The Warriors Path

by Brian Thomas

  Zanwen was taken aback by the offer, which looking at the earnest enthusiasm with which Zun delivered it Zanwen had no doubt was genuine. “But if my...trading irregularities have become known then this will bring retribution from the emperor’s soldiers, I would place your community in danger.” This led Zanwen to another thought and he added bitterly, “and how long do you think our new relationship would last now that I have been discovered. If you know, then soon all will know and I will be prevented from trading. Worse, I am likely to be decapitated at the first city I enter, along with anyone who follows me.” How ironic he thought bitterly, the success of his trading had drawn the very attention he sought to avoid and just as he was beginning to believe he could build on his success, it was all to come back and destroy him.

  Zun gave him a speculative smile. “From what I understand, the Great Houses of Guang and Tanyeu have known that you trade under irregular licences for some time.” The smile turned to puzzlement. “Why they have actively sought to foster relations with you rather than enforce their legal rights to protect their trade monopolies I cannot say. Beyond these two Houses no one else knows so far as I can tell and if they did they would take no action against you while Guang and Tanyeu actively support you,” the smile was tinged with curiosity, “not at least when every time a deployment of Guang soldiers pass you they give full honours.”

  Zanwen returned Zun’s smile with a small one of his own, “Ah yes; the roadside courtesy.” Zanwen recognised it was this which was partly affecting his judgement and ambitions. He and his men were enormously proud of the frequent honours they received for what had been a moment of brave insanity and he very much wanted to be the person who warranted such honours.

  Zun leaned back in his chair. “People believe you are from a distant city and will eventually question if you do not have one. Become Zanwen of our city and they will accept it. Let us grow strong together and no one will dare challenge you. Take advantage of Houses Guang and Tanyeu’s tolerance of you to grow closer to them, and as they grow more reliant upon you they will not wish for the relationship to end.”

  Zanwen frowned. “The idea appeals but you have not told me where your town is. How is it you can build this town without interference from established neighbours who would otherwise claim the territory you have settled on?”

  Zun hesitated slightly, knowing this would be the deciding factor. “To have any chance of surviving it had to be beyond the territories currently claimed by any House. Our town lies in the borders between the steppes and the northern territories of Guang.”

  Zanwen’s eyes widened in amazement. “Spirits! You have built in the no-man’s land between the empire and the nomad hordes?” Zanwen was momentarily angry he had allowed his hopes to rise. “Are you mad? The site will become a magnet for every passing nomad band. You will be in a permanent state of war and it is only a matter of time before your town is destroyed!”

  Zun’s gaze was steady as he nodded his agreement. “It will destroy us or make us strong. It cannot be a city like others and survive. We must find a new way but the people who have made it this far already know of conflict and are strong, building our town and defending it will make them stronger.”

  Zanwen looked at Zun believing the man mad but as he studied the dogged determination behind the casually spoken phrases he wondered if instead he might succeed where others had failed. He considered what else he could do but he had little alternative, his current predicament a direct result of his needing a safe and reliable base to operate from. With a sigh of resignation and a growing smile he gave Zun a small bow. “A bargain is made.”

  Zun suppressed his satisfaction, maintaining a solemn expression for what he believed was a turning point for their community. He fixed the contract between them. “A bargain is made.”

  Zanwen allowed himself a smile, which was immediately reciprocated by Zun. “I must be as insane as yourself to agree but I believe that you may succeed where others would not.” His tone became more cautionary. “Because of this, our bargain holds true while you remain the leader of the city, whether as Lord Zun or just Zun. If the leadership should change for any reason then I retain the option to assess the situation and decide to remain or leave as I feel appropriate at that time.”

  Zun did not reply immediately wrestling with some internal conflict, but eventually nodded, his demeanour far more serious with the responsibility Zanwen placed upon him. “As you will then.” he replied solemnly.

  Zanwen raised an eyebrow at Zun in query. “Are the rest of my new escort attired in similar fashion to you?”

  Zun glanced down at his simple clothes, refusing to wear the uniform issued by his previous House. He no longer felt he had the right to do so.

  Zanwen sighed again. “I feared as much. If we are to achieve this madcap plan of yours then we must at least look the part. Come with me and we will purchase uniforms and armour to match the ambitions of you and your men.”

  Smiling, they both rose to leave coming face to face with Chewyi, who they had forgotten during their discussions. Zun frowned at the man who was now pale and sweating as a result of the pain from his hand. “If I see you approach a caravan I am guarding or even if I see you within my territory, I will kill you on sight.” So saying, Zun led Zanwen past Chewyi, escorting Zanwen to the market square to make their purchases, the watching crowd parting to let them past.

  Chapter 38

  Ronan rested his hand on Markurd’s shoulder. Markurd was weakly trying to push back his blankets, sweating heavily and murmuring as he passed in and out of consciousness. The big man had lost a lot of weight over the last few days, eating and drinking very little while the fever devoured flesh as it rampaged through his body. Ronan had been fully occupied, taking up some of the duties which Markurd would have done if he hadn’t been too ill. More than once he had intended to visit but problems had demanded his attention, until late in the evening he had made his way to see the recuperating members of his caravan injured in the raid. Everyone else was recovering well and the last time he had spoken to Markurd his old arms tutor had assured Ronan he merely suffered from lack of sleep. Now Ronan was shocked at the extent of Markurd’s deterioration over just a couple of days.

  Ronan swept his old tutor’s greying hair from his sweating brow. Markurd’s skin felt like old parchment and was stretched tight, the shadowed eyes in the gloom reinforcing the impression that Ronan was looking at a skull instead of the vital features of a few days ago. Normally a tower of strength and seemingly indomitable, able to battle his way past all obstacles by sheer force of will, Ronan was unprepared to see how old and close to death Markurd now looked. Feeling the heat from Markurd’s brow he was suddenly fearful the man he had naively believed would live forever was about to die and his fear came out as anger. “Why wasn’t I called earlier?” He demanded tersely of the couple standing beside him.

  Ronan had engaged Ping, the daughter of the tavern’s landlord where his injured men were recuperating, to care for them. She and Jory, one of his injured men with an arm in a sling, stood beside the bed with Ronan. It was Jory who replied, with quiet resignation in his voice. “He would not let us. He said the wound had gone bad and when a man’s time was come there was no use fretting. He worried that if you knew you would fret.” The man gave Ronan a sideways glance. “He said you would try to use quack medicine to fix something that couldn’t be fixed.”

  Ronan glared at Rory, anxiety and frustration battling for an outlet as he remembered the healer’s warning of a few days ago. When Markurd had first told him he was off to rest Ronan had frowned in concern and asked if he needed more than rest, to which Markurd had said he could get his own women without the help of his new mother. Ronan had smiled and instantly distracted by urgent issues thought nothing more of it. How long had it been since they had seen the healer and was it already too late? If there was still time would the healer’s cure do any good? Or was the healer merely another fake making a living on the back of
others’ desperate need for a miracle, which, as Markurd believed, just wouldn’t materialise.

  Ronan looked down on the shadow of the man who used to be Markurd, torn between his scepticism and a frantic need to try anything that might work. Ronan sneered at himself in his own mind as he acknowledged what Markurd already knew. Ronan was no different to those others who desperate for a cure would naively give over their life savings to anyone promising a cure to save a loved one. He would hand over money to a charlatan because he needed to believe that a miracle would happen, even when in his heart he knew it wouldn’t. Emotion ruled over common sense and the charlatans thrived on the back of others’ misery. “Fetch me the boy, the one who took us to the healer a few days ago.”

  Jory nodded as he left, as though expecting the request but not believing it would do any good. Ronan ground his teeth in anger, recognising Jory’s thoughts for what they were. He was angry at his own weakness and angrier still at the healer who would trade on others’ anguish to get what he wanted. Not gold this time but an escort past the emperor’s soldiers.

  The young boy panted expectantly as he waited, breathless from his run to the campsite and having delivered his message. Li Chin was irritated the request had been left so long. He had decided it would not come at all and now that it had it would probably be too late. To have come so late there was obvious reluctance to trust his medicine and it would not be improved when they saw what he proposed. With a fatalistic tone which would probably be lost on the boy, he commanded, “Return to the man Ronan and tell him it is too late. He has waited too long and that even I cannot roll back time.” The young boy’s eyes widened briefly in surprise, respectfully bowing head to the floor. Then he shuffled out of Li Chin’s tent to begin running back to the city.

  Li Chin watched him go noticing his pace was slower on the return journey, the burden of his reply heavier than the message brought out so full of hope. Gathering what he needed it was only a few moments later that he stepped out from his tent and began following the boy to the city at a more sedate but steady pace.

  The young boy gasped out the healer’s reply, his own voice and expression unconsciously mirroring the fatalism shown by Li Chin when he had given the message, leaving Ronan stunned. While waiting for the boy’s return Ronan’s concerned frustration had become focused anger at the healer as he accepted in all likelihood Markurd was going to die. Desperate for a cure but suspecting none would work he knew he was like a drowning man gasping at straw even knowing it wouldn’t be enough. Now the boy delivered the healer’s message even the thin hope Ronan had hung on to melted away, leaving only an overwhelming sense of loss. Ronan crumpled to the side of the bed beside Markurd.

  Without warning Ronan’s anger flared back stronger than ever, his fists clenching as it peaked. How dare the arrogant parasite raise his hopes then not even bother to come when called? How could he possibly know it was too late without even seeing Markurd? Markurd had the heart of a lion and enough courage for ten men. If there was a cure then Markurd could live long enough to receive it and the healer would come, even if Ronan had to drag the arrogant dog here at sword point. Invigorated now he had something tangible he could do Ronan virtually leaped to his feet. Hand on sword he was halfway to the open doorway before he saw that someone already stood in it facing into the room. Ronan froze almost certain who it must be. The figure moved into the dim glow of the lantern light to confirm his suspicions, the lantern’s flickering gleam reflecting off his shaven head above the bandana.

  The healer moved to stand beside Markurd’s bed looking down at him without making any move to examine his injuries. “He must be stripped and bathed immediately in warm water which has been boiled. Then moved to a fresh bed with clean covers.”

  Ronan was full of frustrated drive and seethed as unaccustomed and conflicting emotions warred within him. Calming, he nodded to confirm the instructions to Jory and Ping who watched from one side. They sped off to comply. Ronan’s hand clamped down hard on the hilt of his sword as the healer stood silent and immobile beside Markurd, silently watching as his patient rattled out tortured breaths. Neither of them said anything as the healer’s instructions were fulfilled. Ronan felt he was being manipulated but also knew he wanted this man to help if he could and was left frustrated with no outlet for his anger. Even so, as Markurd’s clothes were stripped back he became aware they had become soiled and was ashamed he had not even realised. After Markurd was cleaned the healer had him lifted to a table top, where he bathed Markurd’s whole body with a cloth he dipped in a shallow bowl containing an oily substance he had brought with him.

  As Ronan came closer to watch the healer used the same matter of fact tone he had used at their first meeting. “Sandalwood oil; it is known to prevent corruption and aid minor cases where it already exists.” The healer rinsed the cloth in the bowl before applying it again. “Look about you and you will see that many bad things live and thrive in filth, while they remain absent when people and their habitat are kept clean. It is a simple truth but few seem to either observe or apply it.”

  Ronan accepted the logic and felt shamed as the soiled covers were taken away. “I did not know or I would have seen to it earlier.”

  “You smell of sweat and horse as much as the man you seek to save, otherwise you may have smelt it as I did when I entered. This room and everyone in it, including the carers, should be cleaned regularly to avoid the evils that thrive in filth.”

  As before, the words were delivered in a neutral tone but Ronan felt chastised as he replied through gritted teeth, “I will see to it.”

  Ronan was surprised as the healer lifted Markurd from the table to place him carefully in the fresh bed without requiring any aid. Ravished as Markurd’s flesh was he must still have weighed more than twice what the healer did. Ronan peered curiously over the healer’s shoulder when he knelt to sniff at the now open wounds above Markurd’s hip. The healer stepped back and invited Ronan to smell the wound. As Ronan began to do so he did not have to kneel before the rank smell of the corruption assailed his nostrils. The inflamed swollen wounds, black around the edges and oozing a yellow puss, stopped him. He had seen enough wounds that had gone bad without having to get close to confirm the corruption. Of those he had seen in the past none had survived once it had got to this stage and his revived hopes of any cure plummeted again.

  The healer turned to face him directly for the first time. “It would be best if you did not watch the rest as your superstitious ignorance will fight the logic of the cure, even though I know it to have worked in the past.” The healer raised an eyebrow as he considered for a moment, “though, I have never seen it applied to a wound this far advanced before and he may yet die before he is able to benefit from the treatment.”

  Ronan ground out his reply testily, “Tell me the logic and if I cannot fault it, I will overcome my superstition and ignorance.”

  The healer regarded him impassively for a few heartbeats before asking, “Have you ever seen a healthy person or animal plagued by maggots?” Frowning in suspicion Ronan shook his head, at which the healer continued. “Have you ever seen a dead person or animal plagued by maggots?”

  Ronan’s irritation was plain to hear as he replied. “Many, but what has this to do with Markurd’s fever?”

  “Why do you think it is that maggots plague the dead but not the living?”

  Ronan swept a hand through the air as though to sweep the discussion to one side. “They prefer the dead to the living, what of it?”

  Ronan turned to point at the black edges to Markurd’s wounds. “The wound became corrupted, either at the time it was received or some time after. The corruption kills the flesh and it is the dead flesh which causes the fever. Sometimes, removing the area around the corrupted wound, say if it is a hand or a foot, the person’s life may be saved,” the healer shrugged, “but few do survive such drastic treatment. A more subtle way is to remove the dead and decaying flesh which causes the problem. The only solut
ion in this instance and we have just established the perfect means of doing so.” As he spoke the healer reached into his bag and withdrew a sealed pot, breaking the paper cover to show Ronan a mass of wriggling white maggots covering the bottom.

  Ronan instinctively recoiled, his hand grasping his sword hilt as he glared at the healer who merely watched him as though curious whether Ronan would allow the treatment as promised or produce a reasonable reason why he should not. Ronan struggled to control his anger and come up with a logical argument beyond the revulsion that filled his mind. Unable to give a good reason against the treatment, neither could Ronan bring himself to agree.

  Eventually, the healer took Ronan’s teeth grinding silence as tacit agreement. Reaching into his bag again he pulled out some fresh moss, using it to pack against the entrance and exit wounds where the sword had penetrated Markurd’s waist. The edges of the wounds had started to seep a yellow puss as they had talked. Then he carefully tipped five of the pot’s writhing contents into the loose packed moss covering each of the wounds, binding it all loosely in place with fresh windings.

  Ronan angrily turned his back and stamped away, unable to watch what he knew he had tacitly sanctioned even though he had been unable to speak the words aloud.

  The healer called over Jory and Ping, who had been fascinated and horrified in equal measure as they had watched. With their assistance he sat Markurd upright and forced him to drink water. Laying their patient gently down again he instructed the pair to keep the sheets clean and ensure that Markurd was forced to take water at least twice a day. As they nodded their understanding he washed his hands and gathered his possessions, placing them carefully back in his bag. Having finished, he stated fatalistically. “If he still lives in two days I will return and replace the maggots before they pupate. Beyond that, there is no more I can do. It is in the hands of the Spirits and depends on his appetite for life.”