The Hero's Lot

by Patrick W. Carr

  Luis rolled four strips into tight wads, his reader’s hands deft, practiced. With slow, careful motions he moved to Cruk’s side and pressed the wads in place. When Martin made the first pass to secure them, Cruk’s gasp sounded like the quench of white-hot metal, and he swayed.

  Martin paused to touch his forehead to Cruk’s, steadying him. “Deas, Father of us all, we plead for the life and well-being of this your servant, and do petition for your succor in our time of need.”

  Cruk didn’t speak but smiled and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He winced but didn’t cry out when Martin made the next wrap.

  He’d just finished and was tucking the ends of the cloth under when hooves sounded in the distance, coming their way.

  Cruk shook his head. “Battles never go according to plan. I don’t think I can lead. Hopefully this excuse for a horse will have enough sense to follow.”

  “Luis, take the front.” Martin’s command came out harsher than intended, but if his friend noticed, he made no sign.

  Luis set an easy canter, halting at intervals to listen. Each time he moved away from the suggestion of other riders on their left. Martin brought up the rear, turning back often to check for the sound of pursuit. The other hooves faded but never quite disappeared. A hard knot of desperation formed in Martin’s throat as realization hit him: they were being herded.

  He rode past Cruk, who rode slumped over his saddle, the reins loose in his pale hands. “Luis.”

  The reader jerked his head up and down, his manner brusque, tense. “I know. Unless we run the horses, they’ll have us.”

  A sob formed somewhere inside the knot that filled Martin’s throat, tried to claw its way out. He swallowed thickly. “He can’t.” But if not, they would all die. His mouth refused to open, to give utterance to the command that would kill his friend. A clatter of hooves sounded, and a brush of air moved past him.

  Cruk.

  The big horse galloped past them. Cruk whipped the flanks, his head down, unable to see or determine his direction. Luis followed, spewing epithets at the stubborn watchman. Martin scrubbed his tears away and kicked his horse into motion. His hand lifted to clutch the emblem of his office that hung beneath his tunic. How long could Cruk stay in the saddle?

  Luis passed the watchman, grabbed the reins to Cruk’s horse on the way, and galloped away from the two groups that threatened to trap them. Martin groaned inside. The reader was taking them to the poor quarter. If their enemies didn’t kill them, the cutthroats who preyed on Windridge’s destitute would.

  The streets narrowed and darkened. Furtive motions at the edge of his vision caught Martin’s attention as they raced through the slums. Up ahead a flurry of activity diverted Luis, forced them into a shrouded alleyway. Cruk swayed in his saddle.

  Then he slid.

  “Luis! He’s down.”

  The reader’s horse gave a neigh of complaint as Luis sawed the reins. Martin dismounted, felt at Cruk’s neck for a pulse, and cried with relief when he found it, but a fresh stain of blood oozed from the watchman’s wound. Somehow the arrow was still intact, and the damage from the fall appeared minimal. “We’ll have to get him back up on his horse.”

  Luis shook his head. “He can’t ride, Martin.”

  “He can if we go at a walk and I ride alongside to help steady him.”

  “We can’t afford to walk, Martin,” Luis said. “If our enemies don’t catch us, footpads will swarm us.”

  As if he’d summoned them, a pair of dark shadows filled the end of the alley behind them, the wan light glinting from long daggers.

  “Well now. Are we havin’ a bit o’ trouble?” the figure in front asked. His clothes hung in tatters, and he limped toward them, his knife low and steady.

  “Not our enemies, at least,” Luis muttered.

  Martin pulled his emblem and held it out. “I’m a priest. Our friend needs help. I can reward you if you get us safely away from here.”

  “Oh, you’re a priest now, are ye?” the one in front said. “Well, you best be sayin’ your prayers, then.”

  The man in back laughed. “Sayin’ yer prayers.”

  Martin turned to point back toward Luis and Cruk, using the motion to draw his knife and hide it behind his forearm. “You would defile yourselves by attacking a priest?”

  The leader barked his derision. “Don’t rightly know you’re a priest, now, do I? Nob, how many priests you ever seen in the poor quarter?”

  The second laughed. “Oh, there’s priests here all the time, there be.” His voice grew harsh. “But never in the night. I’m startin’ to think they don’t trust us as live in the poor quarter.”

  The two men quickened their advance. Martin blocked half the alley with his horse. If he had to fight, he didn’t want to take them at the same time. Bile burned the back of his throat. He wiped his mouth with a shaky hand.

  The leader jumped, his knife cutting from underneath toward Martin’s belly. He caught the thrust with his dagger’s quillon. The thief gasped in surprise, tried to disengage, but Martin grabbed his wrist, squeezed until the man’s knife clattered to the ground. When the man tried to kick himself free, Martin slammed an elbow into his face. Bones crunched, and the man fell back with a scream, pressing his hands to the ruin of his nose. The man behind turned and ran, followed a moment later by his leader.

  A tug on his sleeve caught his attention. “Come,” Luis said, “we must get him on his horse. We’ve been here too long.”

  Martin sheathed his dagger and helped lever Cruk onto his mount. He tried to take encouragement from the low moans that came from Cruk’s lips. His friend still lived. Luis mounted, urged his horse forward at a walk while Martin came alongside. The darkness closed in, forcing him to follow by sound. Rats skittered out of their way with soft squeaks.

  Up ahead their alley opened to a street where light from some unknown source relieved the gloom. Martin’s blood rushed through his veins as if he still fought. Despite his priestly vows, he rejoiced at defeating their attackers, and he struggled to hear over the exultant beating of his heart.

  Ten paces from the opening, Luis reined in. It took Martin a moment to notice the reader had stopped, and he almost walked Cruk’s mount into him. Past his friend’s silhouette, he saw the reason for their halt.

  A figure, cloaked and hooded and bent forward at the waist, blocked their way.

  8

  The Solis

  MARTIN WATCHED as the figure lifted its head as if scenting, then lifted an arm and beckoned them forward. The sounds of pursuit from behind grew closer. In another minute they would have company. Trusting the stranger seemed their only hope.

  They were nearly within arm’s reach of the figure before it moved to their left down another alley. When they got to the juncture, their guide stood at the other end beckoning them on, urging haste with choppy waves of its arm. “Our benefactor moves quickly,” Martin said.

  Luis nodded. “But to what purpose?”

  “I imagine we’ll find out in time. If his intent is to lure us to capture”—Martin gestured toward the pursuit behind them—“there is no need.” Yet tension filled him as he clenched his dagger.

  “Agreed.” Luis nudged his horse into motion, and they zigzagged through alleys that smelled of dank rainwater and filth. Always their guide stayed far enough ahead to keep himself hidden. The sound of pursuit dropped away, and no more thieves appeared to trouble them. The entire city could have been deserted for all Martin could tell. He heard the echo of their horses’ hooves, the faint jingle of tack, and the breathing of men and animals—nothing else.

  Up ahead, their guide moved to the right, disappearing once again.

  And half a dozen paces ahead, Luis stopped and pointed at a door, short, narrow, and almost indistinguishable from the rest of the dirty stone and timber of the building. A soft glow of light illuminated a handsbreadth of space between the wood of the door and the frame. A voice beckoned them in.

  “The light will bet
ray you to any who venture into the alley. Besides, your friend needs help.” The hooded figure opened the door and stepped past them. “Take him in. I’ll hide the horses.”

  Luis and Martin dismounted, and together they lifted Cruk from his horse. The captain’s groan of pain fell like a benediction on Martin’s ears. He lived. They struggled to get him through the narrow door. Cruk’s groans softened and then stopped as they bumped and stumbled down a short flight of stairs to the room beyond.

  Martin’s heart quailed at Cruk’s pallor. A massive pool of blood had congealed on his clothes. With as much care as they could manage, they laid him on a low table—on his side to avoid pressure on the arrow. Martin begged a prayer as he knelt to Cruk’s chest, unmindful of the blood, and listened for his heart.

  “He lives,” their guide said as he reappeared at the entrance. He stopped to bar the door and stooped to stuff a roll of burlap against the crack underneath. “Light the other lamp and let me see what we have.” He pushed back his hood, allowing Martin his first look at their rescuer.

  “Ra . . . ” He stopped. The man before him bore such a strong resemblance to the herbwoman of Callowford that he nearly called him by her name. “Your pardon.” He gave a slight bow. “You remind me of someone.” On further inspection, the man was even younger than he, with thick brown hair that matched the hue of his eyes.

  The man smiled. “Aurae leaves a mark. If you look closer, doubtless you will find me different than others you have met.” He moved to Cruk’s side and began cutting away his blood-soaked clothes. “Do either of you possess any knowledge of herb-lore?” At their wide-eyed stares, he shrugged. “No? Pity.”

  He stabbed a finger at Luis between cuts with his knife. “You. Bring me the seven jars on the left of that shelf over there.” As if an afterthought, he added “Oh, my name is Karele,” and continued with his commentary.

  “Clever to leave the arrow in,” Karele said. “It saved his life, if he lives. Whose idea was that?”

  “His,” Martin said. “He has some experience with battle wounds.”

  Karele’s face grew solemn as his finger traced old scars on Cruk’s torso. “Doubtless. Pity, that.” He probed the flesh around the wound. “No sign of poison, thank Deas. He wouldn’t survive that on top of the blood loss.”

  Martin started at Karele’s words. “You believe in Deas, then?”

  Karele snorted without turning his attention from his patient. “Who else would I believe in?”

  Martin sensed he was on the verge of something important, some fact or discovery that made his skin tingle. “I thought you believed in Aurae alone.”

  The healer made a dismissive sound deep in his throat. “There is Aurae, sent from Deas and Eleison. Now be quiet unless you want an extra horse for your travels.” He continued to probe Cruk’s skin.

  Cruk’s breathing barely lifted his chest. Karele moved to the side of the room and opened a cabinet door. Inside, several saws hung on the door. He ran his hand along the blades before selecting the smallest. Then he moved to the shelf to uncork a bottle and pour a watery amber liquid down the blade.

  Martin sniffed the air. “Is that mead?”

  Karele shook his head. “Close, but this is stronger and thinner. I’m going to cut the arrow so we can more easily pull it. You two must hold him very still, and once we pull it, we’re going to pack the wound with urticweed to stop the bleeding. It’s in that second jar. We’ll have to apply pressure to the wound for as long as it takes the bleeding to stop. Then we’ll have to find a way to get water into him.” He looked at Martin and Luis by turns. “Do you understand?”

  They nodded.

  “Good.” Karele took the saw and, with gentle strokes that resembled Luis at his craft, cut the arrowhead free from Cruk’s chest. Karele cupped a generous helping of white powder in each hand, nodded toward Luis. “Pull the arrow from his shoulder. Don’t turn it or twist it. Bring it out exactly as it went in, or your friend will bleed to death. And whatever you do, don’t jerk it out.”

  Luis pulled the shaft, winced at the sucking sound the wound made as it came free. Karele put a hand on each wound and pressed, working the powder into Cruk’s injury. Blood mixed with the flour-like substance to make a gruesome paste on his hands, but he continued the gentle circular motions until his hands were empty.

  He lifted two thick pads of white linen and placed one on Cruk’s chest and one on his back, covering the wounds. “Now, gentle pressure, please.” He surrendered the front to Martin and Luis.

  As much as his heart urged him to help, Martin motioned Luis to take the pad. “You do it, friend. Your hands are better suited to such tasks than mine.”

  They waited. Karele neither spoke nor invited conversation, but after nearly a quarter of an hour, he checked his hands and nodded to Martin. “Use that strip of linen and wrap his wound. Don’t disturb the pads or we’ll have to do this all over. Go over the shoulder and then under, until you run out of cloth.”

  When he’d finished, their guide nodded and moved to retrieve a waterskin. To it he added a variety of powders. Pungent aromas as of burning spices filled the room—the scent of bitter cloves mixed with cinnamon. Karele shook the skin and lifted it to Cruk’s mouth and crooned. “Drink, my friend.”

  To Martin’s surprise, Cruk’s mouth widened and he took a few weak swallows. The healer lowered the skin and then raised it again. Again Cruk drank, but not as much this time. On the third attempt, the captain didn’t move.

  A spasm shot through Martin’s chest. “Is he all right?”

  Karele huffed and shook his head. “Of course he’s not all right. He almost bled to death. But he should live and heal with time.”

  “How long will that be?” Luis asked.

  Karele shrugged. “As long as it takes. Your friend is a strong man. With plenty of food and drink, he should be able to ride at a walk in two weeks. If he doesn’t bleed anymore, he’ll be back to normal in two or three months.” He moved to a small fireplace in the corner, filled a pot with water, and swung it over the tinder and wood that lay ready for use. Karele lit a taper from one of the lamps and started the fire. “I assume you want tea?”

  At a nod from Martin and Luis, he retrieved three worn but serviceable cups from a nook and set them on a small table. “I always think better when I hold a cup of tea,” Karele said. “It keeps my hands from running away with my thoughts.” He turned to look at Martin, his dark eyes luminous in the growing fire. “After you’ve rested, we can talk about why you’re here.”

  A prickling sensation danced across Martin’s skin like a sudden gust of cold air. “I thought we were here for Cruk.”

  Karele gave him a heavy-lidded smile a grownup would give a child. Then he moved to a small bed on the far side of the room, where he rolled himself into a blanket. “Your friend’s injury is unfortunate, but that’s not why Aurae sent me to you.”

  Martin and Luis finished their tea with furtive whispers and settled for the night into piles of what appeared to be rags but only found fitful sleep. Cruk stirred three times during the night. Perhaps some instinct or response in his warrior’s constitution fought for survival even while he slept. Each time Karele rose from a seemingly deep sleep, mixed a draught of water laced with the powders that smelled of burnt spices, and drugged the captain back to motionless sleep with soft crooning noises.

  Dawn came, visible only by the sunlight that limned the cracks around the door. Martin rose from his makeshift pallet, scratched at some uninvited guest beneath his clothing, and knelt by his friend’s side to say lauds. When he rose, he saw Cruk’s healer standing to one side, a half smile creasing his swarthy complexion.

  “Do you find some cause for amusement?” Martin asked. Worry and fatigue so deep it made the muscles in his legs ache sharpened his tongue.

  “You pray more than most priests I’ve met,” Karele said. “Though to be honest, I haven’t met that many. Like most of us, I avoid priests. They keep mistaking us for kindling
.”

  Martin gave a sour grunt that rumbled through his throat. “Barbaric practice, and stupid.”

  Karele appraised him with a lift of his eyebrows. Martin knew that look, but he wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of it. His mind filled with questions—the reason for Karele’s aid uppermost—but he held his tongue. He’d used silence in the past as a way to pressure others to speak. Yet the healer seemed to see no need to break the silence; he busied himself with Cruk’s care, carefully checking the wound underneath the blood-soaked pads they’d used the previous evening.

  For his part, Cruk’s color seemed more normal, though rings like deep bruises surrounded his eyes. His slightly pink lips held the hope of eventual health.

  “He seems better this morning.” Martin grimaced inwardly. He hadn’t meant to speak. Doing so felt like a concession to his host, as if he’d put himself in Karele’s debt. He chided himself for his attitude. The diminutive man had put himself at risk to save them from pursuit and had undoubtedly saved Cruk’s life. They were in his debt.

  A nudge at Martin’s elbow broke his train of thought, brought his awareness back to their squalid surroundings and Luis.

  “It’s morning,” Luis said. The reader stressed the last word as if it carried significance.

  Martin nodded.

  “We’re still here,” Luis said.

  Then it dawned on him, and his blood dropped to his stomach so fast he probably resembled Cruk. “Heaven help us. They should have found us by now. How much time do we have?”

  “As much as you need, actually,” Karele said. “Although, I’ll need any coin you might have. I’ve only enough food to last a day or two.” He said this without turning around, and it took Martin a moment to realize the healer was serious.

  Luis had already pulled a set of blanks and his carving knife from his bag in preparation to cast. Karele eyed the cubes with a smirk and a slight shake of his head.

  “Luis, I don’t think that will be necessary,” Martin said.