by D. W. Rigsby
There was a rustling sound in the woods, not far from him—something approached. He could hear it—footsteps. Was it Kad? It might be, or was it the wolves? His heart raced. Petro arched his head backward and then to the side, trying to see who or what was making the sound. He stretched out his fingertips and touched the cool metal of the shotgun, but it was no use to him. He’d already fired off two shots, and it was empty now. Petro then thought maybe he could find a shell and load it, but as he thought it, a man came into view and stood over him.
“You’re in some bad shape, fellow,” the man said.
The man was of medium build with short hair, close to the scalp, muscular, and his eyes were dark, yet wide. He wore a sword on one side, a dagger on the other, and an ironshot. A sense of relief came over Petro.
“I’ve been injured,” Petro tried to muster. His voice broke when he tried to speak again, and the man gave a sign with his hand to be quiet.
“No need to talk. I saw it all—that boar nearly killed you; massive beast he is, but you survived, got to give you that. Then I waited to see how bad your injury was—and it was bad, but that tourniquet your friend put on you has slowed your bleeding. I thought to come out of hiding, but then the wolves showed, and I was certain they’d tear into you, but you managed to scare them off. I wish they had finished the job, I do. It’s better that way, not for anyone to suspect your death was of some wrongdoing. That sort of rumor could spark a war or two, who knows. People are strange, you know, when it comes to prophecies and all. What’s with the dirt, anyway?”
Petro tried to move, but all he could do was cry out in pain; his voice cracked and gave out.
“Hush now, no need for that—it will be over soon. The pain is here because you are still here, but if you let yourself go, it will go. See what I mean?”
The man’s eyes were empty; it was like looking into a dark pool void of life.
“I could wait for the wolves; they will come back, but will they come back before your friend? That’s the risk I cannot take, so here I am.” The man knelt down. “Let me help you with that.” He loosened the tourniquet. “Your red of life flows—can you feel it? Of course you can—it’s a strange sensation. There’s the feeling of warmth, but then it’s replaced by a cool feeling and a numbing, until the end, of course; it will be a little more painful, but it won’t last. I’ll stay right here until it’s done, and then I’ll tighten your tourniquet back up and leave. If your friends show up before the wolves, they’ll think the tourniquet didn’t quite do its job, and you passed out and couldn’t help yourself. Easy, right?”
Petro could smell a strange odor on his mouth, but not a foul odor like one might suspect from a man like this; he thought it was a refreshing odor, mint.
“Yes, yes. I know you are wondering who I am, but I’m not here to tell you that. I do know you, and you are worth a price indeed. Oh, I’ll be paid quite well for this—that is certain, though I sometimes wonder if I should keep you alive and then bargain for additional dulles before I kill you. No, that’s not a good idea, is it? No, it’s better for me to keep this quiet, no need to go and spark a war—it’s bad business for the likes of me. I make more money in peacetime—you know, making things look natural, accidental. Like out here. But this, all this—I couldn’t have planned it this well; this is like getting a present, and not any ol’ present. It’s like getting what you really wanted.”
The man just kept going on with this talking. Petro tried to move again, and the man put his hand on his arm.
“Not to worry, you won’t have to listen to me long. Maybe if you were the one to fulfill a prophecy, you could change all of this, couldn’t you? No? Doesn’t work that way? What are you supposed to be?”
Petro wondered that himself—what was he supposed to be? He focused his mind, trying to see if he was maybe seeing the future, to come up out of it, but nothing happened. Dread filled his stomach. He wasn’t anything, and he wasn’t here to fulfill some prophecy or to help protect Dugual. Those were only lies, ones told to him by others and ones he told himself.
“Now where was I? Oh, I had thought to shoot you first and then shoot your friend. Though it was going to be hard to make it look like an accident. So I waited and watched, kept my distance. I decided I could shoot your friend in the head, same model of weapon as you have there.” He held up a .44 ironshot. “Then once your friend was dead, I’d shoot you in the head and then take your ironshot and fire it twice, and place it into your hand. It would have looked like you killed your friend and then shot yourself. It’s a good idea, right?”
What was he to say—yes, it was a good idea? Oh, you should have done that?
“But then that boar showed up; I nearly wet myself when it came into the open. I held my piss, and I waited to see what the boar would do, and my waiting paid off. It always does.”
There was a shot from the distance, and the buzz of the bullet could be heard as it passed by the man and Petro. The man jumped up, and an arrow pierced his hand before he could pull his ironshot. The man turned and ran into the woods from where he came.
Kad rushed to Petro’s side.
“My tourniquet,” Petro said.
“Oh, dango, he undid it.” Kad tightened up the tourniquet.
Petro could no longer hold his eyes open, but he saw Vetus Sepher standing there with his nickel-plated ironshot smoldering at the end of its barrel. Then everything went black.
The witch came, and though I do not want her aid, it was worth immeasurably more than my own pride. I need time: time for what I must do, time to find a way to extend my life and stave off what plagues my body, time to find the hidden truth the Numas hide from us all, time to see a new generation of my family line, and to see them war, to see them well, to see them rule.
—From The Journal of the Father, King of Tallud, by the Father
A splash, and water enveloped the Father’s body; he held his breath and swam under the surface of his garden pool. He kicked like a frog, powering himself from one side to the other, taking his time, letting tiny bubbles of air trickle up until they broke the water’s plane. He reached the other side of the pool, turned his body, and kicked off the wall, kicking as he went along; more bubbles trailed behind him. He had perfect form, each stroke where it belonged, no energy wasted, not an ounce. He moved with such grace, such devotion, gliding through the water as though he were born to it. When he reached the other side, he dipped backward, spun, and pushed hard once more against the wall; he came up to the surface, turned his head, caught a breath, and then continued with a full stroke, one arm out in front of the other. The buildup of carbon in his lungs was released into the atmosphere, and oxygen now replenished the depleted levels in his red of life, giving him a new awareness of this moment. He came to the wall, stopped, turned around, and put his arms up on the wall, resting awhile. The lactic acid buildup tensed the muscles, yet it also gave him the sensation he wanted, the challenge he needed, and the much-needed release of endorphins. He cleared his mind, and kept with his decision to hold for a while until he was ready to make his move against Dugual. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and turned, again facing the wall, and lifted himself out. A servant rushed to his side, wrapped his waist with a towel, and then draped a robe about him.
He walked to the gazebo, upright, dignified, self-aware. There sat in a chair and a table near him with fruit. The Father plucked a grape from its bowl and bit down on it. The sweet flavor ran over his tongue and down his throat. And so was his thought: this grape was the last, yet another would replace it next season, and so this was his own fate. It was not new to him, yet he pondered this greatly, wondering what would come of all he did, what would happen to Spearca once he was gone? If there was a way—and maybe there was—he could live on, but not for eternity; he knew the current advances in technology would not allow for it, unless there was something the Numas were withholding. As for now, there were possibilities to extend life, not in the conventional ways but in other ways
. Scientists he employed had made some boasts and promises to find a way to extend his own life, to stave off the sickness that encroached upon his body every day. Did they have an answer? None had revealed itself, so he had to turn to a witch, to medicines of the unknown, to secrets only they kept. There were claims, boasts—yes, of course there were boasts, ones that said the medicines of the forests, of the mountains, of the sea could cure nearly any illness. However, these medicines could not extend life, they could not stop the inevitable; and so technology would soon need to intervene if he were to live on to see his legacy find its turning point. For now, there were many kingdoms that, if they were to come together, could undo all he had done, bringing their armies against him and his sons. The Father knew that his own death might spur the other kings to rally and so kill the opportunity for his sons to be kings, and their sons to be kings, and their sons to be kings. The line would be severed; and now, with all that was happening, all that had taken place, the time still was not right. He could not move on them, or could he? Yes, maybe he could. Maybe what his son Fin said was more out of fear rather than out of logic. The witch had come; she had succeeded, he felt renewed, but for how long? In his state, his mind clear, his body ready, he could lead his army against Dugual. He could do more than play a game of distraction to find the technology he wanted from the Numas. Yes, there was an idea he’d missed, a path that went unnoticed. His army could attack Dugual, take her and her wealth; then he would have what he needed to go after the Keepers. This was the plan, had to be the plan—there was no other way. Waiting accomplished nothing!
“Guard! Summon my advisor!”
War is the great cleanser; all those who fight and live do so for the red of life, and those who fight and die do so because they were fools.
—From The Journal of the Father, King of Tallud, by the Father
Vetus Sepher entered the sanatorium; it was their first night back from the forest. It had taken several days to get back to Tokus Numas using train and wagon. Along the way they tried to doctor Petro’s leg as much as possible. There was fear he might die, yet Vetus Sepher would not hear it, and he drove on into the third day and night, never letting up on the unfortunate horses that pulled the band of brothers along. The whole way they had heard and watched as Petro wailed and thrashed about. His leg swelled to twice its size, and a fever took hold. Nothing could be done. Vetus Sepher wondered if his actions only prolonged Petro’s agony and was nothing short of cruelty, but he felt compelled to try to save him.
It even occurred to him once, late in the night while the horses trotted along at a slow but steady pace, that maybe he wanted to keep Petro alive because of the prophecy. He thought it, checked it, and dismissed it. Petro had been observed for a year, and there were no signs of any special abilities, although the boy had shown promise in other areas. He was strong-willed, able, and a natural leader the others looked to when they needed someone to bring them together. No, the prophecy held no weight in his decision to try to bring Petro back to Tokus Numas and see if Master Lim could save him.
Vetus Sepher entered Petro’s room and shut the door behind him. Inside the room, it smelled of disinfectant, and the unpleasant medicinal taste rested upon his tongue. This entire ordeal was unexpected. Never once had Vetus Sepher had one of his own in such peril.
He hated the sanatorium. It brought back haunting memories of his past. His wife, Liliana, and his son, Patrick, had both succumbed to an early death. A disease had taken hold of both, and within a week of each other, they were gone. Being here made him feel empty inside, just like when he lost those he loved most so many years ago.
Master Lim had instructed that this room was to be completely gutted of all furniture, and the bed was to be scrubbed, cleaned, and disinfected. It was a precaution he felt necessary for Petro’s recovery, an optimism that Vetus Sepher did not share wholeheartedly. The room had been prepared in advance, and Petro would be brought in here at any moment, after they’d stripped him of his clothing, cleaned his body, and cleaned his wound again. When Vetus Sepher and Kad had come back for Petro, they had brought a gurney and took Petro back to camp, where they were able to see his leg more closely. It was packed with dirt, and Vetus Sepher thought to remove it, but he didn’t have the proper medical supplies to clean it thoroughly; and he didn’t want to stitch the leg up, for he was certain an artery had been cut from the amount of blood he saw on the ground in the forest. He did try to rinse the wound with water and douse it with alcohol, which caused Petro further grief. Vetus Sepher was amazed that Petro had not died out there and was further amazed that he had not died on the way to Tokus Numas. The young man held on. If there was anything more that Vetus Sepher could do, he would, but he was powerless now. It all rested in the hands of Master Lim.
Vetus Sepher stood by the bed covered in white linen. A small table stood on one side. On it was a pitcher of water, a cup, a bowl, a white cloth, and a plant in a clay pot. It was a woody shrub with grayish-green leaves and had clusters of purple flowers. Vetus recognized the plant, knew of its healing properties. He walked over to it, bent forward, brought his hand up, and waved it through the air just above the plant, cupping the aroma toward himself and taking in a deep breath through his nose. Its fragrance was sweet but also smelled of Spearca herself.
Voices carried from the hall, and he heard the squeak of wheels. It was probably Petro. Vetus Sepher wanted to see how he was doing and to find out if things had improved or had gotten worse. He hoped for the former, but it was the latter that clung to him. Was it too late? Had he not arrived back in time? If only he could have done more on their trip to Tokus Numas. He had done what he could, and now it was up to Petro, God willing.
Master Lim walked alongside Petro as he was wheeled in by two other Numas. They lined the gurney up next to the bed, lifted Petro up, and laid him down. The two young Numas left, and now it was only the three of them. Petro’s complexion was pale, and he took in shallow breaths.
It would be unfortunate, Vetus Sepher thought, for Petro’s life to come to such an end. He stopped himself and willed himself to think that this was not the end of Petro, but his doubt was growing much too strong. If Petro did recover, what other damage had been done? Would he lose his leg? If only that were the least of it. Master Lim had explained that there could be damage to his brain. In his condition, with little medical aid, Petro could be facing a life with a feeble mind, never able to function as he once did.
Petro stirred, and his eyes gradually opened. One was filled with blood, turning the white of his eye to red. The other eye was bloodshot. His face, arms, and legs were all covered in thin purplish lines. The leg was clean, still swollen to twice the size of his other leg, and the wound had been sutured. The lines on his wounded leg showed a deeper purple than the rest of his body. He no longer looked like the young man who had come to Tokus Numas, finished his first year, and ventured out into the forest on a hunt for boar.
Vetus Sepher studied Petro, looking over his body, knowing the signs of impending death. Death is a creature of its own, he thought, coming when he wants and taking who he wants. No one here was powerful enough to stop it.
Master Lim moved across the room and stood next to Petro.
Will he ever regain full awareness? Vetus Sepher thought.
“Never…” Petro’s voice cracked.
Master Lim and Vetus Sepher exchanged uncertain looks.
“He needs water to wet his lips.” Master Lim took the pitcher, poured a cup of water, and held it to Petro’s lips.
Petro raised his head and sipped the water.
Vetus Sepher watched curiously and wondered how much longer it would be. He tossed the thought aside, damning himself for thinking it.
The water seemed to burn Petro’s throat; he spit the water out, followed by a painful look. Petro knocked the cup away.
Master Lim placed the cup on the table. “It’s only water, Petro, nothing more.” He turned to face Vetus Sepher. “We placed saline in his
blood earlier. I’ll need to arrange for it again.”
Vetus Sepher sensed in Master Lim’s voice that he was only doing so out of obligation rather than the optimism he thought he’d expressed earlier.
“His lips could use some balm to help protect them from cracking further,” Master Lim said. He took the white cloth from the table and dipped it into the bowl of water. He wrung it out. Petro stared up at the ceiling, never giving Master Lim or Vetus Sepher full acknowledgment. Master Lim placed the cool towel on Petro’s forehead.
“Wha…ts…wr…wi…th…” Petro tried to speak.
Master Lim dropped his gaze to the floor and then reached out to hold Petro’s hand. “Don’t talk. You must conserve your energy,” he said. “Your body is fighting. You just need time.” He patted Petro’s hand.
Time? Did Petro have any more time? His body was waging war against an invader, battling for control, for sheer dominance; and only one would have victory, Vetus Sepher thought. He imagined hundreds of thousands of soldiers warring within Petro, killing each other, riddling the battlefield with the dead left to rot and decay. Death was on him. He could feel its presence like an invading wisp of cool air that sinks deep into the lungs and settles, snuffing the life out.
Petro’s fingers twitched, and his arm shook when he tried to raise it.
Vetus Sepher stood helpless, unsure of what to do, unsure of everything; the prophecy was wrong. Petro was just a young man—a young man they should have never brought to Tokus Numas, a young man who could be running free with his friends at Castle Dugual and learning a profession, one chosen for him by King Amerstall. He fought against the plague of imagery that flashed through his mind—Petro dead, Petro’s funeral, Petro’s grave, tears in the eyes of Queen Lilith, the solemn look of King Amerstall, the stifled cries of Princess Dia and Silda. He even saw Sid—uneasy, his arms folded—while they lowered Petro down to rest within Spearca.