"Good," the woman was saying. "If you go get it we might between the two of us get Fezi mounted. You can hold him in the saddle, and I'll just run alongside. We need to find some—"
"Stop!" said Xasho, "Just stop talking for a moment. I don't even know who you are. Why should I help you?"
The woman was incredulous. "But…my friend is badly wounded. Surely you can see that he might die if we don't do something."
The woman looked at him, her expression a ridiculous mix of sternness and pleading desperation. Xasho returned her gaze, considering his options. What harm could this woman be? Her golden hair and skin burnt red by the dryland sun marked her as Hinnjari. She was a foreigner, yes, but the conflict between their two people had been almost forgotten lately, for both had more pressing concerns with the invading armies of the Blood Marsh. There was also something about this tiny woman Xasho found intriguing, something in the way she held herself, and how she had run to her fallen comrade without any regard for her own peril.
"Very well. I'll get my horse," said Xasho.
The one the woman had called Fezi made for a very awkward riding companion. He was more than a head taller than Xasho, and kept slipping in and out of consciousness as they rode slowly out of the village. When unconscious, the full weight of the man's unwieldy body would slump against Xasho, and it was all he could do to keep the man from slipping out of the saddle. Once out of the village, they found a half-empty storehouse in one of the nearby orchards and managed to lay Fezi down amidst a few score of barrels filled with dark, ripening cherries.
"We passed a well, not more than a few hundred paces back," said the small woman as she placed her palm on Fezi's forehead and anxiously studied his bandages. "Go see if you can get some water, and try to find something clean to use for bandages, these are almost completely soaked through."
Xasho bristled at the tone of command in the woman's voice, but said nothing. Biting back a rebellious response, he turned towards the door and was about to leave when he heard the woman say, "Wait. What is your name?"
"Xasho," he replied, slightly taken aback by the change in the woman's tone.
"I'm Jeina," said the woman.
Xasho did not know what to say, but before he could think of anything Jeina had turned her attention back to Fezi, who was moaning softly on the floor. With a puzzled shake of his head, Xasho slipped outside.
Upon Xasho's return, he found the storehouse lit by the glow of a small fire, burning just outside the door. Jeina rushed out to him, and hurriedly grabbed the rags of clothing he had managed to find.
"Quickly," she said, motioning to the pail of water he had also brought back from the well, "put that over the fire and bring it to a boil. I tried removing some of his old bandages, but he was still bleeding so much that I, I dared not change any of the dressings. We must boil the new ones, for Rekon knows that the first were too dirty to start with."
"Very well," said Xasho, though he did not like being commanded so by the small woman. When the dressings had been prepared, rather than stand inside the cramped warehouse with Jeina and Fezi, Xasho sat by the fire and tried to gather his thoughts. Where had that freakish creature come from, and why had it slain a whole village? The day now seemed to Xasho like some strange nightmare, and one that he did not care to involve himself in for too much longer. There was definitely something very wrong with what he had seen today, but whatever it was did not really concern him. He had to press on with his charge, but where should he go? His last trail had run cold. He decided he would rest for the night, and then make his way back to Midnight Lake to begin his search again.
As he was thinking, Xasho could hear the sound of Jeina's voice whispering softly to the delirious Fezi as she finished dressing his new wounds. Her words were gentle and soothing, like a mother caring for a sick child. Xasho could not help wondering about the odd pair. Where had they come from? What were two obvious outlanders doing in this unremarkable area of the drylands? And how was it that they alone had managed to survive the strange creature's attack? The more he thought about it, the more the oddness of the Hinnjar's presence here and the mysterious creature's attack seemed to fit together somehow, and Xasho was contemplating whether it would not be better just to slip away now from this unlucky pair when Jeina emerged from the door of the warehouse.
"He's sleeping," she said simply. "I bandaged him as best I could, and now I can only hope that the bleeding will stop soon."
"Yes," said Xasho, because he could think of nothing else.
"I'm very glad you showed up," offered Jeina with the hint of a very weary smile on her lips. "I used to be very scared of dying, until I saw what it was like to be bonded to a gröljum. Now, death doesn't seem so bad."
"What?" asked Xasho, completely lost.
Jeina sat down a few paces away from Xasho, sighed deeply. "I'm too tired to tell you everything right now, and if I do you probably won't believe me. But for now, I'll tell you that the thing you saw back there, the thing you fought, is called a gröljum. And if you hadn't come…" the girl shivered slightly. "To tell you the truth, I'm surprised you were able to stand and fight it. Most everyone else just cowered or fled in fear."
"To be afraid didn't really occur to me at time," replied Xasho truthfully, though he wondered now why it had not.
"Hmph," said Jeina, "don't you sound brave."
Xasho shrugged. "It is the goal of every son of Himasj to become impervious to fear. Fear is a weakness, and useless in battle. I would expect any of my brethren to react in the same way."
"All your brethren here are dead," Jeina pointed out.
"Farmers and children," he said dismissively, "not all sons of Himasj are true warriors of Vraqish."
"I see," said Jeina. "So what is a true warrior doing out here in the orchards?"
Xasho was suddenly seized with a bizarre temptation to tell this unfamiliar woman what he had told no one else, to speak of his charge to seek out and kill the lost prince of the Blood Marsh. After all, what would she care? But reason snuffed the thought almost as soon as it had been kindled, and he decided to offer instead a half-truth as a jest.
"I am searching for a prince."
"Oh really?" replied Jeina, a hint of weary humor in her voice. "So am I."
Chapter 37: Nicolas
Overnight, the Blood Marsh had transformed from the small blurred speck Nicolas had seen through Mavonin's glass tube into a wealth of lush green vegetation that stretched before them. When they were near enough that Nicolas could pick out the shape of individual leaves on the trees that loomed ahead, he noticed that there was no actual shore to speak of. All the vegetation stood atop a network of great gnarled roots that disappeared under the surface of the now mud-brown water. As there was no soil, there was nowhere to stop, and Nicolas found himself shaded by a dense canopy of leaves, as the captain guided the boat to a large inland channel that had not been visible from the sea.
Soon, however, the channel became too narrow for the craft to continue on, and it was then that Mavonin found Nicolas and asked him to notify Jorj of their arrival.
"Arrival?" said Nicolas, confused, gazing about them for any signs of civilization. Mavonin smiled at his bewilderment, and pointed to a pair of small rowboats that were being lowered into the water off the opposite side of the ship.
"This is as far as the good ship can take us. But don't worry, it is only about two hours journey from here to our destination. I'll wager that you can now see why no one could ever hope to take this part of the Marsh by sea. Not that they haven't tried, mind you. About six hundred years ago some mountain raiders thought they could sneak some of their longships through these channels and catch the local Lords unaware. They reasoned that this dense foliage would provide cover for a fleet of small ships. Well, they were right. Trouble was, it also concealed scores of wood-smart Marshland archers, who knew these parts like the backsides of their wives. The ships have probably rottened clean away by now, but no one not welcome has ever trie
d to sneak through here again."
Suddenly Nicolas became very aware of how much the foliage might be obscuring from sight.
"Are there archers stationed here now?" he asked, as he envisioned a volley of arrows suddenly flying out of the shadows.
"I can't say as for sure, lad," said Mavonin, chuckling slightly. Then in a much more serious tone he added. "But I'd tell that master of yours to stick close to us. We're expected here, and though I've been down this way a time or two before I'm only fairly certain that no one will be shooting at us. But a lone Curahshar, and as strange looking as that healer? Let's be honest, who wouldn't shoot at him?"
"Got it, right," said Nicolas as he left for Jorj's cabin, wondering if the whole story about the Mountain raiders had been a ruse to keep Jorj from running. Mavonin was certainly full of stories, most of which always seemed just a hair shy of being utterly impossible. Still, there was something about the man and his entirely matter-of-fact delivery of even the most outlandish detail, which always tempered Nicolas' skepticism.
On his way to find Jorj, Nicolas spotted Rujo coiling a length of stout rope just above the hatch. Nicolas was grateful that Mavonin had let Rujo come with them, for his familiar face was a comfort when all else around Nicolas seemed constantly in flux. The Bloodknight had made sure Rujo earned his passage, however, and the once absurdly stout boy had lost a good deal of his softness. The sun had tanned his pale skin, lightened his hair, and he seemed more at home in his body than he had ever been in Brightshore. He looked older now, Nicolas realized, and wondered if the same could be said of himself.
"Rujo!" he called out. "Mavonin says we're nearly there."
"I've heard," grunted Rujo as he tossed the heavy rope into another coil. The reply was rather more gruff than Nicolas had expected from his usually amiable friend.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
Rujo put down the rope and gave a great sigh before he said, "I'm not coming with you."
"What?" wondered Nicolas.
"Mavonin told me I was to stay aboard the ship, with the rest of the crew. I wanted to go with you, to see the Blood Marsh, but he told me there was work to be done here on the ship, and that if I was to remain part of his crew, I had to see to my duties. I don't really have a choice, do I? I mean, I've never been off Creko's Island. I don't even know where the nearest town is in these parts. All the food is here, I've a place to sleep, so…I have to stay."
"Oh," said Nicolas, who had foolishly assumed that Mavonin would bring all his crew along with him. "Well, I don't think you'll miss too much. As far as I can see this place is mostly just forest, and I don't imagine anyone plans to stay here for long. Perhaps when Jorj has finished here Mavonin will take us back to…" Nicolas was about to say "Creko's Isle," when he realized that it was the last place they were likely to go. With the Church on the hunt for Curahshar, Jorj would certainly not be returning there any time soon. "Rekon knows…" finished Nicolas.
"Exactly," sighed Rujo. "Ah, Nico, I left Creko's Island for some adventure, but I didn't think it through very well. Life with the Church knights was organized, if not as exciting as I had hoped, but this…don't you feel a little lost?"
"Yes, yes I know how you feel," said Nicolas emphatically. "Jorj, the healer, is a strange master. If things were different I probably would have run back to Gleydon and begged for my apprenticeship long ago. But I needed Jorj. I still do. It's hard to explain. Without him I…" Nicolas wanted to tell Rujo about his fits, about the säel and his strange experiences with Jorj, but he found that he could not. Would Rujo understand? Would he even believe him? Nicolas did not want to find out just now. Rujo was the last piece of his old life he really had, and he could not risk losing that.
"Listen," said Nicolas, "after Jorj is done and I come back, we'll try to figure out a way we can travel together. Somehow, I don't feel quite as lost when you're around."
Rujo seemed consoled by the plan. "I'd like that," he said. "Just make sure you do come back."
"Trust me," said Nicolas, beginning to make his way below deck, "there is something about this place that tells me I wouldn't want to stay."
Nicolas had thought that Jorj might have been all too happy to get off the ship, that perhaps for all his talk of Mavonin being anesthma some part of his sullen mood was in truth caused by a dislike of sea travel. His hopes were short-lived however, for Jorj was even more irritable and morose when he emerged from the deck to look at their surroundings.
The dock they reached after hours of travel was little more than a single thin wooden structure that extended out of the first true land formation that Nicolas had seen since they left Creko's Isle. Nicolas had expected there would be other ships moored there, and perhaps even the buzz of business he had seen in Widow's Harbor, but this proved not to be the case. Atop the dock stood a half dozen figures, all dressed in similar uniforms of green and brown. But for the bright yellow crest that was embroidered on their uniforms, the colors seemed to match the hues of the landscape perfectly, and Nicolas knew that if the men had not been standing in plain sight, he would have been hard pressed to pick them out at almost any distance.
Wordlessly, the waiting men helped dock and tie the boats, and soon Nicolas found himself on land again for the first time in days. One of the uniformed men exchanged a few brief whispers with Mavonin, and gestured towards Jorj. Mavonin nodded, and in moments Nicolas and Jorj had a column of men to their right and a column of men to their left. None of the men seemed interested in meeting Nicolas' gaze, instead they stood at his side stiffly, each staring intently ahead.
"This is quite an escort," Jorj said, rolling his eyes at Mavonin. "Are all this man's guests greeted so warmly?"
"Only the ones whom he would prefer not leave prematurely," said Mavonin. "A word of friendly advice, healer. Sarben Edgmere is…well, I've known men waiting to be sent to the gallows who have a better sense of humor."
"Odd you should say that," said Jorj, failing to sound as nonchalant as he might have intended. "Because I feel as if I have a rope around my neck already."
After a long and sullen march though muddy grass, Baron Edgmere's keep finally loomed ahead of the small party. It was a sizable structure, made from huge blocks of dark stone that were largely obscured by a network of creeping vines. Apart from the entrance, the walls of the keep were surrounded by ancient willows, whose hanging leaves seemed to envelop the building like a massive green curtain. Looking at it, Nicolas wondered if the rampant growth around the keep was meant to serve as camouflage, but once they had made their way inside the structure, it became obvious that it was the result of neglect. Vines had forced themselves through windows and cracks in the castle wall and grew unchecked along the ceilings of the main hall. Weeds had likewise taken root amidst the seams in the floor, and had there not been a doorway, Nicolas was not sure he would have realized where the forest ended and the keep began.
The air inside was warm and heavy, and the rooms were uniformly dark, lit only by the occasional brace of candles or shafts of light streaming haphazardly though the vegetable cloak that engulfed the keep. More than once Nicolas heard the fluttering of wings above his head and a chorus of crickets chirping somewhere nearby. As their escort pressed on, however, the plant life lessened, until all about them there was only stone, wood, and iron.
When the guards beside him finally came to a halt, Nicolas found himself staring at a large, plain oaken door. One of the guards gave the door a few raps, and Nicolas heard a distant voice say, "Enter." The door opened to reveal a large but very bare room, and as Nicolas was ushered in a foul stench washed over him. On a table nearby lay the carcass of a large stag, its belly slit wide open and its blood pooling on the stone floor. Nicolas came in just in time to see a small, thin man pull the majority of his torso out from inside the deer's body cavity, with much of the animal's entrails clasped in his hands. Nicolas had to fight hard not to retch at the sight of the man, covered in bile and blood, a fight he was able to win, un
like Jorj.
"Gentlemen," said Mavonin, with a touch of ceremony, "allow me to present Baron Edgmere, the son of the noble Lord Edgmere, and, at present, our common employer."
The Baron appraised Jorj and Nicolas carefully, glancing disapprovingly at the flecks of vomit which now covered Jorj's boots.
"I would have thought a healer would have a greater tolerance for these things," he said, shaking a fistful of animal's entrails in the air.
"Still," he continued, turning to Mavonin, "as usual you do not disappoint. Where did you find him?"
"Widow's harbor, on Creko's Isle," answered Mavonin. "I had it from one of his former customers that he might be there, and I was lucky enough to find him before the Church could make plans for him."
"Ah, yes. I have heard of the Sumpadri's edict. Well done, Mavonin. You will find your usual payment awaiting you in your quarters this evening. For the moment, however, I need you to stay with our guests. Diyasa is worse than ever, I am afraid, and there is not a moment to spare. Healer! Are you familiar with the art of visceresy?"
"No," said Jorj, his eyes avoiding the gore-covered Baron.
"Well then, tell me, do you think one's fortune can be told by dropping the entrails of a freshly killed animal onto a sheet of new white linen?"
"I doubt it highly," said Jorj.
"As do I," said Edgmere. "Yet here I stand covered in blood and the half-digested remains of a stag's last meal, ready to do just that. Now I ask you, do you think me mad?"
Jorj shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the guards around him. "I don't know what to think," he said.
"Oh, come now," said the Baron, impatiently. "Surely part of healing is the ability to discern whether someone is ill? Now tell me, do I seem deranged? Addled? Or is it something else? Am I simply an idiot? Or a fool? Tell me!"
The Weight of a Crown (The Azhaion Saga Book 1) Page 37