Nikomedes looked down and cradled the bladeless hilt in his hands—which was surprisingly heavy, suggesting it was made of something even heavier than the densest metal. He then stood, bowed, and did as he had been commanded while gingerly cradling the most precious thing he had ever held in his hands:
A Light Sword of Power.
Chapter XXIX: Rejoining Society
Nikomedes returned to Argos as quickly as he was able, and found that his body was as healthy as it had ever been. He still bore scars which were nearly identical to those which he had sustained during his short years as a warrior, but he felt none of the accompanying aches or numbness to which he had become accustomed.
When he returned to Argos, he did so with the Light Sword’s bladeless hilt secreted beneath his breastplate as he moved into the citadel with feigned stiffness in his leg. He knew he would need to act as though his wounds still afflicted him or people would become suspicious.
It was not unheard of for a warrior to recover a significant portion of his abilities following such a grievous set of wounds, but Nikomedes had decided to pretend as though he still required the ministrations of the citadel’s healers so he could ‘recover’ at a more reasonable rate.
So his first stop was at the house of healing where he had recuperated in the immediate aftermath of his first duel with Jason Montagne. He had taken to thinking of the defeat as precisely that: the first duel. Men itself had tasked Nikomedes with directives which would enable him to usurp the Starborn warlord’s station, and it had undone the terrible wounds he had suffered at the hands of the brown-skinned warrior.
As Nikomedes had hiked back to Argos—a trip which, owing to his surprisingly rejuvenated constitution, took two fewer days than it had done following his return with the Minos Sword—he had dreamed of images, places, and objects which he had never before seen. The images had been confusing, with many belonging to strange animals in even stranger habitats, and it was one of these images which had answered the question that had planted itself in the fore of his consciousness.
He had awoken with a start as the word ‘monkey’ had passed his lips while the image of a short, brown-furred animal with a remarkably human-looking face and a long, gently curled tail remained burned into his mind’s eye for several seconds before eventually dissipating.
He understood then, after seeing the creature’s features—highlighted by a broad, flat nose—in greater detail why his mind had unconsciously compared Jason Montagne to such a creature. But he still did not know for certain how the image had come into his mind; it was only after several days of similar images springing randomly into his dreams that he concluded that they, too, were gifts from Men.
What purpose they were meant to serve, he did not know, but he was determined to unravel that particular mystery since he knew that his god would not have given him the images and names of the things—more of which came to him with each passing day—unless they were integral to his mission.
He pondered these images as his feet carried him to the house of healing, where he found the door open so he pushed through and entered the chamber beyond.
The healer, Helena, looked up with surprise as she gave him a brief, appraising scan as she put down her pestle and mortar. “Nikomedes,” she said, her voice steadier than her eyes as they continued to look him up and down, “I did not expect you to return.”
Nikomedes grunted, “I would not end my own life, no matter how much pain awaits me.”
“I am glad to see that is the case,” Helena said with a gracious nod, apparently having concluded during his absence that Nikomedes had left her care simply to die in the wilderness. “What brings you here?”
“My leg,” he said, gesturing to his knee which he held stiffly straight as he had done prior to Men’s magical ministrations, “it will not bend properly. I had hoped you would assist in my continued recovery efforts so I might return to my duties as a guardsman.”
“Nikomedes,” she said, her voice having taken on a conciliatory tone, “I will be blunt: your knee was ruined. It may be possible to brace the damaged joint and permit you to stand well enough to fire a bow or hurl a javelin from the citadel’s walls, but your leg will never permit you to march at a patrol’s pace or to brace against an incoming attack.” She shook her head with a healer’s tempered expression—one which did not quite reach one of genuine sympathy, “Your days as a guardsman are behind you now; you must focus on what you can do, not on what you cannot do.”
He knew that as far as she was aware, she was correct. The odds were so heavily against his knee recovering completely enough to allow him the mobility and strength necessary to fight as a warrior must fight that one would not be unwise to dismiss them as impossible. But her role was merely to confirm that he was, indeed, fit for duty after a period of rehabilitation had elapsed.
“If it does not strengthen each week,” he vowed, “I will accept your learned judgment. But for now I ask for your assistance in attempting to heal my injuries so I might return to the life I was meant to live.”
Her expression softened briefly, but Nikomedes was surprised to see none of the pity he had expected to see as she nodded, “Very well.”
Nikomedes patiently engaged in Helena’s prescribed therapies while gradually revealing the truth of his fully-healed limb. She looked on with growing amazement as, over the course of three weeks, he ‘regained’ the strength in his leg to the point where he feigned a barely noticeable limp instead of the laborious, stiff-legged gait his wound had forced him to adopt.
“I have never seen anything like this, Nikomedes,” Helena declared with a wondrous shake of her head at the end of the third week.
“Your therapies have proven effective,” Nikomedes complimented her. “You will have my eternal thanks.”
“The therapies are not the cause of your recovery,” she said with a shake of her head. “These are the same exercises performed on all who receive such grievous injuries in the hope of cultivating what little mobility remains in such a badly damaged joint. No,” she said with a firm shake of her head, “this is different…”
“Perhaps my wound was not as grave as it seemed?” he offered, hoping to dissuade her apparent line of thinking.
But again, she shook her head as she said, “The knee was completely disjointed, Nikomedes. Your foot was twisted nearly opposite its normal position when you arrived here, and several of the muscles were clearly ruined.” She looked up and down his leg, pressing around his knee with her fingers as she did so, “It is almost as though the wound was never suffered…though the scars of my sutures remain plain to see.”
“It will remain a mystery then?” Nikomedes asked after a few moments of silence.
“I suppose it must,” she nodded, standing from his bedside and gesturing for him to do likewise. “Is it still stiff?”
He nodded duplicitously, “It is, but the stiffness recedes with each day.” He held his leg out with mock triumph, extending his foot forward until it was very nearly fully-extended and then wincing in feigned pain as he nearly doubled over, causing her to brace him with an arm across his chest.
“Do not overtax yourself, Nikomedes,” she warned as she helped him down to the bed. “That you are able to bear full weight on the limb is more than we could have asked for.”
He drew a breath and nodded, “What further treatments do you recommend?”
She shrugged her shoulders, “There are no more treatments. You should continue the exercises we have performed here, and give great consideration to any unusual sensations, but you no longer require my supervision. However much your leg will heal can now be achieved without my intervention.”
“Then you have my thanks,” he said with a gracious nod as he went to don his armor.
“For what it is worth,” Helena said just as he was about to leave her house of healing for what he felt certain would be the last time, “I have never seen a warrior move as you did during the duel with the Starborn warlord. It wa
s…” she trailed off, clearly at a loss for words before her face colored and she splayed her hands, “it was legendary. Were it not for his magic armor, you would have certainly emerged victorious.”
Nikomedes had not expected the conversation to take that particular turn, so he stood speechless for a moment before gathering his wits and feeling a well of bitter anger spring up within him. “Nykator took his hand,” Nikomedes said pointedly, “and many claim he moved faster than I.”
“Of course he moved faster,” she spat, as though she was angered and weary of hearing that particular claim, “his Light Sword was half the size of your Minos Sword! Had you not opened the rent in Jason Montagne’s vambrace,” she continued fiercely, apparently having desired to say these words for quite some time and finding them charged with emotion as a result, “Hypatios Nykator would never have taken Jason Montagne’s arm. He merely finished the job which you started—a job which only you, of all the Argosian warriors, could have started.”
Her gushing, emotional praise caught him off-guard, and for a moment Nikomedes was stunned into silence. Her face was ringed in her curly locks of brown hair, and with that indomitable expression on her face she looked truly sublime in that particular moment. It was an image he would carry with him for as long as he lived.
“I…” he began hesitantly, “I appreciate your sentiment, and your healing efforts, Helena.”
She nodded and the expression melted from her features until it was replaced by the usual, professional mask of a practiced healer. “As a healer it is my duty to seek the truth, Nikomedes, and that is all I have spoken. Farewell.”
He nodded graciously and left her house of healing, closing the door behind him as he moved toward the guardhouse.
“Nikomedes,” Vasikus greeted with open arms after Nikomedes entered the former office of Kastor Kephus, “it is good to see you up and about. When you disappeared two months back, I feared I would not see you again.”
“Vasikus,” Nikomedes acknowledged, clasping the mans’ forearms and returning his respect, “you are the new guard commander?”
Vasikus snorted, “Not likely. Kephus is restructuring the citadel guard into smaller units,” he explained with a dry grin, “something about burning the bridge he crossed en route to the Protector’s chair, I expect.”
“Of course,” Nikomedes agreed with a tight grin of his own, “the only constant is change.”
“From Men’s lips to your ears,” Vasikus snorted, causing Nikomedes to eye the other man warily as he continued, “anyway, I’ve been given the outer farmholds and three dozen lads to patrol with. We’re stretched thin, but with all the Tegeans—and more than a few Argosians—taking to the River of Stars with warlord Montagne…” he trailed off as a sour, guilty look came over his features.
Nikomedes was not angry with the other man, however, and easily replied, “Why did you not join them, Vasikus? The glory to be had among the stars must have been appealing.”
“That’s a young man’s game, Nikomedes,” Vasikus said with a sigh. “Besides, someone needs to protect the Hold; the Lyconese might have backed off after their envoy returned with word of the Starborn’s alignment with Argos and her daughter polis of Messene, but others will only see that two thousand battle-hardened warriors have left our walls and seek to advantage themselves of the perceived weakness.”
“I will not lie,” Nikomedes said bluntly, “I would join those who left for the River of Stars if the opportunity presents itself. However, if the Hold needs able bodies, I will gladly serve to keep the peace until I may pursue my greater ambitions.”
Vasikus gave him a concerned look which quickly vanished as he said, “We could always use skilled warriors to train the new recruits—“
“I will serve as a warrior or I will not serve at all,” Nikomedes interrupted flatly. “My wounds were not as grave as the healer initially believed; I can return to the patrols.”
“Nikomedes,” the older guardsman said heavily, fixing him with an unyielding look, “though I do not doubt that your skills—even wounded as you are—would permit you to take nine of every ten raiders who would violate Argos’ sanctity…you could not march with a patrol after such a crippling wound as the one you sustained to your knee.”
Nikomedes threw the Spirewood spear’s shaft—the only thing resembling a weapon which he now bore—onto the floor of the office and assumed a fighting crouch, “If you wish a demonstration of my abilities—“
Vasikus held up a hand haltingly, “Fine. If you want to patrol, I won’t stop you, but if you can’t keep up with the other men then all I ask is that you take up that teaching post here—all of our experienced trainers are gone and we sorely need experience like yours to train the lads.”
Nikomedes stood from his fighting crouch, collected his headless spear shaft, and said, “I’ll be in my bunk.”
Chapter XXX: Swallowing Pride
Nikomedes resumed his duties as a guardsman for a few weeks, and quickly abandoned the farce of his lingering wound as he worked for the betterment of Argos and her people.
Each night he would look up at the sky and visualize which of the stars—some of which he realized had names which were greatly different from those he had grown up calling them, which he knew were further revelations from Men like had happened with the monkey—where Jason Montagne was campaigning.
As he did so, he also imagined his next encounter with Lady Adonia. He knew that it would be difficult to persuade her to accept him as a viable suitor without revealing the true nature of his Men-given mission, but it was part of his sworn duty to fulfill the will of his god.
Upon returning from his third patrol, Nikomedes saw a strange sight in the middle of a meadow near the main gate of the citadel. He immediately recognized it as a shuttlecraft which was used for ferrying men and supplies into or out of a planet’s atmosphere.
It bore an emblem on the side which was nearly identical to that which had adorned Warlord Montagne’s bulky, magical armor: a four-leafed plant of some kind which was a rich shade of green.
His pace quickened as he approached the citadel and found the people within bustling with excitement at the return of the Starborn.
“Nikomedes,” Vasikus said, having joined his men at the main gate—likely to receive the otherworldly visitors, “they have made their way to the Great Hall. You should join them immediately; the others may report on your patrol.”
“Thank you, Vasikus,” Nikomedes said with a curt nod before setting off for the Inner Keep. The Light Sword of Power veritably itched as it was pressed against the small of his back by his armor. He had taken to ignoring its concealed presence, but with the return of Warlord Montagne he suddenly felt a powerful urge to abandon Men’s directive and draw the blade to seek vengeance against the man who had shattered every one of his dreams so many weeks earlier.
But he stayed his hand as he pushed past the guards standing vigil outside the Great Hall—only half of which were Argosian, while the other half wore the massive armor which Warlord Montagne had used to best him before the most influential members of Argos’ populace.
Just as Nikomedes entered the Great Hall, he saw Hold Mistress Polymnia Zosime take her daughter Adonia by the hand and they quickly moved through the door which led to House Zosime’s lodgings within the Inner Keep.
Nikomedes’ eyes settled on the form of Jason Montagne, causing him to stop in his tracks as the Starborn warlord swept the assemblage with a cool, calculating gaze. His enchanted armor no longer bore the rents which the Minos Sword had opened in it, and though Nikomedes could not see the flesh of the warlord’s hand, it appeared as though Nykator’s dismemberment of the Starborn had been completely repaired by the healers of Jason Montagne’s flying citadel.
Eventually, Jason Montagne’s gaze settled on Nikomedes. Nikomedes had to forcibly restrain himself from flaring in anger at the haughty, unconcerned look of the man from the stars who stood encased in his magical armor.
Jason M
ontagne gave a strange gesture with two fingers over his right eye, and Nikomedes moved forward with purpose as he saw the warlord’s visage scrunch ever so slightly with what could only have been annoyance.
“Greetings, Jason Montagne,” he said as evenly as he could.
“Greetings, Nikomedes Minos.; I see you are in good health,” the warlord from the River of stars said languidly, clearly referring to the fact that Nikomedes was once again able to walk without a crutch.
Nikomedes caught a contemptuous sneer before it hit his face and shook his head pointedly. “I no longer bear the Minos name, and you’re looking far less ugly than the last time we met,” Nikomedes retorted.
“Our healers are very skilled,” Jason Montagne said dismissively.
Nikomedes briefly scanned the scars which covered Jason Montagne’s head before shaking his own. “I think I will trust to the Healers of Argos; they have done well by me,” he said disinterestedly.
“Your loss,” the warlord said with a disdainful shrug.
“Let me warn you, then, and be gone,” Nikomedes said gruffly.
“Why should I trust you?” Jason Montagne asked, turning with a genuine look of curiosity on his features.
Nikomedes forced a shrug of indifference, but inside he was glad the Starborn Protector had cut to the heart of the matter. Nikomedes turned and gestured to the strutting, preening little rooster who had learned many months earlier not to trifle with Nikomedes, and said, “Kallistos.”
There was a brief pause, followed by Jason Montagne slowly saying, “Okay.”
“And Kapaneus,” Nikomedes continued after the warlord had clearly put his eyes on Kallistos, even if only for a moment.
“What of them?” Jason Montagne asked, making no attempt to hide—or perhaps a concerted attempt to display—his boredom.
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