Dark Healer (An Empire Falls Book 1)

by Harry Leighton

  “He didn’t moan the whole way?”

  “He moaned from the moment we got on the horses, all through the wilds, he moaned as we got back onto imperial roads, he moaned as we neared the city.”

  “Er … near the city?”

  “Now he wants to see a bear.”

  They all shook their heads.

  “Did he pay you?”

  “Yes, he’s given Magath everything that was promised, plus more for us.”

  “Excellent. Let’s go get that sorted out and we can be free men again.”

  They marched themselves back through the city, and were soon in the warehouse district. Here, local guardsmen watched as Magath’s goods were unloaded, Slake having taken his men off to enjoy their pay.

  “Good evening,” Daeholf said, and Magath turned to see all three.

  “I owe you all an apology,” Magath began.

  “Oh?”

  “I wasn’t sure you were right until you’d gone, then I saw Slake’s face in the morning. Whether he wanted the money or the women, he was a liability.”

  “I wouldn’t hire him again.”

  “Zedek is right, I won’t. But he served me well and you stopped a fight. I should pay you more. In fact, you’re welcome to take his place, share the overseer role, hire your team. Come work with me.”

  “Thank you,” Daeholf said, and now Magath saw emotion in his cold exterior, “but we have somewhere to be.”

  He didn’t say ‘home’, but Magath was sure that was it.

  “Then take my money, and my blessings, and if you’re ever near me, seek me out.”

  *****

  “You’re about to meet an old friend of mine,” Jonas said, standing at the door to an inn.

  “Is he as seedy as the rest of them have been?” Alia said.

  “Not quite. Retired from the bounty game a few years ago, bought an inn and got himself respectable. Well, mostly.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Jonas opened the door and strode in, took a moment to scan the small number of patrons and then walked quickly to the man at the bar. Alia followed reluctantly. She hadn’t really got on that well with most of Jonas’s acquaintances in the past. Mostly because they’d not taken her that seriously.

  “Henrik, you old bastard, how are you?”

  The barman looked up. “Jonas, what the hell are you doing here?” he said warmly.

  “Same old. Just passing through.”

  “Ah. Anyone I know?”

  “I doubt it, but we’ll get to that later. First, I need a room.”

  “She’s new,” Henrik said, indicating Alia, who sighed.

  “Alia. She’s in the business.”

  "So, one room or two?" the barman said, a wink in his eye.

  "One," Jonas said. "And a bath," he added a moment later.

  "Oh?" Alia said, raising an eyebrow at him.

  "She's a lively one," the barman said to Jonas.

  "You have no idea," he replied.

  Alia rolled her eyes at him.

  "Reminds me of that girl over at Chackwater, maybe twenty-five years ago, you remember — the one with the nice …"

  "Eyes," Jonas finished.

  "Indeed." The barman grinned. "You remember that she…”

  Alia tried to zone out as the two men reminisced. Or made up tales, she wasn't sure which. Either way she wasn't that interested in listening to yet another story of what Jonas used to get up to. Besides which, despite considering herself open-minded and a woman of the world, it sounded disgusting. And, well, painful. She kept her face blank.

  "I see your companion doesn't approve," the barman said.

  "She's a terrible prude," Jonas said.

  Alia wasn't having that.

  "Come on then, big man," she said to Jonas, "that all sounded fun. And there's only one way I'm going to learn."

  Jonas looked momentarily shocked, but covered it quickly.

  "I'll leave you two to it then," the barman said. "Room twelve, and the hot water will be up soon." He handed Jonas a key.

  Jonas and Alia walked over to the stairs slowly, him silent and looking ahead, her looking for his reaction.

  "You, um, realise we're not doing that, right? " he said quietly as they climbed the steps. "I'm old enough to be your father and um…”

  "Grandfather probably," she replied.

  Jonas reached over, grabbed a fistful of the back of her jerkin and lifted her into the air, holding her up at arm’s length as he carried on up the steps.

  "Hey, keep your shirt on."

  Jonas stopped and turned her to face him, glaring.

  "Okay, poor choice of words. I’m sorry."

  Jonas put her down with a grunt and started rolling his shoulder, grimacing slightly.

  Alia looked at him, concerned. "We've been on the road a long time, let's get you that bath. I'll massage your shoulders for you," she added gently.

  Jonas looked at her for a moment then paused. His shoulders slumped. "No funny business," he said quietly.

  "No funny business," she agreed.

  *****

  The rain was coming down hard enough to soak through his cloak, to begin to irritate his skin, to begin making him feel cold. Marlen had known rain was coming, had felt it in the air that morning, and decided to press on anyway because there was a village he could have reached by lunchtime. Reached it he had, and normally he’d have had a meal and spent a few hours attending to people’s needs.

  Normally, in most villages. But here the elders had come to greet him like he was the army after their stores and their women, had shouted at him that he was a fraud and a charlatan, and driven him away. He wanted to blame them, to be angry, but it only took one genuine fraud, and there were many, or one genuine healer who exceeded the tiny limits of their knowledge, and people would turn on the rest. Evidently this had happened here, and Marlen was the beneficiary.

  Still, while he didn’t blame them he had such gifts that it was demeaning to be driven off, and he could have given them so much. No, he didn’t blame them, he pitied them for not understanding, for not giving him the chance to explain. One day they’d all know, but alas, this village would not be the first, and how many people would die there in the meantime?

  He looked down at the sodden mud that formed the road, and pondered whether he’d need to buy new boots soon, or even get a horse again. Useful creatures, but they had a habit of running away. If he ever caught up with it … Still, he didn’t need to turn round to hear the splashes and hoof-falls of one coming up behind him, and being an experienced traveller and knowing how people on horses tended to treat those on foot, he moved to the side of the road. He didn’t bother to turn, just raised a hand to signify a greeting, and waited.

  He was surprised, then, to hear the horse splash to a stop behind him, not the easiest thing to do from a gallop in this rain, in fact the sort of thing you did only in an emergency. Marlen turned, and saw a young man from the village. He was soaked through, hadn’t even stopped to put on a cloak, and he barked out a message.

  “There’s been an accident. Jagros has been injured in his fields, we have need of you now.”

  Marlen’s face broke into a wry smile. “Aren’t I a fake and a fraud and something to be spat on?”

  “Our elders are sorry, and Jagros’s wife is willing to try anything to save him.”

  “‘Sorry’? You expect me to stomach those insults and march back on the basis of ‘sorry’?”

  The man’s response was a garble, and he’d clearly been sent to be fast rather than persuasive. Marlen knew he could walk on, it would serve them right, but then he’d miss the chance to demonstrate to them just how wrong they’d been. Yes, that would be a chance to take.

  “Give me your horse, I will ride and attend this man. You’ll have to walk.”

  The rider looked Marlen up and down, and saw a tall man with a sharp face and lean body, with eyes which stared out and seemed permanently in the act of analysing. There was a self-as
sured smile, a chin freshly shaven, and black hair. The rider agreed, and soon Marlen had slung his bags over the back of the horse and got to the village. A crowd had formed to greet him and take him to Jagros, who had been moved out of the rain and into his home. He was lying on a bed, the dampness of his clothes seeping into the sheets, his heavy beard still sodden.

  It didn’t take a healer to work out what had happened. Marlen was able to see the wound to Jagros’s skull, the caved in section. He began to formulate a plan, when a woman’s voice interrupted him.

  “A horse kicked him,” she clarified unnecessarily, but Marlen turned and looked her up and down. Plump, strong, her face now wracked with concern. She didn’t seem that old, which probably meant Jagros’s beard was aging the man.

  “You’re his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  “He was struck in the head by a horse, one hard kick?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then you carried him inside?”

  “We all did.” Her voice betrayed a doubt. “Because of the rain.”

  But Marlen had returned to the man, and was bending over, his fingers moving fractions over the top of the skull. “He’s still alive, but he’s suffered a serious brain injury. I’ll need to cut the skull away, remove the fragments, repair the brain itself, and then place a custom-made part over the skull.” He turned and looked at the wife. “Okay?”

  “Will he live?”

  “If we work quickly.”

  “Thank you, thank—”

  He cut her off. “I will need to speak to the blacksmith; I require a metal fitting for the repair of the skull. He’ll have to make it immediately. Bring him here now.”

  Marlen stabilised the man before there was some toing and froing, and the blacksmith was rushed off to work with his orders. By now the room was crowded. There was Marlen, Jagros, his wife and a group of elders and interested folk who’d come to see what would happen. This was not to Marlen’s taste.

  “I’ll need this room emptied. I have to concentrate; I must be alone with the patient.” Grumbling, most began to file out, but Jagros’s wife didn’t move. “Lady, I…”

  “I need to stay. I need to be with him. You can’t leave someone alone at a time like this.”

  And time was getting past the point where an argument would help the dying man.

  Sighing, Marlen nodded his concession. “Then tell me your name.”

  “Lessos.”

  “Please sit over there then, while I work on your husband.”

  The bags Marlen had dumped over the horse were bought in, laid on the ground and opened, and a range of tools became visible. A special saw was selected, and Marlen went to work, carefully removing the shattered skull, revealing heavily damaged grey matter underneath. Many people would have had trouble removing the bone fragments still lodged in it, but with tweezers in hand he was able to feel where the pieces were, and guide himself accordingly.

  That still left the mess inside, and here things would have to get far less traditional. Placing two fingers directly onto the matter, Marlen began to force the brain to change, to reknit, to heal itself. Then, feeling free, with one person of little import beside him, he had an idea.

  Lessos had sat watching, having no idea she’d seen anything less than a skilled physician at work. She was still staring straight at the work, not having even one squeamish moment, assuming Marlen was physically pushing the brain back into shape like you would set a broken leg.

  “Lady, tell me something, do you like your husband?”

  At first Lessos thought she’d misheard, but no, he’d definitely asked that. She spluttered out a “Yes”, too shocked by Jagros’s condition to be offended.

  “Let me clarify. Is there anything about him you don’t like?”

  “No, no, of course not, he’s er … well he has a very quick temper?”

  Marlen smiled. “I see. Let me tell you something about the brain. It controls how we feel, how we think, and changes to this grey pulp change our very personalities. As I am repairing the damage it would be possbile to make a few small changes and make your husband a little … better.”

  Lessos wanted to be shocked, to say no, to leave her husband as he was. So why did she find herself conspiratorially leaning forward and saying, “Could you make him care more for me?”

  “That would be possible.” And he did, making the changes as his fingers sent energy down and remade the brain. Soon it was time for the replacement plate, which was nailed into place, and then Marlen could lean back and relax.

  “Is it finished?” Lessos asked.

  “Yes. Yes, he’s repaired, and healing up as we speak.”

  “When will he wake?”

  Marlen felt a moment of anger as if the woman had doubted his abilities, then remembered she was just being cautious, concerned, and it must be hard for anyone to believe the miracles he’d just worked.

  “He’ll be awake this evening. It takes a few hours for everything to adjust.”

  He soon found himself enveloped in a large embrace, one he found slightly disconcerting. “Thank you, sir, thank you.”

  “Don’t worry Lessos,” and he smiled a proud smile, “he’ll be able to thank me himself soon enough.” And then your village will know what they ran out this morning.

  *****

  “So what now?” Trimas said after the three separated from Magath. “Inn for the night? Get supplies and carry on tomorrow?”

  “There’s going to be a problem with that,” Daeholf said.

  “What’s up? No inns?” Trimas said, looking confused.

  “No, not that. I’ve been here a few hours and I’ve already sorted out a room for us. It’s the travel plans that might be tricky.”

  “What’s the problem?” Zedek said.

  “Two things really. Money could be an issue.”

  “What? I thought we’d done well out of the caravan deal.”

  “We did. Have you seen how much a decent horse costs here?”

  “How much?”

  “We can afford one decent one.”

  “And an indecent horse?” Zedek asked.

  Trimas gave him a strange look. Zedek shrugged.

  “Um, a nag is a lot cheaper and we could afford three. How reliable they’ll be…” Daeholf tailed off as the answer was not very.

  “Maybe we should talk to Magath.”

  “He’s going in the wrong direction and there’s no merchant caravans heading our way at the moment.”

  “Great.” Trimas’s shoulders slumped.

  “You said there were two things,” Zedek noted.

  “We won’t be leaving tomorrow anyway, the gates will be closed and all the suppliers shut.”

  “Why?”

  “Festival of Origin.”

  “Oh no. No no no,” Zedek said quickly.

  “What’s up with you?” Daeholf asked, surprised.

  “Zedek doesn’t agree with the Festival of Origin,” Trimas said.

  “Festival of Casual Racism more like,” Zedek said.

  Daeholf looked at him, confused. “What’s not to like? People dressing up, having a big party? I’m just sad we haven’t made it home in time.”

  Zedek sighed. “You imperials,” he said. “Have you even looked at the costumes that people come out with?”

  Daeholf stood, thinking, running over a few memories.

  “Giant warty-headed orcs…” Zedek said and Daeholf frowned.

  “People painting themselves blue, wearing horns and tails, calling themselves elves…” Zedek continued.

  “Actually, I think this year’s colour is purple,” Trimas put in.

  “Purple? Veklaf!" Zedek exclaimed. Daeholf and Trimas studied him closely. He looked embarrassed.

  "What was that?" Daeholf said, intrigued.

  "Ah, nothing."

  "From the way you said it, it really sounded like you meant it," Trimas said.

  "Just cursing."

  "Never heard you do that before. What
did it mean?"

  "Um, bad defecation."

  "Shit?" Daeholf suggested.

  "No, much more than that," Zedek said, looking uncomfortable. "It's like the burning, runny uncontrollable 'shit' that comes from being poisoned."

  "Oh. Good word," Daeholf said, nodding. “I’ll remember that one.”

  “Please don’t,” Zedek said, looking worried. “Anyone who understands it certainly won’t appreciate you saying it.”

  “Noted. So you’re not a fan of the costumes?”

  “No I’m not. And it’s not just the orc or elf costumes. People pretending to be from the far southlands wearing loincloths. Or the southwestern empire with the silly big hats.”

  Trimas looked uncomfortable. “Yes, indeed,” he said.

  “You’ve worn one?” Daeholf asked.

  “Moving on,” Trimas said, fidgeting.

  “Really?” Daeholf grinned.

  “It was the fashion to attend wearing one in the capital one year. All the senators had them on.”

  “I’m just trying to picture you,” Daeholf said, suppressing a laugh.

  “You were mocking your people,” Zedek said.

  “Not so much,” Trimas said. “They may have been considered high fashion once upon a time but they’re not common now as you well know from our visit.”

  Zedek shook his head. “You’re all the same,” he said with a hint of disgust.

  “We’ve been together long enough for you to know that’s not true,” Trimas said, serious.

  Zedek looked at him, then at Daeholf. “Sorry,” he said. “Present company excluded.”

  “Apology accepted,” Trimas said and Daeholf nodded.

  “Is it just the costumes then?” Daeholf said.

  “No. It’s the stupid history story and pageant that comes with it.”

  “I like that bit,” Daeholf said defensively.

  “It’s inaccurate.” Zedek was firm.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m a historian. I’ve studied it.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “Oh the migration of the three peoples is consistent across many cultures. But in your version, man kills the dragon.”

  “The dragon? That bit is just in there for the children. There was no dragon,” Daeholf said.