He’s important, Iscara thought as she moved quickly to the door. He wouldn’t have an escort like that if he wasn’t. I wonder why they’re bringing him to me? The guardsman standing just outside the door held it open for her as she stepped outside.
The riders arrived first, their horses sliding to an abrupt halt on the cobbled roads. They dismounted rapidly, and by the time the wagon slowed to an easy stop, the guardsmen were already on either side of it, ready to remove the man lying on the stretcher in the bed of the wagon.
“This way,” Iscara said, pointing to the infirmary as she fell in beside them. “What do you know of his injuries?” she demanded as she looked down at him. His face was unknown to her, but there was something familiar in it. He was still clutching a coal-black staff, and she reached for it, intending to take it from him and set it aside. But she couldn’t; his grip on it was too tight, and the strange wood was warm to the touch. Hot to the touch. Magic? she wondered. At least she had no trouble lifting his backpack out of the way. She handed it to Karas, who carried it to the little alcove where they locked up their patients’ possessions when it was needed.
“Left leg,” one of the guardsmen said. “Right shoulder and arm. There may be more.”
Iscara nodded as she ushered them into the infirmary. “On the table,” she said as she stepped aside to give them room. After they had put the stretcher on the table, she said, “Now get out of my way.”
All but one of the guardsmen left; he moved to the entryway, well out of her way, and planted himself there. She glared at him, but there was no time for anything more than that. She leaned in close and said, “Let me have your staff. I will keep it safe for you, and I can’t heal you with it in your hands.” She reached for it again, and this time was able to pry his fingers from it. It was still warm to the touch as she set it out of the way in a corner. There was something strange about the staff, as if a familiar shadow had collapsed upon it, but she didn’t have time to look more closely at it. Even a brief glance had told her his injuries were severe.
When she returned to the table, she put her hand to the man’s forehead and briefly wondered at how much he looked like Typhus, only younger and prettier. At least he didn’t have a fever, but what about the rest of him? She brought the magic within him into focus, and her lips compressed into a thin line as she saw it. Death magic and decay swarmed over the man, running through his veins like worms trying to devour him from the inside out. She had seen this pattern before when a wound had gone untreated for far too long, and she reached up to touch his forehead again. Where was the raging firestorm of the toxins in his blood? His temperature was normal, and that bothered her. He should have a fever, a very high fever, one that should have killed him by now. Why didn’t he? She looked at the magic within him again, and shook her head. There was something more than just the toxin there, but what was it? No matter; it would be easier to treat him if he didn’t have a fever.
She reached for the sash of the man’s robe, untied it, and Karas helped her peel it open. As it fell aside, a part of the magic within the man faded, and the death magic coursing through his veins blossomed into a raging inferno. She gasped—what was happening to him? She reached for his forehead, and a fever was rapidly rising to the surface. She had never seen anything like it before. It was as if the robe—
Iscara quickly closed the robe and tied the sash—but nothing happened. She felt his brow again, and it was so warm to the touch that he was beginning to sweat.
Heal him.
Iscara gasped and her head snapped up. She recognized that voice! She had felt it in her mind before, when she was with Argyle…. She cast her gaze around the room until it fell upon the staff and shuddered. Sardach? She thought as she stared. Then she abruptly turned to the guardsman lingering at the entryway and said, “Leave us. I must concentrate.”
“No,” the guardsman said. “I stay.”
Iscara glared at him and said, “Do not interfere.” She moved quickly. She needed to assess the injuries and decide what needed to be done. “Ice,” she said as she touched the fury of the man’s skin. “Quickly!”
Karas nodded and hurried from the room. By the time he returned, she had done the initial assessment and realized she couldn’t heal him alone. “We’ll have to amputate the leg,” she began. “But—”
Heal him! Sardach almost shouted into her mind. He must be whole!
Iscara gasped at the ferocity of the thought, then glared at the staff. I can’t! she thought with equal ferocity. It is too far gone for me to heal.
There was no response from Sardach, only the intensity of his thought warning her of his presence. Iscara gnawed on her lower lip as she thought about what Sardach could do. She didn’t want to risk finding out, but she couldn’t save the leg.
“Fetch my mother,” she told Karas. Her mother might be able to save the leg, but it would be costly. What about the shoulder? The bone fragments were a jumble, and she was never very good with puzzles like that. But Ninny was. “And Ninny,” she added as Karas hesitated. “Hurry!”
After Karas left, she focused on the magic in Angros, trying to force the roiling death and decay into some semblance of controlled chaos. If that was all that she needed to do, she could manage it for a time, but as long as the leg and arm were still there, the most she could hope for was a stalling maneuver. She could hold it off until her mother arrived, but not much more than that.
She looked into the corner where the staff was waiting, and asked, Were you keeping the fever down?
No, Sardach replied.
How, then? she wondered. Then she was too busy working to contain the wriggling strands of death magic from consuming the man to think about it.
12
There was a fire in the tent, and the ground beneath Hobart was soggy. His armor was still missing, but he wasn’t worried; either Ortis had it and it was safe or Ortis didn’t have it and he would have to get it back from the dwarves. He stretched and yawned, his weakened muscles straining against the fatigue that always hit him after a prolonged battle. He hadn’t felt so drained since the fishmen had almost overrun the outpost he was stationed at when he first went to The Borderlands. He had helped hold the gate against their battering ram for an eternity before the archers finally picked enough of them off to chase them away. Once the fishmen were gone, he had collapsed to the ground, unable to move for half an hour before his muscles finally stopped shaking.
What happened to the dwarves? he wondered as he flexed his fingers and toes. Why did they attack? By the time he had reoriented himself and sat up, he had forgotten about the strange dwarves. They weren’t real—they couldn’t be real—and he was beginning to remember what was real. The fire was warm, and the tent looked familiar. It was the cheap one made from hides stitched together that Ortis had bought from Dagremon when they set out to cure Giorge of his curse. It had not gone well, and Giorge—
He clamped his teeth tight and growled back the chain of thoughts that threatened to erupt in him. There was nothing that could be done for Giorge now, and it was time to move on to the future. If there was one.
He looked around the nearly empty tent and wondered where they were. The last thing he remembered, they had been heading up the lift, taking Angus to the cave. They weren’t there any longer, and that meant he had been out of his wits for a long time. But how long? What had happened? Why had they left the cave?
Supplies. Ortis had said they were low, and he would have headed back across the plateau to get some more from Dagremon. But he could have done that on his own and come back to the cave. Why hadn’t he left Hobart there?
His stomach rumbled and his bladder screamed for attention, so Hobart struggled to his feet. His knees were unsteady, and he spread his legs wide to keep from tottering. There wasn’t anything to hang on to, so he stood still for several seconds before taking a step. It felt like he was walking through hip-deep water, not ankle-deep snow. Where is the ground covering? By the time he reached the
tent flap, he was ready to sit down again, but he couldn’t; he needed to know where he was and where they were going. He gripped the flimsy tent flap hard and used it to steady himself as he opened it up.
It was cold, and he almost dropped the flap back into place. Instead, he gritted his teeth and stepped out into a chill morning. The snow crunched beneath his feet as the thin layer of ice on top of it gave way under his weight. The edge of the ice was sharp, and despite himself, he winced as it scratched his bare ankles. Where are my boots? he wondered. Did the dwarves steal them?
He was facing south in a large clearing with long drifts to either side of the tent flap. There was a strong north wind, but the tent was at his back blocking it. A travois was nestled up against the tent flap, and he saw bits of his armor peeking out from under the tanned hide strapped over it. There’s the ground covering, he thought. At least the dwarves didn’t get my armor. Then he frowned and shook his head. There weren’t any dwarves around here; they didn’t like snow. They always huddled up in their holes when winter came. No matter; he had his armor, and that meant he probably had the thick padding too.
He reached for the travois and nearly toppled over as his left knee buckled. The pieces of armor grated against each other as he leaned against them to catch himself, and he knelt gingerly down on the icy crust of the snow to fumble with the straps holding his armor in place. Most of it was under a stiff blanket, and once he had it peeled open, he looked for the padding—but it wasn’t there! He rummaged for a few seconds, and then pulled his sword out from the pile. It felt ten times heavier than normal, and the tip of the sturdy scabbard gouged into the ice as he used it to lever himself to his feet again.
Hobart stumbled against the travois before he managed to stand again, and his armor shifted noisily as it settled back into place. Once he had some semblance of balance, he used his sword as if it were a cane and turned away from the travois. He put his back to the wind, leaned on his sword, and let his bladder have its way. He had barely started when Ortis hurried into view from behind the tent. The triad was on the other side of the drift with an arrow knocked in his bow. He let the tension out of his bowstring when he saw Hobart and then nodded to him. “Good,” Ortis said. “I was wondering when you would wake up.”
Hobart nodded back and asked, “Where’s my padding? I’m shriveling up in this cold.”
Ortis shrugged. “Go back in the tent. The fire will keep you warm enough while you wait.” Ortis turned to go back to where he had been.
“Wait for what?” Hobart asked.
Ortis paused and turned back. “Have something to eat while you’re in there. The stew is warming near the fire.” Then he was hurrying away again.
Hobart frowned, finished peeing, and then decided to go back inside the tent. He had seen enough to know where they were—the clearing near the well—and it troubled him a great deal. How long had he been sleeping? Why had he been sleeping so much?
As he hobbled back into the tent he felt around his head, trying to find a cut, a bump, any kind of head wound that would explain his sluggishness, but there was nothing there.
He stood inside the tent flap for a few seconds to adjust to the dim light and then made his way up to the fire. He reached down for the stew pot and moved it close to the blankets he had been sleeping on, and then flopped down next to it. He took a bite of the stew and scrunched up his nose. Too many herbs again. He ate quickly, chewed sparingly, and swallowed what he could before setting it aside. Then he lay down again, pulling his sword up under the blankets with him, the cold metal of the scabbard resting comforting against his thigh. If the dwarves come back, he thought as he fell asleep and dreamed he was dancing with the hind legs of a giant, headless cat….
13
Typhus held still until he heard Karas say the man’s name was Angus. It was an uncommon name, and there couldn’t be many banners with an Angus as a member. If it was the same one, would he have the key with him? If he did, could he get it from him and take the key to Argyle?
He waited until the door closed before he lifted the coverlet. The familiar glow filled the room, and he frowned. Angus will know how to fix it, he thought. He has to!
He had to know if it was the right Angus, and the only way he could do that was to sneak up and take a peek at him. But the guardsmen were there, and he was a frightful sight. How could he do it? He reached under the bed for his clothes and the bandages he still needed to conceal his glow. He left the cloak; he wasn’t going to need it this time.
When he was ready, he opened the door a crack and looked out. The stairwell was dark until it reached the top, and there was no one there. He stepped out and pulled the bandage low over his eyes. It wasn’t difficult to move quietly up the stairs and into the shop proper, but he had to be careful. It wasn’t as dark as he would have liked, and there were guardsmen around. They would be alert.
Typhus scrounged around until he found a thin sliver of metal on one of the benches, and then moved carefully over to the alcove where he had seen Iscara put her patient’s things. It was audacious, but the lock was easy to pick and the guardsmen were elsewhere. He looked over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t there before opening the door just far enough for him to slip inside. Then he pulled the door quietly shut behind him and waited to see if anyone came to investigate. When he was satisfied no one was coming, he unwound enough of the bandages from his eyes to light up the little alcove. There was barely enough room to turn around, and the only thing on the shelves was a backpack. He smiled; he recognized the backpack. It was Angus!
He flipped open the backpack’s flap and quietly, carefully, methodically removed its contents. He set the scrolls on the table first, since there was no point in looking through them. He couldn’t read them and he already knew what they were. He continued to remove the familiar items until he found his tunic. There was a lot of burn damage, but it didn’t matter; he could have a new one made easily enough, and he could pay for it with one of the gems he found in the pouch at the bottom of the pack. He only took a few of the gems, though, and he didn’t know why. Normally, he would have taken all of them, but something held back his hand.
At least the pockets in his tunic still had most of his things in them, including the phial of green liquid. It would come in handy if the guardsmen caught him. But Argyle’s key was not among those items, and Typhus’s heartbeat raced. Had Angus lost it? Had he thrown it away? Had he sold it?
Typhus rummaged through the rest of the backpack, but it wasn’t there. Neither were his breeches, but he would get them back soon enough. He would tell Iscara they were his, and she would get them for him. If she didn’t.…
When he was satisfied the key wasn’t there and that he had everything he wanted from the backpack, he replaced the other items he had taken out of it and closed the flap. Then he put it back on the shelf where he had found it. Then he turned around to the door, made sure he knew exactly where the latch was, and covered up his eyes until it was completely dark again. He took a deep breath, reached for the latch, and paused. This was the most dangerous part of his little escapade because he didn’t know if anyone was in the shop’s main room and there was no way to find out. He listened intently, but all the noises seemed to be far enough from the door for him not to worry about them. He lifted the latch and quickly stepped around the door when there was enough room to do so.
No one was nearby, and he quickly shut it again. He made a careful inspection of the room from where he knelt by the door, but there was still no sign of the guardsmen. They were either outside or in Iscara’s infirmary. He turned and made the efficient, expert movements that would lock the door again, and when he finished, the room was still empty. He took a breath and began working his way along the wall toward the infirmary. He wanted to take a look inside, to see if Iscara was alone with Angus, but he never made it that far. He was still a few steps away when the front door burst open and Karas, carrying a lantern, hurried in with two healers and a handful of g
uardsmen close on his heels. Typhus froze and pressed himself against the wall, knowing it was pointless because Karas had already seen him.
But Karas said nothing as he hurried up to the tapestry and held it open for the two women. He stared at Typhus for a long moment before following them inside and letting the tapestry fall back into place. He heard Iscara snap, “Ninny, fix his shoulder. You’re good at that sort of thing. Momma,” she paused and asked, “Can you save the foot?”
There were a few seconds of silence, and Typhus moved in closer to the tapestry, lifting it just far enough to see inside. The healers were gathered around their patient, and he couldn’t see past them. He tried to open the tapestry a bit further, and a hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. A moment later, his wrist was twisted around behind him, and a sword was at his throat. “What have we here?” he wondered. “A thief, perhaps?”
“I’m not sure,” one of the women said. “There’s little left alive. It would be better to remove it.”
“We must try to save it,” Iscara said. “That’s why I brought you here.”
“What about his arm?” the other woman asked. “It will be easier to tend the shoulder if the arm wasn’t twisted up like that.”
“I’m not a thief,” Typhus denied. Technically, it was true; he was an assassin. Besides he hadn’t really taken anything that wasn’t already his, had he?
“It all needs mending,” Iscara said. “I’ll keep the fever under control while you do it.” She glanced up and saw Typhus. She smiled at him, and then bent down to her patient again.
The Golden Key (Book 3) Page 27