by Aire, D. H.
The strangers dismounted and rushed to her side. The companion, an elfblood, looked at her and she felt a feather light touch. He took a deep breath and said, “Nothing’s broken.”
“You’re a healer,” Se’and rasped.
“Of sorts,” he said, glancing at his human companion.
“My brother’s dying, please come!”
The falc began circling and let out a caw.
“It looks like you’ve got a patient, Bal,” George said.
Cle’or and the others closed in around them.
“I’m fine!” Se’and shouted, “They’re healers!”
“I’m not a healer,” George replied. “And sorry for what happened to you. I’ve an aversion to people pointing swords at me.”
Cle’or whispered, “Se’and, what happened?”
“I’m not sure but I’ll trust that,” she said, pointing to the falc winging back toward their camp.
Balfour, meanwhile, thought hard at George and the staff, ‘They’ve got to be Cathartans, but I’ve never heard of them leaving Cathart.’
Staff commented, ‘They look rather competent with all those weapons. The array of daggers is rather amazing.’
Cle’or glanced back at the two riders as the horses cantered back the way the patrol had come. She briefly glared at Balfour, dressed in animal skins of all things, yet she sensed his appraisal and felt oddly pleased. In the palm of her left hand, she slipped the hiltless throwing dagger back into its sheath.
As they rode Se’and inspected the man with the staff.
“Who are you?”
“I’m George Bradley.”
“Jee-orj Bradlei, Je’orj?” she said, struggling to pronounce it. She glanced at the staff bound to the rigging of the saddle, which he could easily grab at need, his odd clothing, then carefully examined his features.
“Are you an elfblood?” she asked.
“Uh, no. Although, my friend is on his mother's side,” the blonde haired woman continued to stare at him disconcerted.
"Can you tell us how your brother was hurt?” George asked.
“He’s dying, not hurt.”
“He’s sick?”
The elfblood glanced at his friend riding beside him, who was cringing a bit as he rode.
‘Gee-orj,’ the tentative thought reached him from Balfour, ‘I don’t know what I can do about sickness.’
‘Leave the diagnosis to me,’ staff said, ‘I’ve an impressive medical encyclopaedic database.’
George muttered, “Famous last words.”
‘I’m mortified.’
“You bucket of crystalline chips, don’t get cocky when a life’s on the line,” George muttered.
‘Well, we’ll see who’s more useful, won’t we, mister professor of archaeology.’
George’s eyes met with Balfour’s as they came into sight of the Cathartan camp.
Who are they? George thought.
Balfour heard it clearly through the computer’s telepathic link. He focused his thoughts and answered, ‘According to the stories, Gee-orj, Carthart is a land southeast of the Great Waste. It's a supposedly a beautiful land with only one thing wrong with it. It's cursed. Apparently, only a few men are born each generation. The women outnumber the men thousands to one. The women are reputed to be among the finest warriors and craftspeople in the world, and they take the matter of protecting the few men in their society rather seriously. It's been centuries since the last Cathartan ventured from their lands. I wonder what brought them here of all places?’
“Interesting,” George muttered, thinking that the Summoning had been leading them here.
Se’and saw the staff bound beside George's knee glistened ever so faintly. Her ears raised and she shouted to her sisters, “He is a mage!”
Balfour quickly replied, “Ladies, that doesn’t quite describe him. He’s pure human without a trace of elvin blood.”
The falc settled upon the brightly painted peaked roof of the largest wagon, a wooden affair, which had wheels thicker than the others. It ruffled its wings and abruptly squawked as George, Balfour, and the returning patrol halted before it. It abruptly squawked again.
All turned and stared at the bird, as a robed man and dark robed older women stepped from the back of the wagon and stared at the falc as it suddenly leapt back into the sky.
De’ohr stared at the great bird as it winged away, the sense of what it implored echoing through her body before she turned to gaze at the two strangers now in the camp. Her heart pounded. This was the sign, one no one could deny.
“Sire!” she called. “This is the moment my visions have been leading us to!”
Gazing bright with hope, Ryff muttered, “I pray it to be true…” He pleaded to the approaching strangers, “Whoever you are please help my son!”
The oddly dressed elfblood and the man with the walking staff hurriedly dismounted and were ushered inside the wagon.
They found themselves being watched across the encampment with suspicion, and another darker emotion by what the computer staff noted as eighty-two black livered women, armed with bows, swords, and a vast assortment of daggers.
“Do you feel it?” George whispered to his companion.
Balfour winced, “I’ve never felt such pain.”
Cle’or headed the curious off and shouted, “They’re healers! The falc led us right to them.”
Se’and bounded up the wagon steps right behind them.
Through the curtain door the Mother Shaman said, “My lord, please come away.”
“I shall not,” Sire Ryff muttered, taking hold of his unconscious son's fevered hand.
With a sigh, De'ohr turned and noted Se'and gesturing to her as the two strangers moved to Vyss’s pallet. The walking staff flared in the man’s hands. “Full body scan,” she heard the mutter as the young woman Fri’il continued to towel cold water on the boy’s fevered brow.
The older woman, Me’oh, who Ryff had taken into his household for her renowned herbal healing skills, looked incredulously at George and Balfour as she heard De’ohr say to Se’and, “The man’s a mage?”
The sandy haired Se’and nodded, “They say not, but—”
Vyss’s body arched in agony.
“What the hell?!” George shouted.
Balfour gasped, “There’s no record of such a thing in the Imperial Healer’s Archive, Gee-orj!”
“We took him to the Imperial Capital to the Healer’s Hall,” Lord Ryff said, “They said they could do nothing to save him from the Curse.”
“But why couldn’t they recognize this for what it is, Gee-orj?” Balfour wondered.
“Would you have?” George rebutted, leaning heavily on his staff. “Let me think. I was half hoping we were dealing with something easy to deal with, like cancer.”
Sire Ryff looked about him, “Can you do nothing?”
“Give me a moment, please. My friend and I need to, uh, consult.” The staff began to glisten and the two stranger grew still.
Fri’il said, “Who are they?”
Se’and said, “He’s Balfour. That’s Je’orj. The falc led us right to them, then made it clear that we were to bring them here.”
Me’oh gave a concerned look to De’ohr. The Mother Shaman understood. The boy had little time. Whatever they were going to do they had best do it quickly.
Gee-orj, staff hasn’t covered this in my lessons, Balfour thought.
George inquiried in silence, Staff, what with five thousand years of medical knowledge at your fingertips, there’s nothing that covers this one?
‘George, I’m cross referencing exorcisms now.’
The archaeologist mentally laughed, Well, we’re here, the boy’s dying as we dither. So, I guess it’s up to me.
‘George…’
“End conference,” the man muttered, “maintain level one rapport.”
‘Acknowledged. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
“I hope so too,” he mumbled as his gaze came back into
focus. The young woman bathing the boy’s fevered brow couldn’t be more than sixteen years old on earth. She looked up at him with pleading eyes.
“You’ll need to give us some room,” George said.
“I’m not leaving,” the boy’s father said.
“What I’m about to do may disturb you. I really suggest—”
“We’re all staying, Fri’il over there is Vyss’s wife. We’re his family,” the woman with gray streaked hair said.
“I know my son is dying,” Ryff added, “and that he has little time.”
George gripped Balfour’s shoulder and said, “We need to get those clothes off him. I’ve got some old fashioned surgery to do.”
Me’oh and the young woman Fri’il frowned as they removed Vyss’s sweat drenched clothing.
Sire Ryff, the Mother Shaman, and Se’and however only stared at the blade the man drew from its waist sheath. The blade was almost gray, discolored like none of them had ever seen before. The man brought it close to his staff, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The staff glowed brighter and brighter as did the blade of discoloured, now nearly black metal.
From Balfour’s memory everything he knew of the Cathartan’s Curse flowed through George’s mind. The Curse's onset in its virulent form occurred at puberty. Muscle weakness was the first indication of the disease, which progressed in stages that resembled a wasting sickness. It was presumed that the lads died of the fevers that burn out their human bodies. Little else was known save that there was no cure.
Me'oh looked up at Balfour and said, “Vyss is our lord sire's secondson, something more rare than I dare say you could understand not being from my land. We sought out the Healers in the Empire with hopes in their magery. But they told us the Curse was far beyond even their knowledge and sorceries.”
Balfour frowned, “If anyone can cure him, Gee-orj, can.”
“Bal,” George muttered, “deep probe him, please. Then monitor and keep your barriers up, just in case.”
George then moved to stand over the boy and held his oddly colored dark blade over the boy’s body, then muttered, “Activate emergency sterile field.”
The staff he held in his left hand blazed with blue light. Me’oh and Fri’il felt a tingling sensation, not unpleasant, just something foreign to their experience. The Mother Shaman’s eyes widened as she stared. Her brother, Sire Ryff, gasped, “He’s uttered no spell.”
His sandy haired daughter said, “Je’orj claims he has no elvin blood.”
“And he can wield such magery?” her father asked.
De’ohr stiffened, feeling her visions take her, feeling them whisper to her that this was why her dreams had led them across the world to try to save the boy. Failure to cure him in the Empire was fated. It was this moment upon which the future of their House, the future of her people, rested.
George muttered, “Getting anything?”
Nothing, came Balfour's mental reply. His heart rate is steadily weakening. It’s sucking the life out of him.
With an unconscious nod, George passed the blade over the boy’s stomach. Still nothing. He moved the blade slowly toward the boy’s feet.
Shock. The staff flared, throwing up mental barriers to shield George as the boy cried out. Balfour paled, reeling backward with an image locked before his mind's eye.
A moment later, it was as if nothing happened.
"My, my, wasn't that something. You alright, Bal?" George asked.
The elfblood healer shook himself, "I believe you've found it. Now what?"
George said, “Ladies, please hold him down. It’s important he moves as little as possible.”
Me’oh and Fri’il frowned as Balfour whispered, eyes wide, “Gee-orj….”
George took a deep breath, thinking archaeology wasn’t supposed to be like this, then muttered, "Now for the hard part, I cut it out.”
“Did he say cut it out?” Ryff worriedly asked. “Cut what out?”
Bal said, “I think you’d better hurry, Gee-orj.”
“Uh, right. Here goes.”
“What’s he doing?!” the boy’s father bellowed as Me’oh and Fri’il gasped.
George brought down the blade and—
BOOM!
It wailed. The wagon quaked, knocking everyone standing off their feet except George, who seemed rooted. Vyss woke screaming an eerie, unearthly howl as Me’oh and Fri’il fought to hold him down.
The dark blade drew blood as George’s staff flared to incandescence. BOOM! again.
The wagon wheels collapsed and a foul smelly smoke made them all cough as it poured off the boy’s body.
The next thing George knew he heard the boy’s father shouting, “Vyss! What’s happened to Vyss!”
Hands were pulling back the canvas roofing as George and Balfour coughed.
Me’oh muttered, “By all the Lords of Cathart, what has happened?!”
George gasped, using his staff to help him push aside the blankets, assorted vials of herbal remedies, and the teapot that had fallen across him. “One demon excised,” he groaned. “I hope.”
The teenage girl was waving smoke away from her face when Vyss coughed, “Fri’il?”
She stared at him, “M’lord?”
“Fri’il, I’m cold.” The boy tried to sit up. “Hey, I’m not wearing any clothes!”
There was a sudden silence.
“Vyss?”
“Poppa?”
“Vyss! See to him, I’m fine! Hear that, De’ohr, my boy’s alive!”
“Well, Gee-orj, at least they don’t want to kill us.”
“That’s most definitely an improvement,” George said with a chuckle as he washed his face in a cold water basin the ladies had provided.
They had been given a rather fine looking tent as the Cathartans readied a celebratory feast in their and young Lord Vyss’s honor.
“M’lords,” Fri’il said from the doorway. “If you would, we would wash your garments.”
“You think you can wash the demon stink off them?” George asked.
She smiled, “It seems to come out with soap rather nicely. In the meantime, I’ve brought you some of Sire Ryff’s extra robes.”
They were beautiful, George thought, a cross between an ancient Japanese kimono and a silk garment similar to a skirt, though styled for men.
“Thank you,” Balfour said.
“Just set your clothes to be cleaned out here and I’ll be back for them.”
They nodded as she left, the George said, “Well, Bal, feel like a surgeon yet?”
His elfblooded companion laughed, “Not your normal surgery.”
“No,” the archaeologist replied, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into.
“You can’t be serious, Father!” Se’and shouted.
“They saved your brother’s life. I can do no less!”
The Mother Shaman intervened, “You must do more, Sire.”
“What?” Lord Ryff said, frowning.
“They’ve made the Prophecy possible again! You must do more than make them Cathartan Lords.”
Se’and reiterated, “You can’t!”
Her father sat back, “Se’and, De’ohr’s right. This is a matter of honor. I’m sorry, but there is no other way.”
“I’m not marrying him!”
Dinner was a truly magnificent affair. Young women performed songs, dances, and acrobatics. Cle’or was featured with the dance of knives, tossing daggers in the air like a juggler, while executing precise katas, as those in the eastern part of earth. She bowed as Sire Ryff slapped George’s back.
“She is my House’s finest champion!”
“Wonderful,” he said.
Sire Ryff glanced at his older half sister and nodded. She made a mental note.
Se’and personally served George a choice piece of the game they’d recently taken. She wasn’t smiling, which earned her a glare from her father. So she bowed rather invitingly to George, who found himself hastily needing to look up into the y
oung woman’s eyes.
“Uh, thank you, but I don’t eat meat.”
She frowned, “Do you prefer fish or cheese?”
“Cheese is fine, but I don’t eat fish either.”
She bowed again, giving him the requisite view as honor demanded then left to fetch him a serving of cheeses.
Me’oh saw her stalking past.
“Se’and,” she said gently, “it might not be that bad.”
“He refused my offering! Who does he think he is?”
“Oh,” was all she said with an amused look as the young woman headed back to the kitchen, then, “Oh, you have it bad, don’t you.”
Balfour was drinking the Imperial wine. Tasting it, he knew it an excellent vintage. He remembered sharing a bottle with—well best not dwell on that. She was likely married by now and I had been a failure at the Healer’s Hall, after all.
Staff twinkled across the room where George sat as Se’and returned with a heaping platter of cheese.
‘Bal, you’re not a failure,’ staff mentally said to him. ‘Stop thinking that way. Your talent is just on the human side of the equation.’
Through the link he heard George say, “Thank you,” to the young woman, who was wearing a rather tight fitting and revealing dress.
“May I join you?” he half heard Se’and ask George.
“Uh, sure,” George replied scooting over on the pillow that served as his chair.
‘Bal, is there something about Cathartan mores I should warn George about?’
I don’t think so, he replied, watching George’s reactions to his environment.
The herbalist Me’oh brought Balfour a plate, “I brought you some fruit.”
“Thanks. Uh, bringing fruit doesn’t have any special meaning, does it?”
Me’oh chuckled, “Not fruit, no.”
He watched her walk away and thought at the staff, Uh, you might want to mention to George—
‘Oh, don’t give it another thought,’ staff replied. If Balfour didn’t know better by now, he would have thought that the computer was laughing.
Se’and edged closer to George, “You were heading west when we found you.”