Death of a Darklord

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  He lay back on the furs, a slow smile on his face. He looked very pleased with himself. Elaine fought the urge to slap him. It would probably have made him laugh. She did not want to amuse him. She realized, strangely enough, that she wanted to hurt him. Or at least make him as uncomfortable as he had made her.

  Elaine took a deep breath and let it slowly out. She pulled the covers below his waist. She gave only a quick glance before moving on to his legs. If the death wound had been in a very intimate place, Konrad could bloody well search for it himself.

  His legs were short, almost stocky, muscled from walking, but uninjured. A white scar like a bolt of frozen lightning traced his right thigh, but there were no new wounds.

  Elaine sighed. “Please, turn over.” Randwulf’s wounds would of course be in an out-of-the-way place. He couldn’t possibly have done it on purpose. She glanced at the slow curl of his smile. He stretched, arms straight over his shoulders. Every muscle in his body strained. He was like a contented cat that had already drunk its fill of cream. His dark eyes stared at her as if she were the proverbial canary.

  Konrad and Fredric were just an arm’s length away. He couldn’t possibly do anything to her. He was simply flirting or teasing, or both. But it meant nothing—nothing real. Randwulf had only as much power over her as she gave him, and she’d given him far too much already.

  “Turn over, Randwulf, now.” Her voice was a good imitation of Tereza’s when she’d had all she could stand of silly children and indoor games.

  Randwulf blinked at her, his smile slipped around the edges. He rubbed his hands down his chest and across his stomach. Her eyes followed them, as he’d wanted them to. The hands started to slip farther, but she grabbed one bloody wrist, wrenching the skin in two different directions. He gave a hiss of pain.

  “Turn over so I can look for injuries, or I’ll put salt in these wounds.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” he said, but there was doubt in his eyes.

  “Salt cleanses a wound and prevents infection.”

  His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe her. But there must have been something in her face that convinced him. He began to turn over, slowly, giving her time to admire the way his body worked.

  Elaine kept her best no-nonsense look in place. She consciously pictured Tereza at her most cross. The look that had always sent Blaine and herself running.

  Randwulf never took his eyes from her face, looking for some reaction besides disapproval. He didn’t find it. He gave a small sigh and settled onto his stomach, though he did keep his face turned so he could watch her.

  Elaine was staring, open-mouthed at the back of his neck. His hair had been just long enough to hide it from the front, but now … jaws had crushed the back of his neck, broken his spine. Tooth marks imprinted the skin, but the neck itself had filled back up, like a waterskin inflating. He moved well enough that it was clear the spine was not severed. The tooth marks filled with blood like miniature rain puddles with rain.

  But the blood did not flow. The wound looked raw, but the blood seemed to be held in suspension by some invisible force. If the wound were swabbed with a damp cloth, would it bleed afresh? Would they start it to bleeding? Would it stop once it started? With magic healing, who knew?

  Randwulf watched her face. “Is it that ugly?” He was young and handsome, and the horror on her face bothered him.

  He had handed her a way to hurt him; all she had to do was lie. The one thing she could not do.

  “It is not the appearance of the wound, but the terrible injury it must have been. Your spine was broken, snapped. How can you be healed of that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Is this the first time you … died?” she asked.

  His small white teeth bit his lower lip, his eyes uncertain. “The first time.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  “Of dying?”

  She nodded.

  “I was frightened when the wolves grabbed my arms. They held me with their mouths the way two men would have held me with their hands. Then I heard the man-wolf behind me. His breath was loud and hot against my neck. I think I screamed. There was a moment of sharp, horrible pain, then nothing. I didn’t feel a thing.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, fingertips tracing the tooth marks, ever so lightly. “No pain, but I felt myself slide away. I felt myself die.”

  Elaine just stared at him. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Elaine, may I speak with you,” Konrad said. He stood, forced to stoop by the low ceiling. He went to the tent flap. “Outside.”

  Elaine fought to keep to her face blank, stood, and followed him outside. The wind hit her face like a cold slap. She lifted her hood in place, struggling against the wind to hold the furred cloak close to her body.

  Konrad’s long hair spilled over his face, tangled by the icy wind. With his back to the wind, his cloak streamed out around him; no need to hold it next to his body—the wind did that on its own. The tent cracked and bucked in the rising gusts.

  Konrad led her a few steps from the tent, hand half-draped over her shoulders. He drew her into the circle of his arms so they could talk above the wind and rippling tent hide. That was all. The physical closeness that made her chest tight meant nothing to him. Elaine reminded herself of that as he leaned near her cheek to speak.

  “If we cleanse the wounds, will they start to bleed again and not stop? Does the magic used to partially heal them change how we should treat them?”

  She wanted to say something clever and certain, but that would have been an outrageous lie. Lives might be at stake. It was not a time for lies. “I don’t know.”

  “You know more magic than I do,” he said. He was really looking to her for an answer. Elaine had never claimed more knowledge than she had. If she didn’t know, she always said so, but now was sorely tempted. Konrad’s face was close enough to kiss. His eyes looking at her, seeing her.

  Elaine drew a deep sigh. “I’ve only been studying magic for a few days, Konrad. I’m no expert, but Gersalius is.” She was rather pleased with that last thought, pleased to have come up with a good idea, if not a good answer.

  “I cannot leave them alone. Could you speak with the wizard, then report back to me?”

  “I could stay with them while you spoke with Gersalius.” It was a generous offer. The last thing Elaine wanted to do was go back in that tent. Randwulf’s serious eyes and his strange voice as he had related his death story had frightened her. She preferred even his teasing and flirting to that.

  “No, if anything should go wrong, I am the best healer in camp—at least awake. And the wizard will speak more freely to you. Don’t you think?”

  Again, he was asking her opinion. This time she could give an answer. “Yes.”

  “Then go talk with the wizard. I’ll wait here. I won’t tend their wounds unless something goes wrong.”

  “I’ll hurry,” she said.

  He gave an abrupt nod, almost a bow, and ducked back inside the tent. Elaine stood there for a moment in the rattling wind. Konrad had asked her opinion twice in one day. It was not only a record, it was a nine days’ wonder. What was wrong with him?

  geRSaLIUS’S teNt WaS smaLLeR tHaN tHe ReSt, WItH strange curlicues of carved wood mounted above the entrance. Elaine hadn’t really inspected the wizard’s tent closely. Now she looked at the wooden carvings. They were attached to the tent itself, not tied on. It was almost as if the wood grew straight out of the hide. She could make nothing of the carvings themselves. They were of no animal or image she was familiar with, just designs of wood and paint.

  Elaine called, “Gersalius, it’s me, Elaine. I need to speak with you.” The wind gusted, making the tent strain and pull at the tiny tent stakes. The wood carvings swayed in the wind as if they were antlers on some live beast.

  “Gersalius?” Elaine called. She waited in the cold, huddled against the wind. “Gersalius, please, if you’re in there, answer me.” When there
was still no answer, she turned and walked back to the fire. Blaine was cooking the camp dinner—sausages in a skillet over the flames. They actually smelled good. Of course, even Blaine couldn’t do a lot of damage reheating sausages. It was almost foolproof.

  There was a smaller saucepan sitting to one side. Blaine stirred it with a wooden spoon. An odor rose from the saucepan and caught the back of her throat with a bitter taste. Before she could say a word, Blaine poured the foul sauce over the lovely sausages. He put a lid over the skillet and set it to one side. He’d probably say he was letting it simmer. Blaine was the worst cook in the world, but he had pretensions of being a gourmet. His ‘improvements,’ experiments with herbs, were legendary.

  He smiled up at her, pleased with himself. “I’m trying a new sauce tonight. Want a whiff?”

  “I already smelled it,” she said, a brave smile in place. Blaine was not only the worst cook in the world, he was oblivious to the deficiency. No matter how much Thordin and the others complained, Blaine never quite believed them. He went on his cheerful way, crumbling dried herbs, chopping roots, and trying to poison them all.

  “Have you seen Gersalius?”

  “I think he’s in Thordin’s tent.” He turned back to an earthenware bowl on the ground by his knee. A cloth was tied over it. He cut the string, lifting the cloth to reveal a grayish mass. “I made stuffing before we left. All I have to do is heat it.”

  “Did Mala help you make it?” she asked hopefully.

  He grinned. “Of course not. You know I like to do all my own cooking.”

  “Of course,” she said. She left him to ruin their dinner and went in search of Thordin’s tent. He shared it with Konrad, so it was big enough to accommodate a visitor.

  The wind died down as suddenly as it had sprung up. In the fresh silence, Elaine heard the murmur of the men’s voices, a soft, rumbling sound that was somehow comforting. Elaine had spent a great deal of her life listening to that strong, bluff, blunt sound.

  She bent over, calling, “Gersalius, are you in there?”

  The tent flap swung open. Thordin’s face and arm popped out. “Elaine, come join us. I think if we all squeeze there may be room.”

  It occurred to her for the first time that Thordin had seen clerics work their healing magic. He might know something valuable, too. She crawled into the tent, tugging her heavy cloak through the small opening.

  Gersalius was sitting on a pile of bedding, smiling. He had a mug in his hands. “Elaine, what brings you in search of me?”

  Thordin offered her a mug.

  “Surely that is yours,” she said.

  “Yes, but I can get another.” With a smile, he handed her the mug.

  “Thank you.” The mug was wonderfully hot to her hands. Steam rose from the cup like sweet-smelling ghosts. The tea was a strong spearmint faintly touched with sugar. Breathing in the steam was almost as refreshing as drinking the tea itself.

  “How goes it with the wounded?” Thordin asked.

  “That is why I have come,” Elaine said.

  Thordin poured a third mug of tea from a small earthware pot, then set it back on its warmer. He took a pinch of sugar from a small pouch at his belt, added the sugar to the tea, then stirred it with a small silver spoon.

  “With a few comforts, any place can be home,” Gersalius said.

  “My sentiments, exactly,” Thordin said.

  “Why were you seeking me, Elaine?” the wizard asked.

  “Konrad and I have never seen magical healing before. We aren’t sure what to do.”

  “A cleric heals by laying on of hands. The wound just closes up and is healed,” Gersalius said.

  “Completely healed?” She made it a question.

  “Yes,” he said.

  She shook her head. “But these injuries aren’t completely healed.”

  Gersalius sat forward sharply, spilling hot tea on his robes. He gave a small yip, pulling the cloth away from his body. He set the mug on the ground. “Tell me exactly what you mean, Elaine. This could be very important.”

  She looked from one man to the other. Thordin appeared as worried as the wizard. “Are the wounds suppose to heal completely?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Gersalius said.

  “Not always,” Thordin said.

  The wizard stared at the warrior. “A spell either works or it does not.”

  “I was a fighter long before I came to Kartakass,” Thordin said. “A cleric can heal a wound, but when I had many wounds, not all of them healed. They were better, but some still bled a little, others were only partially healed. Kilsendra, the cleric that came over with me, said each healing has only so much power to it. It heals what it can, then stops. It might take several attempts to heal completely.”

  Gersalius frowned. “It is true I did not adventure much. I owned a little magic shop where others bought supplies, but with my magic, a spell either works or does not. If the spell components are insufficient, the spell simply does not work at all.”

  Thordin shook his head. “Healing is not like that, or so Kilsendra told me.”

  The wizard frowned. “Most unobservant of me, if you are right.”

  Elaine sipped her tea and turned to Thordin. He seemed to know more of healing than the wizard. “If a wound did not heal completely, what did you do to tend it?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Did you cleanse it? Bandage it?”

  “I think so.” He looked puzzled. “Why couldn’t you treat them as any other wound?”

  “Normal wounds don’t just sit there full of blood. Konrad’s afraid if we cleanse the wounds we’ll start them bleeding, and the blood might not stop.”

  “Why wouldn’t it stop bleeding?” Thordin asked.

  Gersalius answered, “I understand his concern. What if what keeps the blood from flowing is some sort of magic field. Would touching it destroy it? If the spell that kept the blood from flowing was destroyed, would normal methods be able to stop the blood, at all?”

  “Yes, that is what we fear.”

  Thordin frowned. “I don’t remember anything like that ever happening.”

  “Are you sure?” Elaine asked.

  “I am sure I never knew of anything like that happening, but whether it ever happened.…” He shrugged. “I am not a healer.”

  “How did your friend, the cleric, handle partially healed injuries?” Gersalius asked. He was once again reclining on the furs, tea in hand. The spilled tea was a small wet spot on his robe.

  “Kilsendra laid hands on me a second or third time. Sometimes she had to wait a day to regain her strength, but she healed us herself.”

  “And the wounds?” Elaine asked.

  His eyes grew distant, as if he were seeing things long ago and faraway. “We did nothing to them. We waited until Kilsendra could heal us.”

  “So you don’t really know what would happen if more mundane methods were used on magically healed wounds,” Gersalius said.

  Thordin shook his head slowly. “I guess I don’t.” He looked at Elaine. “Is the elven cleric awake yet?”

  “No, he still sleeps, but the end of his arm has healed over so we didn’t have to cauterize it.”

  Gersalius choked on his tea. When he was done sputtering, he said, “I wouldn’t apply fire to any of the wounds. I think that might stop the flesh from healing further.”

  Elaine suddenly felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the winter wind. What if they had performed normal care? Would they have condemned all three men to being wounded forever? Konrad said that burns were some of the most painful of all injuries. The elf’s arm would have been a burned stump instead of the smoothness it was. The arm looked for all the world as if the elf had been born without that arm, a deformity rather than an injury.

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” Gersalius said. “Wait until the elf wakes. Let him tend the wounds.”

  “What if one of the wounds begins to bleed? What i
f the men go into shock? Can we treat them with herbs, or would that be harmful?”

  “Do what you must to keep them alive,” Gersalius said. “But the bare minimum, I think.”

  Thordin nodded. “I agree.”

  “All right, I’ll tell Konrad what you advise.” She handed the empty tea mug to Thordin. “Thank you for the advice, and the tea.” She stood, half-stooping, and lifted the tent flap.

  Outside, the air was still as glass and cold enough to hurt when she drew a breath. She stood there for a moment, studying the sky. Clouds had moved in, turning the sky to a perfect whiteness. It threatened snow, but that stillness in the air felt more like thunder. She had only once before seen thunder and lightning in the midst of a snowstorm. It was rare, but so much that was happening was unusual, what was one more event? A little thunderstorm in the dead of winter was a minor thing compared to what she had seen this day. Whatever the cause, the air was close and threatening.

  Elaine glanced at Blaine, still puttering before the fire. She almost asked him if he felt it, too, but if he didn’t, she would be making him worry for nothing. If the sense was a vision, it would grow. If it wasn’t, it would fade, and only Elaine need worry about it.

  She clutched her cloak tight around her and hurried back to Konrad. He was kneeling by the elf, his back to the tent flap. He glanced back, a sound or the cold alerting him to her entrance. He motioned her to him.

  She pushed her hood back and knelt beside him. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  His hand was feeling for the pulse in the elf’s neck. “His heart is not beating like it should.”

  “Perhaps it is normal for an elf?”

  He shook his head. “Before, it was strong and sure; now it is thready, fluttering under my hand. See for yourself.”

  He rubbed her hands together to banish the cold. She never touched the wounded with icy hands if she could help it. She felt the smooth skin of the neck. The pulse hesitated, then gave a few rapid beats, then settled back into a steady rhythm. She held her hand there for a few moments, but the pulse re-mained steady.