by Liam Reese
Hope rose in her chest again as she worked the board loose, wrenching it from the barrier to fall behind her. The smell that wafted from within made her retch, a heavy combination of human waste and putrefaction that meant he had to be dead. Thoran forced herself to carry on, she had to know for certain if Sharova was in here and if he lived.
Eventually she managed to pull enough wood aside to access the chamber beyond and crawled slowly inside, patting the floor gingerly, fearful of what she might find. Gravel and other sharp things met her sore fingertips as she worked.
“Sharova?” she whispered.
Why am I whispering?
Her word echoed hollowly in the tiny space, but she could hear nothing else.
A squeal jumped from her throat when her hand hit something hot, wet and swollen. Her arm jerked back automatically, the skin on her palm crawling and trying to escape. Heart beating hard and breath whistling from her throat, Thoran reached for the thing again.
A leg! It is a leg!
Feeling her way up the body, Thoran ran her hands over damp clothing and through a matted beard until she reached a face. Barely a puff of breath escaped him, and she wondered if this was really Sharova on the verge of death.
With no supplies and no way to get him out, Thoran started to cry. The hopelessness of her situation hit home, and she lay down beside him, weak and spent. Thoran listened to the weak breaths his body dragged slowly in and out, the sound almost comforting.
Just stay with him. Just wait for the end. At least Tiernon can have no claim on you.
“Mama?” Sharova’s voice was barely recognizable, hoarse and wasted.
“Sharova?” Thoran said. “Can you hear me?”
“Mama...sorry...”
His tone wrenched at her heart, filled with pain and sorrow, and she wondered what horrors his delirium had conjured.
“Yes, Son,” Thoran said, tears flowing down her face. “Now I need you to get up! Come on, Sharova! Up!”
The former fleet admiral moaned as she pulled at him, the pain from his infection ripping through his entire system.
With near constant cajoling and pretending to be his mother, Thoran managed to get Sharova to his feet, one arm thrown over her shoulders, and the pair staggered from his tomb in complete blackness.
Without knowing how long it took, she led the moaning, crying, half-crazed man from within the depths of the earth, birthing them both back into the realms of man when she opened the door that let them back into the palace.
Bright sun flooded the hall, making her squint in agony and confusion. Sharova slumped down the wall to lay in a heap, and shock rolled through her when she saw how wasted and ill he was.
His face and body had shrunk, the former stocky frame gone, wasted to emaciation, and she could see the infection had crawled up his leg, swelling and making it look painfully red. Thoran realized she would not be able to lift him, and he had fallen into unconsciousness, his breathing wet. She struggled and fought to get him on his side, propped against the cool wall, and stumbled off to try and find something to help him.
Sepulcher-like, the palace was completely empty, silent and still. Thoran passed through the halls and chambers like a wraith, not accosted and free. She searched fruitlessly for what felt like hours until finally she reached the former kitchens.
The massive hearth, large enough to stand inside, lay cold, the fires had long since burned out. Foodstuffs and utensils lay in complete disarray, and the evidence of rats lay everywhere. Thoran started a search, looking for anything that she could use and the rats had not nibbled or fouled with their leavings.
A while later she had managed to gather two small jars of honey, some dried and salty meat, and a few desiccated vegetables. Her heart soared when she found a barrel of clean water, slurping the liquid down greedily until her stomach ached painfully. Weariness tempted her to sleep, but she knew she had to get back to Sharova, then realized she had no idea where she had left him.
Working on pure force of will, Thoran made her way back through the palace, looking at the ruined furnishings and scattered items that had once made the place beautiful. She chewed a piece of the meat, her jaws aching with the effort and the salty flavor that assaulted her mouth. Eventually she started to recognize some of the places she had been before and knew how to return to where Sharova lay.
Confusion tore at her when she got back to find his body gone.
15
Keluse watched in frightened horror as children burned alive. Their screams of terror and agony ripped at her soul, and she knew they would haunt her for the rest of her life. Madness swirled around her as people ran screaming from Tiernon’s destruction of their homes.
Her eyes lit on Besmir, his body planted firmly before Tiernon, directly in his path. Screaming his name, she started forward, wincing as a flock of birds dived straight at the battlemage, swerving off as soon as they had hit his invisible barrier. When the flashes subsided, Tiernon lowered the hand he had used to shield his eyes and carried on throwing fire in all directions. She watched in awe as rats and mice wriggled through the grass to hurl themselves at the same barrier the birds had. Trails of small animals headed for the mage, emerging from piles of logs, the woods nearby and the riverbank.
Besmir!
Keluse realized his plan when Tiernon’s attacks paused a second time and she spun, screaming at anyone she could to throw things at the evil man. She drew her bow and started firing arrows, each one making a little flare of light as it exploded against his shield. Ranyor dashed over, hurling anything he could towards Tiernon in the hope it would stop him. Members of the White Blades followed suit, joined by some of the tent-towners when they understood what was happening. Civilians and royal guard alike, all came together in a desperate attempt to stop Tiernon.
A rain of objects hammered against Tiernon’s shield, making it flash ever brighter. Plates and cutlery, sticks and branches, anything that was not aflame they used as missiles against him.
Keluse noticed the flashes were reducing in brilliance and one of the larger objects, a battered shield, hammered through to slam into Tiernon’s leg breaking his concentration.“He’s weakening!” she screamed.
Reaching for another arrow, Keluse’s hand grasped at nothing. Her quiver was empty, and despair rolled through her chest.
The sound of thundering hooves came to her ears and she turned to watch as a massive stag galloped across the grassland, headed directly at Tiernon. Her mind made the connection and she cut her eyes to Besmir’s broad back in wonder.
Tiernon had thrown his arms up in defence, the slow rain of thrown objects all hitting him now. The odd man behind him took a glancing blow from an earthenware jug, felling him instantly, blood trickling from his nose.
The stag lowered his head, charging at Tiernon, antlers first. Tiernon’s hand shot out towards Keluse and the defenders and she watched in dismay as their rain of objects flew in the opposite direction, allowing Tiernon to stare at Besmir with hate. His arm was raised, pointing at the hunter, and something black exploded from his open hand at the same time as the stag smashed into his body.
Tiernon folded in half around the stag’s antlers before being thrown high into the air as the great beast tossed its head. Keluse watched as his body made a high arc in the air then disappeared. The stag trembled as if understanding where it was and darted off, headed for the forest again.
Keluse assumed Besmir had released his control of the beast and looked toward where he had been standing. His body lay on the scorched, burned ground, and an ice-cold fist grasped her heart. She scrambled to her feet, racing across the debris and smoking ruins of the tent town towards him.
“Keluse!” Ranyor shouted from behind her.
She ignored her lover, throwing herself down beside the man who had saved her from the evils of her life in Tyrington. Her hands reached for him then halted, as if touching him would make his death real. If she did not touch him, did not feel the lack of pulse, the absenc
e of breath, it would not be real.
Besmir looked peaceful, Keluse decided as she stroked the hair from his pale face. Almost as if a smile tried to play at the corners of his mouth. One arm lay over his chest, the other at his side as if he was asleep, and Keluse almost shook him to try and rouse him.
“Keluse,” Ranyor said, resting his hands on her shoulders.
“He’s fine,” she said as others began to arrive. “Just asleep.”
“Besmir!” Arteera screamed as she pelted across towards him.
The dark-haired woman dropped to her knees beside him, laying her head on his chest and sobbing. Zaynorth, Herofic and some members of the White Blades joined the growing crowd of tent-town people sobbing, grief-stricken and pale with shock at the loss of their new king.
Keluse looked from one face to another, searching each for some sign of hope. Zaynorth looked back with pity and grief written on his face. Herofic looked enraged, without a target to unleash his temper on. Norvasil shoved his way through the crowd, took one look at Besmir’s body, and collapsed to his knees.
“Not again,” he pleaded. “Not another.” He bowed his head in grief and loss.
“Quiet!” Arteera yelled, lifting her tear-streaked face to implore them all. “He lives still.” She laid her head on his chest again, listening as they all fell silent around him. “I can hear a heartbeat!” she said after a few seconds.
Keluse pressed her fingers against his throat and hovered her ear over his lips. Hope filled her system when she felt the faintest pulse flick over her fingertips, a hint of breath kissing her ear.
“He is!” she cried. “I can feel his heartbeat. Help me lift him.”
Hands lifted Besmir’s body, all trying to touch the man who had stood against Tiernon for them, offering prayers and giving thanks that he lived.
They bore him through the town to his pavilion, lay him on his bed and stood there, uncertain as to what they could do for him.
“Light a fire,” Arteera said. “So he remains warm.”
Keluse laid her hand on Besmir’s brow, feeling the warmth of life radiating from him.
“He is warm,” she muttered, looking at the other woman.
Arteera’s face crumpled. “Then what can be done for him?”
“I don’t know,” Keluse admitted. “Keep him comfortable until he recovers?”
“You think he will?” the other woman asked, hope ringing in her voice.
Keluse looked at her, seeing the same expression on her face that Keluse wore on her own. She loved Besmir as if he were her older brother, but Arteera looked to be in love with him, and she considered how she might feel if it were Ranyor lain low.
“I hope so,” she said.
Thoran cast about for any sign of the man she had saved, wondering if she had returned to the same place she had left him or somewhere similar-looking. After a few seconds of searching, she knew it was. Damp marks on the stonework showed where he had managed to drag himself off, and she sighed as she followed them.
Luckily he had not been able to get himself too far, and she rounded a corner to see a swollen foot laying at the junction of two corridors. Sharova looked as if he was reaching towards one of the doors, and Thoran moved over to see what was inside.
Beyond the door lay a simple room, bare apart from an old table and piles of dust. She set her pilfered items down on the table and went to check on him, lifting the clay bottle she had filled with water to his lips.
Sharova choked when the first drops hit his lips and his eyes opened, lighting on her for a few seconds but remaining unfocused as he moaned. Thoran dribbled a few more drops onto his cracked lips and watched as he managed to swallow a few.
“This way, Sharova,” she said, pulling him towards the door. “This way, Son.”
Slowly, the fever-riddled, wasted man dragged himself into the room, and Thoran closed the door. Panting and sliding to one side, she lay there staring at his swollen leg.
Get up, he needs you!
Exhausted both physically and mentally, Thoran climbed slowly to her knees and crawled over to look at Sharova’s leg. A deep cut, surrounded by lighter scratches, looked angry, puffy and red. It wept when she touched the hot area around it, bringing a deep moan from his throat. Thoran hardened her heart and pressed her fingers down the length of his leg, forcing the poison from his body.
Sharova screamed, his body jerking away from the pain, but Thoran carried on massaging the pus from his leg as his screams and moans filled the air. Eventually no more would come, and a small trickle of blood flowed from the wound
After pouring some honey on it she managed to rip some cloth from her dwindling clothes and wrapped it around his leg. She scooped a little into her own mouth, wincing at its sweetness as it bit at her mouth.
Fatigue pulled at her and she slumped forward, lying beside the man she was attempting to save.
“I shall look for some more thi...” she murmured, closing her eyes and letting sleep take her.
Keluse made her way back through the field of tents, a brace of pheasants over her shoulder. The dead had been buried, the remains of the tents and charred possessions cleared, and life had resumed a hushed routine. Keluse had returned to hunting, as that was what she thought Besmir would wish her to do. A few people called to her as she passed, and she waved at the families and friends as she walked.
She smiled when she saw some of the men of the White Blades living with the tent-town folk, laughing and joking with each other as if nothing had happened. Sadness hit her again as she caught sight of Besmir’s large tent and thought of its contents. Keluse could see without looking what it would be like inside. Arteera would be tending Besmir, washing and cleaning his body to prevent sores, pouring honeyed water into his mouth and whispering to him as others poked their heads inside to see if there was any change. Keluse avoided the place entirely, knowing there was going to be no change. His body might cling to life, but his spirit was gone. She could feel the lack of energy, sense the absence of anything that made him him.
Ranyor was missing from their tent when she arrived, so she dumped her cargo and trotted through the tents towards the training area the Blades had marked out. Zaynorth had managed to convince people that Besmir would recover, despite Keluse’s protests, and they had begun training anyone who was willing to handle a sword or ax, teaching them the basics of combat. Ranyor had volunteered to train his own ten, and Keluse knew that was where he would be.
She rounded the last of the tents to see a massive area filled with women and adolescent boys, each armed and engaged in various forms of combat under the watch of experienced fighters. Easily half the growing camp had volunteered for combat training, and Keluse felt a warm pride growing inside her as she watched them work.
Ranyor stood in the middle of his group, his keen eyes picking up on any tiny mistakes the women might make. Keluse smiled as she walked over towards them, seeing his knitted brow and the serious set of his jaw. He pointed something out to one of the women and she smiled up at him. Keluse halted. That had not been merely a friendly smile.
She was young, Keluse noticed, pretty as many of the Gazluthian women were, with long, dark hair and clear, light skin.
What am I in comparison?
Keluse skirted around behind the group and approached stealthily, losing herself in the mass of people. A few recognized her blonde hair and tanned skin, raising a hand in greeting as she passed. Straining over the sounds of grunting and the clang of metal on metal, Keluse listened to what Ranyor and the girl were saying.
“...to roll your wrist when countering,” he said.
“I do not think I will ever be able to get this right,” the girl said in a weak voice. “Could you show me again?” Her voice was light and breathy. Keluse watched her expression change, a flash of lust crossing her features.
“No need for that, Dorann,” Ranyor said, his voice businesslike. “You will get used to the technique in battle.”
Keluse smile
d a little when she realized he had no idea the girl was propositioning him, and her look of chagrin sent shivers of satisfaction through her.
“Let us call this a successful day,” Ranyor called, turning so they could all hear. “Return at first light tomorrow and we shall continue.”
Keluse saw his face light up, a warm smile curving his lips, when he caught sight of her. Striding through the group, he took her hand and kissed the back of her fingers, sending shivers of delight down her spine.
“I thought you were still hunting, love,” he said staring into her eyes.
Keluse shook her head, feeling self-conscious in the presence of so many others. Dorann shot a hate-filled look at Keluse as she passed.
“See you tomorrow, Ranyor,” she said.
Ranyor ignored the girl completely, his attention focused solely on Keluse. Leading her from the midst of the fighting women, Ranyor retained her hand as they walked, warmth spreading up her arm from the contact.
Heading for the outskirts of the forest, Keluse knew he would make for the small stream that fed the lake the tent town had been built beside. They had found a secluded spot beneath the arms of a willow tree, far from prying eyes and ears, to be truly alone.
Chilly drops hit Keluse when Ranyor jumped into the little pool carved out by the passage of water. He hissed and splashed water over his back, scrubbing the dirt of the day from his skin while she watched in amusement.
“Gods,” he gasped. “I forget how cold this is every time.”
Keluse chuckled. “You need to be careful around Dorann,” she said without knowing she was going to say it.
Ranyor looked up, puzzled, at her own surprised expression.
“Dorann, why?” he asked, flicking water at her.
“Hey!” Keluse cried. “I heard her earlier asking for private lessons.” Keluse flicked her hair and put on a high voice, mocking Dorann’s speech. “She’s after you,” she added.