Healer's Ruin

by O'Mara, Chris

  Not far away, Chalos was kneeling over a wounded soldier. He looked up and somehow, as she straightened, the young woman's hazel eyes found his. She managed a smile, winced, coughed again, gathered her wits and then threw him a huge, beaming grin. Then she punched the air to more cheers from the Krune.

  Samine.

  He smiled weakly back. For three hours he had been treating a steady stream of wounded fighters who had been carried, dragged or had themselves staggered from the caves, some sliced by swords and others burned. The enemy fighters hidden within the maze-like interior of the rock had used dangerous chemical mixtures that burned fiercely on contact with flesh, and this had almost forced the Black Talon to withdraw entirely. But the Krune were proud warriors and with magic on their side had proved unstoppable.

  The ring of clashing weapons and the horrible hiss of the chemical bombs had reached those outside the mountain, conjuring images of foul substances and bubbling wounds. Chalos had managed to ignore the noise for the most part by concentrating on putting the wounded back together and by the time the Dread Spear had emerged from the caves, the healer's hands were numb with channelling and his eyes were glazed.

  Some hours later, with evening a red threat on the horizon, Chalos started to make his way back to his tent, having finally run out of wounded to treat. His robes were plastered in gore and his boots squelched with blood and urine. He was hungry but had no appetite, having seen enough meat on the slab for one day.

  The Riln chemical weapon had been truly horrible. The word around camp was that it had begun as a substance used in engineering. The enemy had weaponised it in desperation after realising how outclassed they were by the southern invaders. Mark my words, slinger, one of the wounded had whispered to Chalos. Expect more surprises. Images of ravaged bodies flashed up in the healer's mind as he trudged back to his tent, his face glum.

  He had just pulled the front of his tent open and was about to step into the comforting darkness when a familiar weight fell onto his shoulder. He paused, his heart sinking.

  'Let me guess,' he said, 'someone fell and broke a leg? Someone toppled on his own sword? A Curalk went rogue and trampled a phalanx?'

  'I've missed your sense of humour, Chalos,' said Mysa sardonically, mimicking the healer's earlier remark. 'No, nothing like that. You've mended enough men for one afternoon.' She ruffled her feathers. 'The Duke is looking for you.'

  'How do you know that?'

  It was a stupid question. Accomplices had their ways of gathering information. Some of them could sneak unseen, others drift across the ground like smoke. Mysa simply hung in the air, or perched on a branch, and listened. Few things got passed her.

  'A messenger will be here soon,' the bird said, ignoring the question. 'So don't get too relaxed.'

  There was little chance of Chalos feeling relaxed after hearing such news. He had no desire to meet the general of the Black Talon. The Duke was considered brutal even by Krune standards and like most of his kind had little time for scrawny Rovann recruits like Chalos. A deep sigh escaped the healer.

  'Wonderful.'

  'I'll stick around, if you don't mind. Out of curiosity.'

  'I'd shrug,' Chalos said to the bird on his shoulder, 'but I don't want to make you travel-sick.'

  The healer looked at the cot in his tent and felt his limbs ache for rest. The constant channelling of energy had made his body feel brittle. It irked him to move.

  He had cast his first spell at the age of twelve. After he had shown some talent for scholarship, his family had enrolled him in a college of magic, love of lore and natural introspection making him the perfect student. First in his class to open a channel into the world of magic, he could still remember the thrill of reaching out with his mind to complete the circuit for the first time, and how the connection had sweetly clicked somewhere in his soul. Finding the thread, his tutors had called it. Within the first year he had been able to achieve focus without the aid of meditation. Now, it was second nature to him. He could close his eyes and slip almost immediately into the magical realm, carefully channelling its wanton energy into the real world through his healing hands.

  It had not been hard for him to choose to specialise in healing magic instead of the other paths that had been open to him. He was not a fighter. Nor was he a trickster or a thief. He had never wanted to be invisible, burn villages or propel his mind's eye hundreds of miles ahead of his own body. Healing had always seemed noble by comparison to the other magical arts. It felt... natural.

  Even though there was nothing natural about magic.

  But talented as he was, it still exhausted him. And the more he sought that magical thread the more he could feel himself drawn towards an invisible edge, a cliff beyond which lay a maelstrom of chaos. It was the risk all magicians took. The real cost of stealing energy from the realm of magic was the chance of the thread tightening, pulling, and binding the soul forever in madness as the body rotted mindlessly in the real world.

  With a pained expression he let the tent flap fall back into place and turned to face the long muddy trail that ran between the two lines of tents. The rudimentary road was chopped up with divots and led to the tarn beneath Hulker's Crag.

  A sherdling was standing in the road. Chalos waved to the little creature. One of the many dreg-races the southern Kingdom had assimilated since the Unification of the Plains, sherdlings knew their place in the war effort. With a sycophantic smile the spindly little man jogged over and saluted. Utensils and leather pouches bounced on his loose belt as he moved.

  'Bearer of the Vital Gourd!' the sherdling said, 'You are the slinger from Yusadan? The mage, Latharn?'

  Chalos ground his teeth. It was customary for his comrades to ignore his maternal lineage-name and use only that of his father's line, but their ignorance still annoyed him. Nevertheless, he nodded with as much politeness as he could muster.

  'That's me.'

  'The Duke wants to see you, slinger. As soon as you can make it.' The sherdling's elastically expressive face folded into a contrite wince. 'By which I fear he means now.'

  'Lead the way,' said Chalos, whipping cloak around his aching bones.

  Even as day surrendered to night, preparation for the next battle continued apace. Siege engines rolled on vast wooden wheels, pulled by enormous Curalk with great horns and fan-like ears. Columns of soldiers thundered past on Shadamar mounts, weapons glinting darkly in the ruddy evening light. The sun was a red blur sinking despondently into the jagged maw of the mountains as Chalos the Healer walked after the scurrying sherdling.

  They soon reached the Command Headquarters. A wooden structure sitting upon a vast wagon, it was strewn with banners fluttering in the breeze and even had four small turrets, each inhabited by a single crossbowman with a marvellous violet-plumed helm.

  Two soldiers guarded the wooden steps that led to the entrance. They were huge, muscular Krune, their faces hidden behind ornate bull's-head masks. Menace flowed off them like heat from a furnace or sweat from the flank of some predatory forest beast.

  'Slinger Latharn for the Duke!' the sherdling declared, and the soldiers stepped aside. The sherdling gave Chalos a crooked yellow smile. 'In you go, sir.'

  'Thanks,' Chalos grunted. He climbed the steps and pushed the door open.

  The office was lit by six lamps fixed to the walls. He saw the Duke at the far end of the room, sitting at a large desk, the surface littered with maps, scrolls and books. There was a weird hexagonal stone urn on the desk also. Surely ancient, its scarred skin deeply riven with strange markings, it was the sort of antiquated device Chalos would have loved to study. The healer closed the door behind him and cleared his throat.

  The Duke shifted in his chair. Like the rest of the Black Talon, Duke Elas was a Krune from the western archipelago. Eight feet tall, and nearly half that wide, with purple flesh and pale green eyes, his powerful body was wreathed in inky black mail. Baldaw Mesh, crafted by the blind giants of that region.

  'Sling
er,' said Elas, his voice low. 'Have a seat.'

  Chalos approached the desk and sank gratefully down into the chair. A groan escaped him.

  'Tired?' the Krune asked, raising a silver brow.

  'Exhausted, sir.'

  'Pity.'

  Elas noticed as Chalos stole a glance at the hexagonal stone object on the desk. His eyes narrowed.

  'Ah, a mysterious treasure, is it not?' he said. 'Sent to us from the King himself.'

  'It looks old,' Chalos said. 'Pre-Coronation at the very least...'

  'Very old! Found by an adventurer a hundred years ago, in the Cobalt Valley, that terrible wasteland that saps life with each step.' A large hand reached out to idly tap the lid of the urn. 'The poor wretch died of dysentery on the voyage back. His family passed it on to the King as a gift.'

  'What is it?'

  Elas removed his hand as though suddenly wary.

  'Who knows? It matters not,' the Duke replied.

  Chalos slumped, too tired to press the matter.

  The pale green eyes took in the bird on the healer's shoulder. 'Your Accomplice. A fine creature. We would all appreciate our own servile spy, coursing above the field, relaying to us the obstacles ahead.'

  'It's a necessary bond,' said Chalos. 'She tells me where the wounded are.'

  This was the truth. All slingers in the military were given an Accomplice, a magical creature with which they could communicate. For healers, it tended to be a bird or a hound, something that could either scout for wounded on the field from on high, or seek them by the scent of blood and sickness. Chalos had been given the bird two years before, by a servant of the King.

  The Krune stared at the healer warily. His people trusted in blades and shields, not magic and mystery. It was clear that the huge man was uneasy sharing his office with Mysa, a product of what he saw as the foul and unnatural interweaving of magical energy and captive beast. Sensing the Duke's distaste, Mysa acted like any other bird, pecking absently at her feathers and blinking at nothing in particular. She could play the idiot quite convincingly.

  'Has your bird noticed anything else on her travels, slinger?'

  'She said that our vanguard had suffered a defeat, hinting at the involvement of powerful magic,' said Chalos. 'That, and something about rain and old buildings.'

  Elas rested his chin on his knuckles and stared at the young mage through knotted brows.

  'According to our scouts,' he said, 'the Gilt Plates were driven back into the Dallian Woodland. We're waiting on further information but I think we may be called upon to recover them and push northward in their place.'

  Chalos could see that the Duke wasn't happy about the prospect. The expertise of the Gilt Plates lay in puncturing the enemy's armour, the Black Talon's in forcing the wound wider. The Krune were equipped for consolidation of conquered territory, for fortifying towns and clearing out remaining enemies. They were not ideal vanguard.

  Not that the Krune lacked the skill or tactical nous to lead the invasion. They merely lacked the logistics. Their swords, shields and crossbows were designed for an altogether different purpose than the arms of a company of hulking Dauwarks in golden plate, armed with weapons the size of treetrunks. That Gilt Plates could go weeks without feeding also made them ideal vanguard troops. The Krune, as the perpetually chaotic state of their mess tents proved, seemed to permanently desire fat wedges of pavarine steak – the bloodier the better.

  'As for the rain,' the Duke added, 'does the bird always talk in riddles?'

  Chalos noticed the sarcasm in the Krune's voice but ignored it, through fatigue rather than indifference.

  'To her, it is the rest of us that talk in riddles. She makes perfect sense.'

  The Duke grunted.

  'Well, there may be truth in her... musings.' His thick purple finger tapped the map on the table. Chalos looked down, his gaze tracing the carefully inked lines of mountains, dotted routes of travel, red marks of interest. Under the finger was a vast circle of walls that were half rubble, broken towers and what seemed to be enormous crypts. Skulls and bones had been littered about. The artist, certainly the King's own Cartographer, had indulged herself.

  'Ranoum P'haktar!' Chalos breathed. 'The Ruin!'

  'Indeed,' rumbled Elas. 'They say none set foot there, not since all life was driven from the place by a terrible curse. It lies at the Riln Meridian, halfway between the coast and their capital, Aphazail.' His wide mouth twisted into a smile full of nuance. It was the smile of a challenge relished, but also – perhaps – the acceptance of a reckless and doomed undertaking. 'Our Master intends for us to push into the Ruin, and prepare it, for that dread place shall be our base of operations from which we will launch our final assault on Aphazail.'

  Chalos could only stare at the map. His eyes slowly crawled back across the Riln Plain, through the Dallian Woodland and into the Doyu Basin, to a big black cross. Our current camp. It was a long, hard trek, and they would be expected to complete it in good time. If the Gilt Plates had indeed been routed, they would be licking their wounds in the woodlands, waiting for support. By the healer's reckoning, they would have a long wait.

  What were they doing so far ahead of us? So exposed?

  'Why are you telling me this, Commander?' Chalos asked in a small voice. 'Usually I receive my orders from messengers attached to Lieutenant Agryce, or Jolm.'

  This was true; the lieutenants would relay their orders to the healer via sherdlings or lowly Black Talon corporals, as if dealing with a Rovann was beneath them. Which, from their point of view, it was.

  'They're busy working out our advance,' said the Duke. 'And besides, I wanted to get a measure of you.' He sat back and drummed his fingers on the desk. His nails were long, thick and carefully cut at the tips so that there were two points on each, like the forked tongues of serpents. Perfect for raking flesh. 'I want you and the Dread Spear riding ahead with Jolm, supporting him with sorcery as he recovers what's left of the Gilt Plates and rides for the Ruin.'

  Fear assailed the healer. Exhausted as he was, he barely held himself together. Mysa threw him a glance and opened her long beak. No caw emerged, but Chalos nevertheless heard her concerns.

  'Fancy you, a soldier!' her voice sounded behind his eyes.

  The muscles of the Duke's brow crinkled for a moment, as if he had picked up on the silent speech of the crow. Krune were known to have strange affinities with magic, even though they held it in disdain. Perhaps they can hear it, smell it, feel it, but not comprehend it, Chalos thought. That's why they don't like it; magic irritates them, like sand on skin.

  'I'm not a warrior,' Chalos managed.

  'You're not a coward, either,' said the Duke. 'I hear good things about you from my men. You heal them, time and again, never recoiling from even the most horrific of wounds. You give of yourself tirelessly, until you are almost dead on your feet. Such depths of conviction are rare.' He offered the healer a conciliatory gesture. 'The King has given me a task, slinger. I do not mean to shirk from it. You and the Dread Spear will accompany Lieutenant Jolm and provide him with the support he needs to get the job done.'

  'Would a couple of Rovann really make a difference?'

  'A healer and a fire mage?' Duke Elas gave a nasty laugh. 'A formidable team indeed! Yes, slinger, I fear you will make all the difference. Remember, the Gilt Plates rode with Tankanis, the Flint Wizard, one of the King's most vaunted sorcerers. And look at the good it did them.'

  'Has he been in touch?' Chalos asked, knowing that such powerful beings had access to many avenues of communication that were beyond most people, perhaps beyond even Mysa's fleet wings. 'Any word of the foe that awaits in the north?'

  Darkness fell on the Duke's face.

  'No, slinger. No word from Tankanis. I believe him dead.'

  'Dead?' The healer's voice was barely a whisper.

  'You have heard the word before, I am sure, working elbow-deep in guts! Yes, boy. Dead. Were he alive, he would have contacted us by now. He has always
kept in close communication, yet we have heard nothing since he called the advance out from the woodlands.'

  Chalos could not speak. The colour had drained from his sharp, narrow face. He sunk into his chair, a lock of dark hair falling before his eyes, which were now closed.

  Was Tankanis really slain? A Flint Wizard, brought down by the Riln! If such a thing is possible, we have underestimated the folk that defend this land.

  'The Riln, it seems, got very lucky,' the Duke reasoned. 'But with your bird's eyes, we will be one step ahead of whatever awaits us on the Plains. Jolm's orders are simple: ride forward, with Agryce close behind, locate and patch up the Gilt Plates, rally them and pull them forward to the Ruin. Should the enemy strike again, your bird will see them coming... and you can ride amongst the front lines, healing in the midst of battle as the Dread Spear pours fiery death on the foe!'

  It was crazy. Chalos could wield potent magic, yes, but he was no Dread Spear. He could conjure no defences. A single arrow could kill him as easily as it could kill a sherdling. He didn't have the brawn or the stamina to wear heavy armour and he didn't even carry a blade.

  Gods and bones... I'm doomed!

  'Any questions?' Elas asked, his eyebrow arching. The Krune's tone implied that none were expected.

  'No, Duke,' said Chalos, too tired and downcast to fight his corner – especially against such an intimidating figure. 'None.'

  'Excellent. Then prepare yourself, for you leave at dawn.'

  'This isn't good,' Mysa's voice said softly, in his mind.

  No, Chalos thought. It's really not.

  Two

  Doyu

  Aside from the curalk, with their legs like stone pillars and skin like granite, the army of the Ten Plains King had also brought with it whole herds of pavarine for slaughter and close to ten thousand shadamar. The latter were fine riding beasts common in the south, with sleek fur and a chitinous blue armour that grew naturally on their cloven hooves and long, equine faces. The diamond-shaped nosebone flared out over the slanted amber eyes as though a smith had crafted a helm for each animal.