by CJ Whrite
Roland thought back to the question. The question had asked to specify treatment for wounds inflicted by animal bite or claw when the flesh has spoiled. “I do not remember the exact wording of the book, but it states that such a wound should be regularly cleaned with a mixture of honey, wine and sage or honeysuckle. If the wound does not improve, amputation should be considered if practical.”
“Very good. Now please elaborate on what you have written as an alternative to what the book states.”
“To keep the patient in a dark room and to cover the spoiled flesh with maggots. Then use a damp cloth to cover both wound and maggots, as this is a favourable environment for the creatures.”
As Roland finished the thin-faced man slammed his hands on the table, his voice quivering as he said, “Preposterous! Maggots are creatures of filth, born in sickness. The patient is not there for you to experiment on using barbarous treatments! The way you have worded your answer sounds like you are in favour of keeping the maggots comfortable instead of the patient.” He took a deep breath, his nostrils flared. “You seem an intelligent and gifted individual. The knowledge you have shown is astounding for one as young as you, so pray tell me why you would write such foolishness?”
“You misunderstood, sir,” said Roland, his hands trembling in dismay. “In no way have I ever thought to use patients to test wild theories. I am from a small village and we have no access to a Healer. We do however have a brilliant Apothecary who has gone beyond his craft. This is a treatment he has devised as an alternative to hacking away someone’s limbs, and he has successfully applied it many times over. Maggots are creatures born in filth, and true to their nature, they only eat away the spoiled meat around the wound leaving the healthy meat intact. If the treatment works, is it not a valid answer?”
The seven black-robed men murmured among themselves while Roland waited in silence. His stomach churned and he felt nauseas.
“I am not confident that allowing you into Academia Amlor is a good idea,” said the thin-faced man. “My peers, however, believe that you should be given a chance. Educator Altmoor, since you were the one who received him I shall leave further instructions to you.”
Roland felt the strength drain from his legs and as the black-robed men left the room he sank to the floor. He looked up at Altmoor and asked, “Does this mean I’m accepted?”
“It does, well done.”
Altmoor stuck his hand out and helped Roland to his feet.
“You will officially enrol in one month’s time. I will have the academia prepare a room for you and once you start class you will receive a stipend of thirty silvers per week. Use this coming month wisely; the work awaiting you will be of a high level.” He walked from the room, pausing at the door. “Remember what I told you on the first day you came here?”
Roland shook his head. For the moment he was incapable of remembering past conversations.
“I told you that until you pass the exam, nothing changes.” He smiled at the young Healer. “Once more, well done.”
*
Carla worked the silver brooch to a high sheen using a soft cloth. She lightly ran her thumb across the shield, tracing the smooth protrusions of the small leaf. It fitted the motif perfectly. She held it up so sunlight caught it, searching for imperfections.
“I can scarce believe it’s only the second brooch you’ve made,” said her uncle, inspecting the piece with an expert eye. “I will put it on display in the front of the shop where everyone can see it. You’re sure to make good coin of it.”
“It’s not for sale,” she said, wrapping the cloth around it.
“Why in the blazes not? It’s a perfect piece!” He tried to take the brooch and Carla stepped back. Her uncle threw his hands into the air, his red beard quivering as he spoke.
“This is an opportunity for you to get your name out there, lass. If people like your work, you will get orders, you’ll become famous, but you have to sell what you make first!”
Carla’s aunt stuck her head around the corner. “There’s a handsome young man in the shop asking for you, dear,” she said. Her uncle looked from his wife to Carla suspiciously.
“Is this why you won’t sell it? You made it as a gift – for a boy!”
Carla ran from the workshop, deftly sidestepping her uncle. He made to follow but his wife stood in the door, hands on hips. “Now, now. We’ve already had our fun. You let her enjoy life, too.”
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “It’s the joy that I’m worried about!”
*
Roland stood in the goldsmith’s shop inspecting the various pieces, wondering if Carla had made any of the jewellery on display. This was the second shop he had visited searching for her, and he thought the pieces here was of a higher quality. Bronze, gold and silver armbands, earrings, brooches, halters, rings and jewellery he did not know the names of, decorated the walls and the inside of a display case to the rear of the shop. He wondered if he should have bought her a gift of some sort, but he was so excited over his exam results that the only thing on his mind was sharing the news with Carla. Once Altmoor had finished with him, he had set off in search of her.
Carla emerged from a door behind the display case, her red hair capturing the late afternoon sun. She breathed quickly, the yellow dress she wore outlining her small breasts with every breath. Roland drank her in.
“I’ve been –” he started but she grabbed him by the hand.
“Run,” she said and pulled him along, giggling uncontrollably. He felt himself swept along by her enthusiasm, and before long, he was running alongside her, the cobbled street loudly broadcasting their youthful spirits.
“Up here,” she said and slowed to a walk, slightly panting for breath.
“Why did we run?”
“No specific reason. I just felt like running.”
Roland watched her as she entered a park that rested on the crest of an overhang. There was a small stone-pond filled with water, a statue of a woman holding a curved dagger in the centre of the pond. The edge of the park saw the earth falling away, shrubs and trees clinging to the side at impossible angles. The lawn was thick and a stone bench was positioned so it overlooked the harbour down below. Carla ran her hand through the water and she wiped her face. She went to the bench and sat down as the sun slipped away, covering the hills in the distance in a red blanket. Roland followed suit.
In silence, they watched the city rooftops and the harbour below them. White smoke curled from the many chimneys and small fishing boats rowed back into the harbour, the water smooth and calm behind them, gentle swells rising and falling. Twilight blanketed Darma and orange orbs sprung up between the buildings as the City Watch lit torches.
“I passed my entrance exam today,” said Roland, watching her from the corner of his eye. “I will start at the academia in one month.”
“That’s fantastic,” she said and turned to face him. “This makes it the best time then ...” She handed him the brooch wrapped in cloth. “I hope you like it ...”
Roland opened the cloth, holding the brooch up to the failing light. “Did you make it?” he asked, running his finger over the leaf covering the shield.
“Yes, what do you think?”
He did not know what to say. The leaf on the shield said it all. She had made it thinking of him.
“You – don’t like it?”
“No, I like it very much. You are very talented ... it’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad,” she said and leaned over, her lips slightly parted. Roland’s heart beat in his throat as he slowly brought his lips to hers. Water splashed behind him and he looked around disappointed. Carla followed his gaze. Three men sat on the edge of the stone pond, watching them with cold looks.
“Two peasants sitting in the dark, I wonder what on earth they are doing in my park,” said the man in the centre and stood up while his two friends laughed maniacally. He was tall and broad shouldered. His face was not unhandsome, with a strong jaw and a pe
ncil-thin beard on the centre of his chin. His fair hair hung to his shoulders, gold wire weaved into the tips. His clothes were of an expensive cut and an emblem of a bear standing on his hind legs decorated his one shoulder. On his right hand, he wore a gold ring with an enormous ruby set into it.
“Let’s go,” whispered Carla.
Roland took her hand and stood. Judging their expensive clothes and manner, they were obviously of noble blood and he did not want to drag Carla into trouble. He did not like the air surrounding the men. He liked their expressions even less. Carla stood with him and together they walked to the park exit.
The tall man’s two friends blocked their path.
“Excuse me,” said Roland, a prickle of unease starting in his stomach.
“Excuse me,” they mimicked. From behind Roland, the tall one clasped his hands together and lifted them above his head. A dull thud echoed as he slammed his fists onto the back of Roland’s neck. Roland’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground, his vision a swirl of coloured lights. Carla screamed and a sharp clap resounded through the park as the tall one slapped her. She staggered back and he grabbed her by the hair, flinging her to the ground. She tried crawling away and he kicked her on the hip. He flipped her over and straddled her, one hand squeezing her breast.
“Aren’t you the pretty little peasant,” he said, breathing hoarsely.
“No,” Roland groaned. He tried standing and a boot caught him in the side. He dug his fingers into the ground, dragging himself to Carla. One of the men jumped onto his back and wrapped his arm around Roland’s throat, wrenching his head up.
“Watch what happens to peasant whores,” he whispered in Roland’s ear.
Carla wrenched her head from side to side, clawing at the tall one’s face, her nails seeking his eyes. He punched her and there was an audible crack. Tears streamed from her eyes, mixing with blood spurting from nose. He grabbed her dress by the hem and wrenched it up and over her head, exposing her body to the navel.
“Can’t do it with your peasant face all bloody like this, now can I?”
Pitiful cries tore from Carla’s throat as he thrust, his mouth pulled in a sneering grin. Roland bucked, trying to throw the one from his back.
“I’ll kill you. I’ll rip your head off!” he screamed, digging his fingers into the stone path, his nails tearing off as he forced his way forward. The tall one clamped his hand over Carla’s mouth as her screams grew louder. He cursed as she bit him through the material of her dress and he punched her on the side of her neck.
“How-dare-you-hurt-me!” he roared, accentuating each word with a blow to the head, neck, chest; wherever his fists happened to land. Carla’s hands reached up to him, shaking, trembling, and then her arms fell to her sides. He stopped his thrusting, watching her with a cocked eyebrow.
“Whore’s dead,” he said and stood upright, pulling up his breeches.
“YOU BASTARD! You will die, I swear you will DIE!” bellowed Roland. He shook, tears and spittle running down his chin. His vision was still blurry from the blow to his neck and the arm wrapped around his throat was cutting the blood flow to his head.
“Hold him just like that, Felros,” said the tall one and kicked out, his boot smashing into Roland’s face. Again and again he kicked, Roland’s head bouncing with every blow.
*
“CARLA!” Roland shot upright, a white sheet clenched in his hands. His face was a mass of black bruises. Stitches covered his left cheek and the bank above his left eye, the eye swollen near shut. His throat felt bruised and hurt as he swallowed his spit. A hand gripped him by the shoulder and gently forced him back down onto the bed.
“Carla? Where is Carla?” he said, his voice hoarse.
“I don’t know. I am a Healer employed by the city. The City Watch brought you here and is waiting outside. You are lucky to have woken up. I’ve stitched your cuts but feared that there was damage inside your head.”
Roland tried to fix his vision onto the Healer. His left eye struggled to focus. “Bring them in. I need to speak with them.”
“Rest first. You should not strain yourself. I will tell them to come back tomorrow.”
“Bring them in!” roared Roland, forcing himself to sit upright. “Please,” he added.
The Healer nodded, his knees shaking. For just a moment, the wounded man had filled him with terrible fear. He left the sick room and returned with a hefty man carrying an iron helmet underneath his arm. He pulled a chair toward the bed and sat down.
“I’m Officer of the Watch, Kendly. Can you tell me what in the blue blazes happened in that park?”
“Carla,” said Roland, a heaving sob escaping his throat. He clenched his teeth, willing his emotions down. “There was a red-headed girl with me. Where is she?”
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. She was ... I love her. We went to the park to celebrate. She gave me a gift.” A tear squeezed from below his swollen eyelid. He lowered his head and there was a moment of silence. When he lifted his head back up, his dark eyes gleamed with fury. He turned them on Kendly.
“Where is she?”
“I’m sorry. She was dead when we arrived.”
Roland’s shoulders sagged. He had still hoped. “That bastard.” He clenched his hands, the broken nails digging into his palms. “I will cut his eyes out!”
Kendly and the Healer looked at one another, uncomfortable under the rage swirling around the dark-haired man.
“What bastard?” asked Kendly.
“He was with two friends. He called one of them Felros.”
Kendly shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Perspiration covered his upper lid. “Do you know his name?” asked Kendly carefully.
“No, but he wore a big ruby ring and on his shoulder was an emblem – a bear of some sort.”
Kendly’s heart sank into his boots. He cursed the heavens for letting him be on watch this night. “Sirol Vanderman,” he said softly.
“Sirol? Is that his name?” Roland leaned over and gripped Kendly by the shoulders.
“No, no. Not at all. Don’t mind me.” Kendly stood and pulled a cloth from behind his breastplate, wiping his mouth. “I’ll tell my men to keep an eye out for one that fits your description. You should rest and concentrate on getting better first.” Kendly hurried from the room, not looking back.
“He said Sirol Vanderman, did he not?”
The Healer shrugged and handed Roland a hot tisane. “Drink this, it will speed your recovery.” Roland did as he was bid, the hot liquid easing his bruised throat. “It is a tisane I specially make from a blend of chamomile, kava, and poppy seeds,” the Healer said proudly. “You will sleep for three days straight after drinking it.”
“No, don’t want to sleep,” said Roland and fell back, the little bit of strength he had left draining from him. The Healer watched as his face relaxed and his breathing deepened.
“It’s for your own good, lad,” he said and pulled a blanket over Roland, sadly shaking his head over what he had heard. The cruelty of the world made him feel ill at times.
Chapter 6
Jeklor listened to the footsteps as they drew closer. About time, he thought. He was starving.
He stood up and scratched his new beard. The lice were driving him crazy. He looked down at his filthy blanket. It was barely thick enough to block the cold seeping up from the stone floor and he kicked it away in disgust. Two months and already he was in this state. He briefly wondered how long before he died in this cold room, then he firmly pushed the thought from his mind. Somewhere a chance would present itself.
He went to stand next to the thick oak door, the only thing that stood in his way. If I only had an axe, he whished, promising himself that if he ever got out of here he would buy (or steal) an axe and pay it homage.
A small hatch at the top of the door slid open. A pair of squinting eyes stared through the hatch, trying the pierce the darkness in the gloomy cell.
“Yes, I’m still here, and I
hope you brought me the fowl and beef combo I ordered yesterday.” The top hatch slammed shut and one at the bottom of the door opened, a plate carrying bread and a mug with water pushed through it. “Remind me to fire the cook, my good man,” Jeklor said and picked up the plate.
“Hear you’re getting someone to share the room with,” said the guard from behind the door.
“Oh.” Jeklor bit into the bread, tore a chunk off and chased it down with lukewarm water. “And who’s this lucky fellow?” he asked as he swallowed.
“Heard he beat a girl to death while raping her.” The guard chuckled. “Better watch yourself. Woman, man or beast, he gets a kick out of anything that breathes.”
That was just great, though Jeklor. The cell was small enough as it was, never mind sharing it with a lunatic. “Can’t wait,” he said cheerfully; no need for the guard to know he had succeeded in frightening him.
Disappointed, the guard’s footsteps moved away and Jeklor called him back, hurriedly. “The plate,” he quickly said, and pushed it through the bottom hatch as the guard pulled it open. He did not want anything that his new friend might decide to use as a weapon lying around.
Jeklor went back to his favourite corner and stared at his blanket. He folded it twice and sat on it, his back leaning against the stone wall. He shifted his rump. It felt comfortable; maybe he should try and sleep in this position.
He sighed loudly, the sound strangely amplified in the cold, empty cell. I wonder what you look like, my new friend, he wondered with closed eyes. If there was one thing he got good at while stuck here, it was thinking stuff up. “Not much else to do, Jeklor my boy,” he said aloud.
That was it, he thought. Once he got out, he would become a poet. He wasn’t much of a thief, and now he had all the time in the world to come up with epic tales: Heroes and dragons, princesses and demons. His new friend will be the molesting demon, he the hero who smites evil. What fantastic potential, he thought, patting the blanket.