Honor Found (The Spare Heir)

by Southwick, Michael

  He was almost back across the clearing when a dry bone snapped beneath his foot. Instantly a sharp tingling ran up the back of his neck. Something was here, something with magic. The only place of concealment was the cave. Spinning around to face the cave, he saw nothing, but the tingling grew sharper.

  Closing his eyes, Jorem saw a blotchy yellow light racing toward him. Whatever it might be it was large and moving fast. Reflexes pounded into him by Neth’s relentless training had his sword out before thought. He slashed down at the approaching light, and felt his sword strike something solid. At the same instant, he was struck and flung across the clearing.

  His back slammed into a tree and he sagged down at its base. Looking up, he saw a creature unlike anything he had seen before. He’d never even read of such a creature. He struggled to stand, but his legs refused to respond. A burning sensation was spreading across his left shoulder, but he dared not look at his injuries. He’d deal with those if he lived long enough.

  Burning yellow eyes glared at Jorem. A spine-chilling howl issued from a wide, gaping mouth filled with sharp jagged teeth, more teeth than should have fit. The creature stood half again as tall as Jorem. Long matted fur covered its body, dingy brown and grey in color with dirt and leaves clinging in large patches. Its arms were long for its body. Long black claws glistened darkly from both hands and feet. But those feet somehow didn’t reach the ground. The creature hovered a hand span from the ground. Some absurd portion of Jorem’s mind mused, “Hmm… no tracks”. The rest of his mind screamed, “IT’S COMING!”

  The creature glided slowly toward him. Thick saliva dripped from its fangs. Dark red blood was oozing from a gash on its chest and seeping into its fur. A harsh, dark, fetid odor filled the air. Were it not for the fear piercing his chest, Jorem would have lost what little food he’d eaten earlier. Even so, he felt bile rising in his throat.

  Unable to stand, and with pain lancing through his chest and left shoulder, Jorem felt trapped. Panic crept into his mind. He was going to die. No one would save him. No one would come. Despair cast its dark shadow over him. Would anyone even miss him?

  The creature was but four or five arm-lengths away. Jorem’s breath came ragged and harsh. His vision began to blur, his heartbeat pounded in his ears. The thought of the squad of men coming up behind him flashed through his mind. If the creature could hide itself in magic those men wouldn’t stand a chance. Eight men would die, men who were counting on him. More good men would die if the others came looking for them.

  “NO!” Jorem screamed through gritted teeth.

  His desperation gave way to determination. He would do what he could, whatever he had to, to stop this beast. He would likely die, but maybe not the others. Not if he could help it. Reversing his grip, Jorem held his sword like a javelin. Drawing on every ounce of strength he possessed, Jorem threw his sword at the approaching creature. The sword sank deeply into the creature’s chest. Convulsing, the creature screamed and slowly sank to the ground. Its eyes, still fixed on Jorem, dimmed and went blank.

  Jorem felt like sobbing, but it hurt too much. Looking down at himself, he saw where claws had ripped through his uniform. The leather armor had parted like butter. His flesh was torn and bleeding; several ribs showed through the seeping blood. He looked at his arm and wished he hadn’t. A few bits of flesh and scraps of his sleeve were all that attached it to his body. Bile rose in his throat from the sight of the wound. The clearing began to spin around him. Something went numb in the back of his mind and he drifted off into a bottomless black pit.

  Chapter XVII

  When next he opened his eyes, Jorem found himself staring up at the top of a tent. He couldn’t seem to figure out where he was. His head felt like it was stuffed with wool. His body felt like, well, it felt like a huge weighted blanket lay atop him, holding him down. Nothing around him was familiar. Then, slowly, recollection came.

  He was in the medical tent. He turned his head to look around and a sharp pain lanced through his chest. Memories of his fight with the strange creature flashed through his mind. With each memory the pain increased until he gasped aloud.

  “Rim?” a familiar voice asked. “Can ye hear me, lad?” Conrad hustled over to his bedside. The worry in the man’s face was plain to see. “Hang on lad, the King done sent his healers fer us. They might not be able ta fix ye whole, but they can keep ye from dyin’ on us.”

  The concern in Conrad’s voice gave Jorem more alarm than comfort. Looking at himself, he saw that his arms and chest had been bound tight with several layers of bandages. The pain was bad, but not as bad as he thought it should be. He was so tightly bound he couldn’t move any more than to slightly tilt his head. The damage he recalled seeing should have killed him.

  “How?” Jorem slurred. “What happened?”

  “Easy there lad an’ I’ll give ye the tellin’ of it.” Conrad sat down on the cot next to Jorem’s. “Yer squad, they heard the commotion you was makin’ and came a runnin’. When they got to ye, the critter was dead an’ you was tored up bad. They bound ye up as best they could an’ hightailed it back ta the wagons.”

  “When they told us how bad off ye was, we daren’t take off what they done, so we just added more bindin’s. Cap’n, he had us give you some potions fer pain. The healers got here just a bit ago. Craziest thing I ever seen. Big black hole appears in midair an’ out they step. They should be along soon ta patch us all up.”

  So the king had the healers magic’d here. Pentrothe had explained the concept to him years ago. It had something to do with probabilities and possibilities, but it had been too confusing for Jorem at the time and there was no point trying to figure it out now. One thing the old wizard had made clear was that it took an enormous amount of energy to accomplish. He’d said it would be easier to run the distance than it would be to cast such a spell.

  The room swam around Jorem, going in and out of focus. Whatever potions they’d given him were making him nauseous. Nausea was probably better than the pain though. Conrad gave no indication of leaving, but he was clearly becoming uncomfortable with the situation. The man was far more accustomed to the wilderness and tracking than to sitting in a tent with the sick and injured.

  “The creature. What was it?” Jorem asked.

  “Never heard o’ the like,” Conrad replied. “One o’ the soldiers from outland said it was a shimmerik. He’d only heard o’ it, never havin’ seen one fer his self. Said they come from the land o’ the dead, some far off place all cinder an’ flame.”

  “Nobody never heard o' such a beast ‘round here. Everyone’s all edgy, jumpin’ at shadows. A feller daren’t even go off in the woods ta pee. Frightful stories that outlander tol’ us, mighty frightful. Thing the Cap’n wants ta know is how it got here.”

  A high needling voice drew Jorem’s attention to the far end of the tent. A tall gaunt-looking man stood next to Captain Jonas. The man wore long flowing robes of forest green and pale yellow. A meticulously trimmed black beard framed his thin sallow face, and long black hair hung limply from his scalp, just brushing the top of his shoulders.

  “Truly, Captain, I understand your plight.” Even from a distance the man’s voice grated on Jorem’s nerves. “I simply cannot see how you can justify calling for the King’s healer for this rabble. Surely a simple surgeon would have been more than sufficient.”

  The Captain didn’t even flinch at the healer’s words. He stood calmly with his hands behind his back. From his expression, you’d have thought they were discussing what kind of crackers to have with their tea. Jorem knew better. When the captain grew this calm, it was a good time to find a place to hide.

  “Of course you’re right, Master Devonne. The King, however, wants these men fighting his war. They certainly can’t do that from a sickbed, now can they?” The captain’s tone brooked no argument.

  “Be that as it may,” the healer whined, “I’ll do what I can, but you must understand that any energy I use on these… men is energy I will n
ot have to serve the King.”

  “Is the King ill?” the captain asked in mock concern.”

  “Of course not!” the healer snarled. “Were the King ill, you’d have never pried me from his side.”

  Turning from the captain, the healer signaled to a small, cloaked figure at the doorway. “Come. The sooner we finish here the sooner I can return to the capital.”

  “Ain’t that a piece o’ work?” Conrad murmured under his breath. “I’d best be goin’ a’for I’m noticed. Oh, I brought over all yer belongins. They’re right there under yer cot ifn’s ye has need o’ ‘em.”

  “Thanks, Con.”

  “I’ll be back ta check on ye, ye hear?”

  Time crawled by for Jorem. Low murmuring and occasional grunts of pain intruded on his drowsing from time to time. Between the pain from his injuries and the blurring of his mind from the potion, Jorem didn’t even sense when Devonne was using his healing magic. Most of the time he couldn’t tell whether he was awake or dreaming. Everything seemed so distant.

  A sudden silence drew Jorem’s attention as nothing else could. Glancing over, he saw Devonne standing motionless. The healer’s eyes were wide. His lips were moving, but no sound came out. A silent pop echoed through Jorem’s mind. Jorem had seen Pentrothe do that a few times. It was some kind of mage speech. It took a lot of energy and both ends of the conversation had to possess magical abilities.

  Healer Devonne jerked as though he’d been struck.

  “I must return immediately,” the healer stated. “Prince Farthon has fallen from his horse and badly twisted his leg.”

  “But the rest of our men,” someone said.

  “My trainee can remain,” Devonne said. “She’s of no use to me.”

  The cloaked figure at the healer’s side shrank a little smaller. A small thought, like a flickering light, battered its way around Jorem’s mind. He’d heard this conversation before, but where? Something about this interaction was important, but he couldn’t remember what. His mind was too fogged with pain and potions.

  A faint tingling at the back of his neck told Jorem the healer had gone. If Pentrothe had cast the spells for their coming and going, the old man would be recovering for a sevenday if not more. The captain strode into the tent. A quick count showed that fewer than half the wounded had been treated. Captain Jonas walked the full length of the tent until he came to Jorem. The captain’s shoulders sagged as he knelt beside Jorem’s cot.

  “I’m sorry, son. You should have been first,” Captain Jonas whispered.

  “S’okay, sir,” Jorem breathed. “Others more important. Just a spare.”

  “Curse that arrogant son of a mule!” the captain spat, paying no attention to Jorem’s words. “You,” he said, pointing to the healer’s trainee. “Over here. Whatever you can do for this man, do it. If all you can do is block his pain until it’s over, at least he can go in peace.”

  Jorem’s mind was so fogged at this point that the captain’s words sounded like a distant echo. The healer trainee jumped when the captain spoke. With slumped shoulders and bowed head, the cloaked figure meekly approached. The trainee’s small stature and timidity were matched with the muted color of her cloak. Were she to stand still long enough, few would even notice her presence.

  Oddly enough, the closer the trainee came, the clearer Jorem’s thinking got. At first he thought it a sign he was about to die. Then he realized the effect was a direct result of the trainee’s approach. It was like stepping out of a heavy rainfall into a sunlit glade. By the time the trainee reached his bedside, not only was he thinking straight, he could see clearly as well.

  Looking up into the trainee’s hooded face Jorem made out delicate feminine features, short, mousey brown hair and dark brown eyes. “You are bonded.” Teneth of the Folk’s words flashed through his mind. He’d wondered what she’d meant, but now there was no doubt. The way the Folk searcher had spoken, though, he thought there should be something more to it.

  “Jen?” Jorem whispered.

  Though her name came out a bit slurred, she still jumped as though she’d been struck. Wide-eyed she stepped closer and knelt beside Jorem’s cot. The hood of her cloak slipped back off her head. Her face was pale and gaunt. As she tried to recognize the wounded man before her, Jorem noted a light sprinkling of freckles still noticeable on her nose and cheeks. She looked so tired and sad. He wanted so much to reach out to her, to caress her cheek, hold her and comfort her. Were these emotions so strong because of his condition? There was no way for him to be sure.

  “Jorem!” Jen gasped when at last she realized who he was. “It can’t be you. You’re still in Broughbor. Just today the King sent a rider to fetch you.”

  “Nope,” Jorem mumbled. “I’m here.”

  Jen gently laid a hand on Jorem’s bandaged shoulder. A lance of pain shot through his body causing him to grunt and convulse. Jen quickly removed her hand as though she’d been scalded. Being careful not to touch him, she mover her hands over his chest and his arm, sensing but not touching.

  “You’re in so much pain,” Jen whimpered.

  “Pain’s jusht life’s way of tellin’ ye yer shtill alive,” Jorem said when he got his breath back.

  “I… I don’t think I can do this,” Jen said. Fear was evident in her voice and tears trickled down her face. “The pain I’ll cause will kill you.”

  “Jen,” Jorem said as clearly as he could. “It’s okay. Do what you can. I’m just glad you’re here.”

  Hesitantly, Jen leaned closer to Jorem. With a feather light touch, she gently laid her hands on Jorem’s good shoulder and stomach. The faint aroma of herbs wafted over him. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the pain he knew was about to come. A flickering of green caused him to turn his head toward Jen. What he “saw” made his eyes pop open.

  “Wait!” he blurted, then winced with pain from his exclamation.

  Jen backed away, concern and confusion in her eyes. Had he seen what he thought he had? Jorem closed his eyes again. The green flickering was gone, but what had startled him remained.

  Dark flint-like shards formed an undulating wall before him. Thick and jagged, the shards swirled about, coalescing and thinning, occasionally revealing a glossy smooth inner wall. Even that wall showed signs of cracks and flaws. What strange magic was this? In all his talks with the wizard Pentrothe, nothing like this had ever come up.

  Opening his eyes, Jorem looked at Jen. “What is that… wall around you?”

  Jen looked at him in confusion and then in surprise. “You can see my shield?”

  “Shield?” Jorem questioned. “Don’t you mean shields?” Somehow having this phenomenon to concentrate on gave him focus. “There are a lot of them, and they’re all broken.”

  At his words, Jen paled even more. Tears flowed freely and she sobbed. She seemed to crumble before him. All of her strength gone, she sat and wept. She needed his help maybe more than he needed hers. He didn’t fear death, but he couldn’t bear to see her in such pain.

  “There should only be one,” she choked out. “Only one, and I can’t keep it whole.”

  Jorem pushed the fog back with a will and tried to remember what Pentrothe had taught him about shields. The old wizard had always been lecturing about one thing or another. There had been something in the old records about healers and how they used shields—when they could use them and when they couldn’t; and most importantly, why they needed them. Most healers could sense emotions all the time unless they put up a barrier between themselves and others. In order to use their gift on someone they had to remove that barrier.

  “When you heal, you let your shields down, right?” Jorem asked.

  “Well, yes,” Jen hesitated. “I mean they’re already broken so I just let them break apart.”

  “You don’t undo them?” Jorem quizzed.

  “Undo?”

  “Jen,” Jorem said intently, “they’re still there, all of them. All of the shields you’ve ever made, but in piec
es.”

  “But, how can that be?” Jen asked, shaking her head.

  “You have to take them apart.” Jorem stressed, “Just like you put them together, but backwards.”

  More tears rolled down her cheeks. “I don’t think I can,” she said in despair. “I just don’t have the strength.”

  A light clicked on in Jorem’s head. She needed stronger magic. The Power Stone would help her as nothing else could. The large gemlike stone had been given to him by the old woman in Broughbor. The woman had said it would increase a mages power. She’d given the last remaining power stone, made by her father, to Jorem for him to give to Jen.

  “Is there a small chest under my cot?” Jorem asked.

  Jen was already sitting on the ground so she didn’t have to lean down very far to look. Reaching under the cot, she got a hold of the chest and pulled it out.

  “This?” she asked, holding the chest up so Jorem could see it.

  “Yeah, tha's it,” he murmured.

  A wave of nausea and pain caused his stomach to knot and his eyes to blur. The potions they’d given him earlier were wearing off. If this didn’t work, he wasn’t sure what would happen, because he was about to pass out.

  “Shet it down an’ open it. Careful, don’t touch. Is ver fragile,” his words came out, slurred.

  “A glimmer stone?” Jen asked confused. “What am I supposed to do with a glimmer stone?”

  “Glimmer stone?” Jorem thought. The old woman, Sashia, had tried to make power stones as her father had, but she hadn’t been successful at making the mage-enhancing stones. What she made looked the same as power stones, large glittering gemlike pieces, but that was all they were, shiny bobbles. Had it not been for their size and durability most people would mistake them for true gems. The glimmer stones had become very popular as gifts between friends, especially those hoping for a little more than friendship.