by Blake, Bruce
As she mourned Teryk, a final line of the prophecy came to her recollection:
When stars go out, the end is nigh.
Her gaze dropped to the ground to watch her footing as they made their way along the road to who-knew-where, but now she raised it again, directing her eyes skyward.
A washed-out shade of blue crept across the sky in the wake of dawn’s gray light. A sliver of panic found its way through her and Danya cast her gaze toward sunset where night still struggled against the rising sun. No pinpricks of light twinkled in the sky and her discomfort widened until she found one. It shone brighter than the others, bright enough to be seen as sunlight took over the world.
Danya stared at it, its presence forcing panic down in her, but not quashing it completely. As she stared, she became dimly aware of the clatter of wagon wheels on hard ground as the merchant caravan began its journey for the day, headed to the next town to separate people from their money.
The last remaining star brightened, a flash of red crossing its surface before it winked out, succumbing to the light of the sun. Danya gasped unconsciously and stopped, a shiver finding its way along her limbs as she stared up at the blank and empty sky.
Should Small Gods rise, man will fall.
XV Stirk—Lost
Without knowing whether to search Evenside or Morningside, Stirk decided to follow the river that separated the two. Trouble was, doing so took him closer to the outskirts of the city where he was less familiar his surroundings. Everything resembled everything else after a while—the buildings, the streets, even the thugs and whores and beggars. Nowhere did he see a single man in armor. No ceegees, no soldiers, no one-armed sword master.
Breathless and hungry, Stirk stopped at the next corner, careful not to tread in a stream of sludge flowing down the cobbles—the result of people emptying their night pots. This part of the Horseshoe stank even worse than Fishtown.
He leaned against the wall, panting from exertion and overheating. Wearing the tight jerkin brought him no joy because it made him too hot, but he needed it for the place it provided for hiding his hand. What might people think if they saw him parading through the streets holding onto his own severed appendage?
The image it brought to mind made him chuckle. Likely some people’d shit themselves; a lot of them practically did when they cast their gaze upon his stump. He shook his head and dragged his arm across his forehead, wiping sweat away before it ran into his eyes. As he finished, he paused, arm still pressed against his head.
Something ain’t right.
Unease crept through him, prickling his limbs and constricting his throat. He flared his nostrils, unintentionally drawing in the street’s stench, and squeezed a gulp of saliva down his gullet as he lowered his arm.
It’s where he touched me.
He raised his hand to the side of his head, hesitating before his fingers made contact. Before wiping away the sweat, nothing’d seemed different than before. Didn’t feel any different, things didn’t sound different. Could he be mistaken? His hand closed the small distance and confirmed his fear.
He took it. The bastard took my ear.
If pressed, Stirk supposed he’d have admitted to suspecting this’d happened but fooled himself into believing it hadn’t by avoiding the issue. He’d refrained from touching his ear until now. He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, nibbled on it. His fingers traced a circle around the hole left in the side of his head normally disguised by his ear. The surrounding flesh was smooth as the stump at the end of his handless arm.
Will this happen every time I ask him for help?
The thought brought a shiver to Stirk’s spine. He lowered his hand, the movement prompting a growl in his belly that startled him at first, making him think an animal had crept up behind him. An instant later, he realized his mistake and rubbed his aching belly with his stump, the missing ear forgotten for the moment.
“Gonna have to do something for you.”
He pushed himself away from the wall, stepped over the tiny river of piss and shit and out into the boulevard. The other people on the street gave a wide birth when they saw him, probably fearful of his hungry expression. Stirk couldn’t blame them, he was suddenly hungry enough he might have eaten one of them if he thought their flesh’d have the flavor of chicken or cow. He doubted it would. He’d have to find sustenance some other way.
Where there’s folk, there’s grub.
He chose an arbitrary direction and set out along the cobbles, feet dragging and scuffing. Each door and window he passed begged his attention and he gave it freely, but none of them offered any sign of providing a meal. The stink of excrement disguised any other aromas from his nostrils, made his stomach tighten into painful knots.
A grizzled dog trotted by, its backbone showing through matted fur. The animal’s tongue lolled out one side of its mouth and it eyed Stirk with the same hunger others saw in his own eyes. The two passed without incident, predators each letting the other be. When it was past him, a snarl rolled along the street.
Stirk stopped, expecting the dog to have changed its mind and he’d find it crouched ready to spring at him. Instead, it had chosen a crooked man walking ten paces behind him. The man backed away from the dog, waving his gnarled walking stick at the beast. The animal sat back a moment, biding its time and awaiting the best opportunity but when it did approach, the man proved quicker. The end of his stick caught the dog in the side of the head and sent him whimpering away in search of easier prey.
A sliver of anger arose in Stirk’s chest at the man’s mistreatment of the poor, hungry animal. He took half a step toward the crooked fellow, set on teaching him a helping of manners, but a painful grumble in his gut halted him.
Fuck it. I gotta eat.
He continued down the avenue. The row of squat, misshapen buildings with their off-kilter doors and cracked shutters offered no more promise of a feeding than any of the others he’d passed. He stopped, eyes flitting back and forth along the street. When a moment came when no one looked his direction, he approached the nearest door and rapped on it.
It didn’t open, nor did anyone reply from within.
Stirk gripped the handle, took the time to make sure he wasn’t being watched, then leaned his weight against the portal. It opened with less effort than he’d expected.
He stumbled across the threshold into a dim room, his grip on the handle aiding him in keeping his feet under him as inertia threw him forward. An instant of panic rushed through his veins until he pushed the door closed and rested his back against it, breathing heavily.
It turned out he needn’t have feared. The one-room abode—larger than the storeroom he’d shared with Bieta, but not by much—was empty of people. A bed frame holding up a thin and sagging mattress stood against the wall opposite a fire pit beneath the blackened opening of a chimney. No fire burned in it and the coals appeared cold.
In the middle of the room sat a table and four chairs. Stirk wondered if enough souls lived here to fill the seats. Happening on one man didn’t scare him, even two wouldn’t be a problem, but four full-grown men might be more than he could handle.
“Better be quick, then.”
He stifled a giggle at his own words; given the room’s size, being hasty should prove easy. But where to search?
Stirk thought by the fire pit may be a good spot to begin, but as he moved closer to the table, he realized it wasn’t empty. Set out in front of each chair were plates with chipped edges and, beside them, wooden forks. It wasn’t the settings that held his attention, but the platter sitting smack dab in between the tableware.
More specifically, the chunks of meat perched upon it.
Stirk closed in, squinting at the food in the dim light filtering through the shutters. He couldn’t tell what sort of meat it was, but his rumbling belly convinced him it didn’t matter. Nor did it matter why four people’d leave it sitting out instead of eating it.
Decision made, he made his way to the table a
nd grabbed a piece of the unidentified meat, held it up under his nose. The odor flared his nostrils, but he’d inhaled worse things that went into his mouth, anyway—things Bieta had assured him would be fine.
‘A little extra flavor is all,’ her voice said in his head. Still he hesitated, sniffed it again. Under the mild stink of rot, he recognized the aroma of cold chicken. He brought it to his teeth and nibbled at the edge.
The flavor of poultry tinged with mould touched his tongue. He chewed it nearly to paste and swallowed, then waited for a moment. His stomach growled, but nothing more. Stirk took another, larger bite, then another. Not the best food he’d ever eaten, but not the worst either; it didn’t take more than those two bites for him to get past the moldiness and give in to his belly’s desire to be fed.
He wolfed everything on the platter, leaving behind nothing but picked-clean bones, then hurried out the door and down the street before the residents returned to find him stealing their grub.
***
A stream of liquid shit splashed on the rocky ground and Stirk groaned, his stomach clenching and cramping even as whatever remained within it found its way out. How could there be more? What he hadn’t already shit out, he’d done his best to vomit out against a variety of walls during his trek. Didn’t seem right anything could be left, yet his body kept finding stuff to expel.
“Shouldn’t’ve eaten that chicken,” he grunted between cramps.
He squatted at the edge of a farmer’s field with no one around to see as the sun dipped down to touch the silky ends of the tall cornstalks. His gut twisted again and he attempted to push more out of himself, but nothing came this time. He breathed a relieved sigh that another cramp interrupted, then tore a leaf from the nearest stalk of corn and used it to wipe himself.
When he finished, he stood, wobbling as he yanked up his drawers. The knots in his belly prevented him from standing straight and droplets of sweat ran along his nose, down the back of his neck. Stirk let out a groan and paused, hunched over with his elbows on his knees as awaited another stream of puke. He heaved once, twice—nothing came out. Finally, his stomach was empty.
“Should start feelin’ better any time now.”
He wiped the perspiration from his face and shivered. The shaking had started right before his last bout of diarrhea. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to control the trembling and quivering, though he was neither cold nor frightened; at least he wasn’t until the uncontrollable shivering began.
He did his best to stand and peer over the tops of the corn stalks. Wouldn’t be long before the sun’d disappear behind them, leaving the world in darkness and Stirk sick and alone with whatever it hid. If he hadn’t already been shivering like a newborn calf, he’d have shuddered at the thought.
He’d never in his life been to the edge of the Horseshoe. What lay beyond was foreign to him, a land of unknown people and unknown dangers. His gaze swept across the cornfield and he wondered how many sets of eyes watched him from behind the cover of those stalks, and to whom or what they belonged.
With a groan, he straightened as far as his cramping belly allowed, which left him hunched over and clutching his gut. He took a wobbling step, but the pain in his midsection knotted and clenched, stopping him. He bent over, trying to relieve the agony, and overbalanced, toppling forward. Mid-fall, he twisted himself to one side so his shoulder took the brunt of the impact instead of his face.
“Oof.”
A pained groan followed the expulsion of breath. Stirk lay there, cheek pressed against the dirt, wishing he hadn’t eaten the chicken or whatever it actually was he’d found.
The cramp in his gut deepened, curling him into a tighter ball—a groaning, sweating, shivering ball straddling the line between worry it might die and hope it would.
I need the healer.
His good hand touched first the end of his stump, then the spot on his head where he’d once had an ear. Any aid the healer provided would come with a cost. Stirk didn’t know what the cost, but a considerable part of him didn’t want to find out. The other part was determined to survive and administer the justice Trenan and his companion deserved.
Stirk’s stomach gurgled and roiled; he clenched his muscles to keep more liquidy shit from finding its way out and messing the trousers he’d tried so hard to keep from dirtying. Another gurgle, another groan and he needed no more convincing.
“Healer,” he panted when the cramp’s hold eased enough for him to speak. “Help me.”
Agony rolled through him again, along his arms and legs, his back, his chest and head. He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the field of corn standing over him like a vulture waiting for him to give up.
I ain’t gonna die.
The pain flared in disagreement.
“Argh.”
Through it, Stirk detected the rustle of leaves in the cornfield, though his sweat-soaked skin sensed no gust of wind. His eyelids fluttered but didn’t open, so he breathed deeply, held the air in his lungs and forced his lids to do his bidding.
The black-robed healer stood at the edge of the field, face hidden beneath the hood.
“You are in need of me, Stirk?”
If he wasn’t writhing on the ground in pain, Stirk might’ve had a coarse and sarcastic word to say for asking a question with such an obvious answer. He nodded instead.
“Here.” The healer moved to his side and crouched. “Let me help you up.”
He grabbed Stirk by his elbows and jerked him into a sitting position. Stirk’s stomach lurched and vomit threatened at the back of his throat. He swallowed hard to keep it down, his head spinning and throbbing, sweat running into his eyes. The world blurred in front of him until he blinked the stinging liquid away.
“Hold on. You’ll be better soon.”
Stirk stared at the healer, unable to make out a face beneath the cowl despite the man’s proximity. Another time, he might have tried harder, may have even reached out and thrown back the hood to see what hid beneath. Even as the thought crossed his mind, his stomach clenched tight with a cramp that sent pain shooting along his limbs.
It held for a time, tightening all his muscles, then faded. Stirk gritted his teeth, waiting for its inevitable return, the muscles in his jaw and neck and shoulders tensed to receive it.
It didn’t come.
Slowly, cautiously, he relaxed the tension gripping him. His breathing eased and he became able to sit up straighter. The roiling discomfort in his bowels lessened, the knot in his throat unwound itself and disappeared. He breathed through his nose, inhaling the scent of dirt and corn stalks and his own sweat.
The healer remained before him, clutching his arms.
Stirk nodded. “I feel better,” he said and shifted to pull away from the healer’s grasp. The robed man’s hold grew firmer, tighter. “Let me go.”
He became acutely aware of the man’s cool flesh on his perspiration-dampened arms, the sweat on his forehead. The healer’s grasp tightened further until the two bones in Stirk’s forearm rubbed together sending fresh pain along the length of it and into his chest.
“You’re hurtin’ me. Let go!”
He gazed at the healer’s fingers pressing into his skin. Both arms hurt, but the one short a hand was subject to a firmer grip than the other. Stirk pressed his lips together and tried to pull away, but the healer proved too strong for him. Panicking, he had no choice but to watch as the robed man increased his hold further.
He tightened his hold until his fingers sank into Stirk’s flesh then through his arm like a warm knife passing through a chunk of lard.
He opened his mouth to scream before realizing he lacked any pain to scream about. A scent like burning meat wafted to his nostrils, but no smoke rose from the growing wound, no blackness singed its edges. The scream stopped before it began, but Stirk’s lips remained open.
The healer’s fingers passed through flesh, muscle, and bone. In shock at what he saw, Stirk didn’t even bother attempting escape as
his handless arm detached at the elbow.
When it was free, the healer stood and fell back a step. Unmoving, Stirk gaped at his limb the healer held in his hands.
“My…my arm,” he sputtered.
“I told you my help carried a cost, did I not?”
The healer opened the front of his robe, revealing a flash of pale skin as he secreted the arm inside its folds and replaced the flap. The presence of Stirk’s detached limb didn’t change the shape or hang of the garment; had he not seen the man place it there, he’d never have guessed its presence.
After a short time, Stirk dragged his gaze away from the robed man and gawked at his shortened arm. It ended with the same stretched-looking flesh, smooth and pink, but with the end far closer to his shoulder than it had been a few moments before. He shifted his eyes to the other limb, the one he still had, and saw the red mark left on his forearm where the healer had held onto him. It looked as if hot steel had touched it. He flexed his fingers, feeling no discomfort as he did.
At least he let me keep my hand.
With the realization, he pushed himself up and climbed to his feet. The pain in his gut, the unease in his bowels, the deep ache in his muscles—all were gone as though caused by the arm and exorcised when the healer removed it.
“Will that be all?”
Stirk raised his eyes to the robed man standing before him and nodded. He thought he should say something. Not thank him; he’d rarely thanked anyone in his life, and this seemed a less appropriate time than any other, what with his arm gone. But the man had come when needed, given him relief from an illness that may have been the death of him. Without a hand at the end of it, what good was a forearm, anyway?
The healer strode toward the cornfield, the hem of his robe brushing the ground without disturbing it. The notion he should say something became overpowering, so Stirk gave in and spoke.
“Wait.”