
“Breathing the steam?”
“That will help counteract the harawort. It will take the pain away for a while and let you get some sleep, at least.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Do it again in the morning, but I suggest you don’t do anything strenuous for a week, at least.”
“That won’t be possible.”
“Then ignore all my advice and I hope the infection kills you.”
“You probably poisoned the needle anyway. This is probably the best chance you ever had.”
“Seventeen years is a long time to hold a grudge, Rawk. Any animosity I felt is long gone.”
“So you don’t want to kill me?”
Sylvia sighed. “I never wanted to kill anyone. Not even you.”
“Then what were we doing all those years?”
“I was trying to survive. I was trying to help people. And you were this mythical figure that came along every now and then to disrupt my plans. Like bad weather or something. For me, it was not personal. I didn’t even know you.”
Not personal? He’d hated her. He’d wished every sort of horrible death upon her. At the time it had felt like Silver Lark was there every time Rawk tried to do something but, when he thought about it, they had probably only battled a dozen times in all those years. And some of those confrontations hardly counted as battles at all. He didn’t know what to say, so he shrugged.
Sylvia picked up the tea and the powder and held them out to him. “Take them or leave them. Either way, leave. I still have people to see tonight.”
Rawk sighed and took the packages. “Thank you, Silver Lark.” It felt strange to say it.
She grunted. “I suppose you’ll be back next time you’re injured.”
Rawk didn’t know if that was an invitation. “Probably.”
She shooed him out the door but didn’t tell him to stay away. Invitation it was.
-O-
Rawk sat up when Travis came in the door carrying a large copper bowl and a bucket of steaming water.
“So, where do you want this?” Travis said. “And why do you want it?”
Rawk looked around. There weren’t a lot of options. The bowl would soon be too hot for his lap. “Just put it on the floor.” He pointed vaguely and assumed Travis would work it out.
“Now what?”
“I’ll do it.” But Travis just stood looking at him. So he picked up the bag of tea and threw it to him. “I need some of that soaked and drained. I’m going to pack it onto the wound for a while.”
Travis did as asked, working in silence.
“Do you know the healer, Sylvia? Over near Grace?”
“Of course. Everyone who has anything to do with healing does. Is that who you went to see?”
“She said you should have known better than to give me harawort.”
He glanced up. “You asked for it, remember?”
“So how does she know you?”
Travis shrugged. “Maybe she keeps track of all the healers. Just so she can complain when we make mistakes.” He started pressing the damp leaves into the wound. He wasn’t being any more gentle than Sylvia had, so Rawk took over. “I’ll throw out the water.”
“Don’t.” Rawk told him what to do and by the time he was done with his arm the bowl was ready to go.
“And you breathe in the steam?” Travis said.
“Apparently.” Rawk knelt on the floor, careful of his arm, and put his head over the bowl. Travis laid a towel over his head so it hung down to the floor with the bowl beneath.
“And that’s it? What’s it supposed to do?”
“Counteract the harawort, or something.” He breathed in the strong, sweet smell of the tea. “Not sure I believe her though.”
But even as he said it, Rawk could feel his head starting to clear. He wasn’t very comfortable, kneeling on the floor, back arched, but he started to relax. His muscles seemed to loosen of their own accord. The aching of his head receded ever so slightly. The tea was helping his arm, though whether it was the poultice on it’s own or the fumes as well, he couldn’t tell. H
e waved his good arm at Travis.
“Just leave me for a while, will you. I’ll be down for dinner soon.”
Fifteen minutes later, Rawk sprinkled the powder on his arm then strapped it as tight as he could before making his way down the stairs. He didn’t feel like he could fight of a wolden wolf, not even a real one, but he felt like he could eat one. He sat in his dark, quiet booth at the back of the common room and less than a minute later a plate piled high with roasted pork and vegetables was set down in front of him. Tasi didn’t even slow. Her arms were piled high with bowls and plates.
Rawk ate as if he’d missed lunch and was glad when some bread and jam materialized as if by magic. It came with a tall silver tankard. He had time to shout, “Thanks,” this time before Tasi was gone again.
He savored every bite of the bread then picked up the tankard and sat back to relax and survey the room. Someone near the door was watching him. People watched him wherever he went, it came with being a Hero, but sometimes it was different. He smiled, raised his tankard and took a sip as the girl confidently made her way across the room.
“Hello,” she said, leaning against his table. “I’m Adalee.”
“Hello, Adalee. I’m Rawk.”
“I know who you are.”
Rawk sighed. “I know you know who I am, but it feels rude to not introduce myself.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. What can I do for you tonight?”
She raised a plucked eyebrow and looked him up and down. “I don’t know. But I’m sure you can think of something.”
Faraday
Rawk sat on the edge of the bed and catalogued his aches and pains. Arm, knee and back. Not as bad as he would have expected.
Adalee couldn’t be blamed for the knee or the arm, but the sore back was all her fault. There was movement behind him and he turned to look at the girl. She sat up, sheet clutched to her breasts, much more demure than she’d been the night before. Several times. He turned away from her and tried to soak up the last calm moment he was likely to see that day.
But she was just a girl. How old had she said? Nineteen? Twenty? Not old enough to know. He felt her arms slide around him from behind and she nibbled his ear. “Shall we dance again before breakfast, my Hero?”
The Age of Heroes Page 4