The two mages heard the commotion of clanking tools as Al ran noisily down the corridor. They rejoined Nevin in the storeroom. “What do we need to do now?” Anson asked. “I don’t think we have a lot of time before Mr. Al comes back.”
Bartram took charge. “Mr. Reasoner, you and Anson need to stand over there, on the spot where Anson first arrived. Begin reciting the spell, both of you. I must remain on this side of the room.”
Anson led Nevin to the designated spot and began canting the spellwords. Nevin, feeling a little awkward, contributed intermittent words from the passages he had memorized. It was a bit much to expect him to jump right into this spellcasting business. Besides, nothing seemed to be happening. Nevin was fighting back second thoughts.
Bartram saw the hesitancy and called to Nevin from across the room, sounding frantic, “Mr. Reasoner...Nevin! Please recite the words! You must say the words and concentrate on their meaning. Anson cannot carry this spell for both of you. The spell will not take hold without your effort.”
Nevin complied and joined the incantation. He began to notice something. A slight humming or buzzing sensation, not really audible but more a tactile sensation as his skin started tingling. He thought he heard Bartram say the spell was “taking hold,” but could it really be happening? The tingling sensation was head to foot, like goose bumps, occurring whether his skin was covered or uncovered—an external stimulation that came with a rush of excitement. It was a most interesting sensory experience. Very remarkable. He found himself savoring it.
With the barrage of sensations, Nevin overcame his awkwardness at reciting the spellwords. He started syncopating his incantation with Anson, timing the words as if they were singing a well-memorized song. He closed his eyes and tried hard to concentrate on the words, as much to contribute to the spell as to prevent his mind from challenging the sensibility of this act. After Nevin’s concentrated effort there was a startling result that Anson later said was a burst of mental flux. The humming, tingling sensations intensified to such an extent that it affected both of them. Nevin tottered a bit and Anson had to steady himself by placing his hand on the wall. Nevin’s heart pounded from the rush of sensations and the tiny penetrating thought that he was about to experience something he thought utterly impossible. He felt his arm being grasped and he looked down at Anson, the mage intent in his concentration but smiling broadly as he leaned on Nevin for support.
Across the room, Bartram also gave a smile when he felt the burst of power from their paired incantation, but he was also relieved that he would not have to contribute to the spell and risk his own deliverance. The combined effort by Anson and Nevin was steadily mounting a field of mental energy greater than any Bartram had ever experienced. There was no doubt they were going to be delivered—somewhere.
When the pair finished one more complete iteration of the spell, there was a final surge of stimulation with the most extraordinary reaction. Whether his eyes were open or closed, Nevin’s sight remained the same. He was experiencing a hoary, fog-shrouded visual field with no distinct images. It felt like he was moving, or rather he felt movement, but the feeling was independent of his limbs. His heart was pounding so fiercely that it seemed to boom in his ears.
Nevin’s hearing was still intact, relatively speaking. He could discern that something else was going on in the room while the spell was enveloping him. He could tell that someone had shouted, “What the hell is going on here!” followed by a thumping sound. He assumed Al had returned, already in an agitated state due to the flooding of the bathroom. Nevin could barely muster the thought that Bartram would have his hands full afterward trying to explain this to Al. However, Bartram had already dealt with the situation quite efficiently, putting Al to sleep with a somnolence spell and setting him in his chair. Al would later wake up, wet, alone, and quite confused.
Outside noise was then completely lost, but shapes began to come together with color and sound. It was exhilarating but peaceful. There was a slight jolt to his body such as he might expect to feel when a fast elevator stopped at the ground floor. Anson’s face came into focus looking up at him, bearing a fatigued look but a wide smile at their safe arrival.
“Welcome to Antrim, Sir Nevin.”
Chapter 12
Orris
This cannot be happening. Nevin felt like he had just emerged from some kind of dream state; it was unlike any experience he had ever had. Blinking and shaking his head to gather his senses, he quickly surveyed the surroundings. He was inside a small structure he had never seen before. When he rose to look around, he bumped his head on a ceiling joist.
The two men stared at each other as they stood in a one-room building with a table and two chairs in the center. By the size of the table and chairs, and with the ceiling barely six feet in height, this structure was obviously not meant to accommodate persons of Nevin’s size. Another bump to his head on a ceiling joist dissuaded Nevin from the thought he was dreaming.
For the time being, Nevin decided to suspend judgment about this extraordinary experience. He had enough presence of mind to realize he was not hallucinating. The sights, sounds and smells were real. Again, he looked around the dimly lit room and noticed a set of shelves against one wall, cluttered with several oversize books and parchment items, some standing upright and others laid on their sides. An old manuscript lay on the table, its several pages disheveled. Daylight illuminated the room through glass windows in each of the four walls; the window glass was not exactly clear, but the room was bright. Centered in the wall adjacent to the shelves was a closed door.
A bit of movement drew Nevin’s attention to a boy’s face looking in through one of the windows. With mouth agape at the sudden appearance of the two men, one of whom was the tallest man he had ever seen, the boy shook himself to action and made for the door. Cautiously opening it and peering in, he said, “Is that you, Master Anson? Oh, bless us now that you have returned. And you have brought a tall warrior to fight for us! Or is he a more handsome troll? Will he kill us?”
The boy was very small by standards familiar to Nevin, less than four feet tall but with facial features that made him appear not as a child but a teen-ager. The youth’s open-mouth stare changed to a look of relief when Anson stepped forth with a hearty greeting.
“Jon, my lad! It is good to see you! This is Sir Nevin and though he is as big as a troll, I assure you he is here to help us. What is the condition of the village, my boy? Are there Gilsum Guardsmen about?”
“No, Master Anson. The soldiers all left the morning after they attacked. Fourteen in all were killed, Guardsmen and Huxley people. We think they were after you. They left when you were nowhere to be found. Some of the older children have taken turns waiting here, hoping that this might be the place of your return. I must take you to a hiding place where three of our good King’s Armsmen are recovering. Come! We must go!” Eager to carry out his responsibility, Jon continued to eye Nevin with a mixture of curiosity and caution. The boy jumped back when Nevin suddenly started shaking his head and sputtering.
“Wait a minute before we go anywhere!” Nevin held up his hand and spoke forcefully, his voice booming in the small room. “I need to get a grip. Give me a minute to figure this out.” He eased into one of the chairs, which creaked in protest. Propping both elbows on the table, massaging his fingertips at his temples, he slowly shook his head from side to side and muttered, “What the hell just happened here?”
Anson put a hand on the tall man’s shoulder and lightly patted it. With somewhat less deference and more familiarity than he had shown previously, he said, “We have succeeded, my friend. We are in Huxley and this hut is what we use for a library, and for meditation in quieter times. You emitted such a burst of mindpower, Sir Nevin! I am surprised we are whole. With such power I was afraid we might end up somewhere different, but we are at the place we desired and we must make haste to leave to a better place of safety.” Turning to the boy, who was staring again with mouth agape. “Jon! C
an you guide us without walking through the village?”
“Yes, Master Anson. We can go around back of this…uh, library, and stay hidden among the trees all the way.”
“Good. Now, Sir Nevin! We must hurry. Jon, you take the lead and we will follow you. Go!”
With haste, the three of them left. Nevin and Anson followed as Jon ran around to the south side of the building. They made for the line of conifers that marked the edge of thick woodland. Jon moved quickly, outpacing the older men, although there was no visible path. After a few minutes, the boy stopped and came back to his two companions. He whispered a request for them not to follow in a line behind him. Nevin was puzzled by the request, but Anson explained this was necessary so they would not create a worn path that would give away their route to undesirable pursuers.
Pursuers? Nevin wondered what degree of danger they were facing.
After about fifteen minutes, they came to a creek bed with a loud and lively flowing stream. They followed the bank for several minutes until they came to a place where the stream had worn a sizable gully that traversed fifteen to twenty feet at the deepest parts. Jon stopped and looked around, checking that they were alone, apparently following some well-drilled instructions to preserve the secrecy of their destination.
Perspiring heavily by this time and out of breath, Nevin gasped, “How much farther?” To his surprise came an answer from behind him.
“If you are a foe to Antrim, big man, you’ll go no further than the spot under your feet.”
Nevin spun around to see three men move out from behind heavy tree cover; two were armed with bows and a third waved a small sword. All three men were similar to Anson in height and wore the same type of heavy poplin trousers and linen chemise; their clothes were quite dirty. The man who spoke recognized Anson and lowered his weapon, ordering the other men to do the same. The leader walked over to Anson and greeted the mage. A second man spoke, “Have you brought us only one giant then, Anson? Can this one fight to match his beastly size?”
“Mind your tongue, Shank!” Anson replied. “This man has come from a far place to help us.”
The third man called out, “What do we call him, The Tall Man from somewhere?”
“He is called Sir Nevin…the Reasoner. He is not a fighter but a sage, a man of greater knowledge than you or I have known.”
Shank replied with half a laugh, “It would be better if he was Sir Nevin the Belligerent. It is not reasoning we need, but skill with a sword or a bow.”
“You are being insolent. That is no way to greet a man who might someday save your hind end from the prick of a Gilsum sword!” said the leader, who introduced himself as a farmer named Cresten. “You are welcome to Huxley, Sir Nevin. Do not judge us all by the rudeness of these two.”
Cresten motioned for Anson to step off to the side for a private discussion. After several gestures by Anson that seemed to convey verbal reassurances, Cresten returned to face Nevin. “Sir Nevin. Anson vouches for you and assures us that you will not betray our hiding place. He says that you might offer some help in tending one of our wounded Armsmen. Please come with us.”
Nevin nodded and replied, “Well, I’m no doctor, but I’ll do what I can.”
Cresten took the lead and the troupe walked a short distance until they approached another man standing astride a cave-like opening in a high side of the creek bed. At first, the guard fingered his sword apprehensively as Cresten, Anson and Nevin entered the opening in single file. When Nevin passed and looked down at the sword with a somewhat bewildered stare, the guard’s eyes opened wide and he quickly removed the sword from sight.
Nevin and the others walked a short distance into the narrow sloping corridor, like a mine entrance, with hard dirt floors and walls. Nevin could hear the muffled sounds of conversation ahead. The corridor soon opened into a large underground grotto that had two tables and several chairs, some of which were occupied. Several oil lamps provided flickering light, plus some daylight filtered in through holes ventilating the earthen ceiling. There were several people in the room, all frozen still as they saw the new arrivals.
In addition to Cresten, Nevin counted four men and two women, all about Anson’s height but of varying ages. Three men were clothed in uniforms colored royal blue, all heavily soiled, and each man looked as if he was recovering from a skirmish. Nevin became a little uncomfortable as all eyes remained on him. One uniformed man reached for a sword lying on a nearby table.
Anson raised his hands to draw everyone’s attention and the people responded immediately. Anson spoke in a forthright tone, quite different from the more humble mien he had shown before their deliverance. “Friends, I have returned from a long journey. With me is a special man, known in his land as Nevin the Reasoner, who has traveled at his own peril to aid me in a plan to beseech King Lucan to end the war with Gilsum. Sir Nevin is an honored man with vast knowledge and skills borne of scholarship and high learning. He is not a soldier nor trained in the use of weapons, but we need his help for our plan to succeed.”
One of the blue uniformed men stood up and raised a sword in his right hand. Nevin took a step back in fear of assault, almost falling over a chair, and literally jumped when the man slapped the flat side of the blade on the table with a loud bang. The man spoke with a tone of authority. “As Captain of the King Lucan’s detachment in Huxley, I welcome this man, Sir Nevin the Reasoner, and am grateful for any help he can provide our King.”
This ritual seemed to make everyone in the room relax. There was an immediate rise in chatter as everyone wanted to know more about Nevin and their plan to meet with King Lucan. While Nevin tried to respond to questions from all sides, Anson walked over to the soldier who had spoken, greeting him with a firm handshake that marked them as friends. “It is good to see you whole, Orris! Thank you for the welcome. I am relieved at your good health. The last time I saw you I feared you had met your end.”
Orris was a man with rough facial features, mid-thirties in age, and large dark eyes that gave him a fierce look when he concentrated his attention. As he shook Anson’s hand, the look changed to one that reflected friendship but beleaguered with travail. “I nearly did meet my end, my friend. My damnable horse went into a panic from that foul air. He threw me and then fell, unable to get up. I took a good blow to the head when I hit the ground and went out like a snuffed candle. I woke here, along with two of my comrades who survived. It is fortunate for all of us that Meire’s Guardsmen left soon after they stormed us. I believe they were not bent on more mischief than simply looking for something or someone. It seems likely they were seeking you, since they had probably heard of your skills in magery. I told you many times it was an awful risk for you to live so openly, Anson.”
“It looks like you suffered more than a bump on the bonce. How do you come by that wound?” Anson pointed to a bandage on Orris’ left arm.
“I got a good slice from a Gilsum sword early in the fray. I did not lose too much blood, but I am afraid the cut festers and fever has roused. This is not just a bruise or a scrape from a training session, my friend. I need your help if I am going to add any more years to my military service.”
Anson motioned for Orris to sit. After examining the wound, Anson motioned Nevin to a far corner of the room for a private discussion.
Nevin was enjoying the barrage of questions about his homeland and what “fighting skills” he possessed. Despite their preoccupation with his size, he found the Antrim people engaging and likable. He gracefully withdrew from their attention as Anson pulled him aside.
“Sir Nevin,” Anson whispered. “The wound on Orris’ arm concerns me deeply. I do not think he has lost a lot of blood, but this type of cut from black metal weapons often ends either the career or the life of a soldier. I have seen more men die from light-looking wounds than actually succumb in battle—only it takes some days longer to suffer the agony. If the festering becomes green, the man must lose the infected limb. Men like Orris, who are too proud or to
o afraid to suffer the loss of the limb, usually die. I can tell that Orris already fears this fate, though he would not willingly show it. My knowledge of herb lore offers little help. If it is not already too late for Orris, do you know anything we can do to save this good man?”
Nevin said he would take a look and do what he could. He and the mage went over to Orris, where Nevin gently raised the soldier’s injured arm and grimaced as he removed the crude cloth dressing to examine the wound. After studying the three-inch slice on the distal side of the left bicep, he motioned for Anson to come closer. “I want both of you to know that I am not a physician, but I can see some things wrong with the way this gash has been treated. It was not adequately cleaned and it was bandaged with this blue cloth. Also, it is a jagged cut and it will not heal properly unless it is stitched.”
Puzzled by the tall man’s criticism, Orris said, “It is not uncommon to sew wounds, I know, but what is wrong with using a cloth bandage? This is how such wounds are commonly covered.”
“It’s not the way the wound was bandaged, it is the colored cloth. The blue dye in the cloth is probably toxic, which accelerates the infection.” Seeing that Orris looked confused, Nevin continued, “The dye that colors the cloth is probably poisonous once it gets soaked into your blood stream. It would probably affect you gradually over several days by making you feel listless and weak. That type of condition, by that I mean blood poisoning, makes it harder for your body to fight the infection that certainly will come. It’s no wonder you lose a lot of men from this type of injury.”
The Chronicles of Nevin Reasoner: The Complete Duology Page 9