by Damien Lake
Colbey brooded and he knew it. No deductions came to mind which he had not already rehashed a thousand times before, so he decided to spend the evening practicing his Guardian drills. He did this alone, in the woods beyond the walls where no one would interrupt him, where no others would see him. Not that any of these deluded outlanders would learn anything by watching him. Except better to be on the safe side.
While on the road these past months, he’d found few opportunities to slip away and meditate or practice the highly complex Euvea Guardian skills. Not that it mattered overmuch. Once mastered, they would always be available to him.
The summer’s fighting had offered ample opportunity to exercise the skills which qualified him as an advanced scout, yet those sprawling battles had required none of the higher skills needed in the sealed areas, skills which distinguished the Guardians from the regular scouts. That had, after all, only been a conflict between men.
Colbey was a nearly qualified Guardian. He had only to finish the training that would grant him mastery over the final higher techniques. If Farr had been alive to teach those final lessons, Colbey would have achieved the highest scout rank available in a month or so.
He shook his head while he walked along the wall, determined not to dwell on the might-have-beens as he did too often already. After wallowing in a sea of self-pity and misery, he would be even more temperamental than usual with his squad mates for several days.
When he reached the southern wall, he prepared to jump down the planks beside the postern gate so he could leave the compound. Movement on the road caught his attention. A squad returning from their journeys, riding at a much faster pace than the others.
Probably in a hurry to drown themselves in the nearest tavern, he thought cynically. The only matters of consequence to these men were their weapons and their ale, not necessarily in that order.
Colbey watched them ride hard, seeing a half-squad rather than a full. The two riders at the head would be the unit sergeants, so it was not a full squad hit by excessive casualties. One man broke away to gallop faster toward the gate. He shouted at the Homeguard, pausing only long enough to flash his Crimson Kings tag that proved him a band member.
Too far away to hear the shouted words, Colbey toyed with the idea of enhancing his senses to expand his hearing range. But then he thought, What’s the point? It’s a ragged batch of outlanders scurrying like ants, on business of no importance to anyone except themselves.
Once inside the man galloped through the town, yelling at anybody in his way. He disappeared behind a building, leaving Colbey’s thoughts as he left his sight. Colbey returned his attention to the procession on the road.
They trotted fast, visibly fretting at the pace set by the slower wagon bringing up the rear. A wagon they remained very close to. Farm horses pulled the wagon, rather than the war mounts bred and raised by the band. After they drew closer he saw past the riders to distinguish the wagon’s load.
A very injured man lay on the flat bed atop a collection of cloaks. Bandages wrapped his body from neck to foot. Every cloak the company owned must line the cart, padding it to ease the strain of travel on injured flesh. Only the man’s head remained visible. Colbey had seen a similar injury before.
Once, while still training with the scouts, the Guardians had brought back one of their own to the village’s true Healers. He’d encountered a fire salamander in a sealed area, a small creature that looked harmless but which should never be underestimated under any circumstances. This Guardian’s encounter had resulted in severe burns all across his body and the loss of his hair to the creature’s flames. The Healer had tended him for an eightday. Owing to the expert ministrations, the Guardian retained no scarring from the burns, though he’d held a superstitious fear of untended flames forever afterward.
The man below must have been in a similar situation. Either he had been caught in a burning building or grassfire or run afoul of a magic user. Whichever, judging from the visible wounds, luck alone had kept him alive. Colbey tweaked his senses after all, taking a closer look at the body.
As ugly as it looked on the surface, the man must have received a true Healing already, for the blisters were in recession. Fresh skin would grow from beneath. The twisted scars and bulbous flesh that should have covered him were absent. Whoever performed the ministrations had repaired the worst damage, then left his body to finish the remaining work.
This hardly meant the man would heal without a blemish. No, he would be marked from this encounter for the rest of his life. A gurgling groan escaped cracked lips, only heard by the scout owing to his enhanced senses. He revised his estimation.
If he recovers. He’s not safely home yet.
The Homeguard, having been warned by the forerunner, held the main gates open. They rode into the Marching Grounds, halting when the first rider returned with a pair of the band’s chirurgeons in tow. After a quick examination, the two took charge of the cart and drove it back the direction they had come. The squad waited uncertainly until ordered to return their mounts by their sergeants who, seeing the men off, departed for the command building.
Colbey descended the plank stairs and left through the postern gate. That had been a nice distraction from his own worries, but he needed to get down to business. While he walked toward the trees overlooking the horses’ sunken vale, he reviewed his lessons in the higher Guardian techniques.
Chapter 17
Marik swam through the darkness clouding his mind, dreaming bizarre dreams and fully aware of it. He had never before been aware while he dreamt, but no doubts about it plagued him concerning the realities he walked through now.
His location constantly changed. He relived his past, events flashing by as though each scene were a card in a gambler’s deck, shuffling through dexterous hands faster than the eye could follow. One moment he would be in the Randy Unicorn’s common room, tossing coppers down the alley with Chatham encouraging him all the way, then he would step back through the wall expecting to rejoin Harlan and Maddock at the table with their meal, except they would no longer be there. They were not there because he had left the Randy Unicorn and stood instead in the stable-cum-barracks at Dornshold with the rest of the Fourth Unit, arguing about who had bet what while Kerwin gave out odds on the race involving four cockroaches the men had captured. He would step outside because he knew he needed to be there practicing his swordsmanship, and if he was not then Landon and Kerwin would never find him and he would miss whatever they were going to tell him. When he stepped through the doorway though, the courtyard had vanished, turning into the Kingshome armory, and Dietrik stood arguing with Sennet about selling the rapier set while Marik still decided if he should get a helm or not. He turned to ask the weapons master about the different advantages between styles, but Sennet had become a caravan master in Tattersfield, telling him if he wanted his coppers he had better unload everything from the third wagon and be quick about it.
No sense of time pervaded the dream world. Marik felt trapped by the confines of his own mind. Apparently knowing he dreamt granted him no power over it, leaving him to repeat his life in this jigsaw manner over and over. Soon, he started screaming.
* * * * *
The head chirurgeon studied his patient. With him waited Sergeant Fraser, the leader of his patient’s unit. A quiet calm filled the room. Quiet because he’d finally had enough and chased away the patient’s friends, who kept pestering him with questions, interrupting his thoughts. Annoyed, he had shoved them into a room down the hall, telling them they could return to their friend’s side once he felt gods damned good and ready to let them.
For a greater number of years than he cared to count he had practiced medicine. The head chirurgeon had seen worse than this, though not lately. After retiring from battlefield work, the most he treated these days were injuries suffered during the extensive practices the Crimson Kings engaged in during the winter, or patching up men returned from said fields of combat. Often this consisted of re
-breaking bones so they could heal straight. Anything other than minor injuries were handled by field chirurgeons. Life-threatening wounds usually killed the patient before he could return.
The head chirurgeon had never been a man who strove to relive his glory years and could have done without this particular mess falling upon his shoulders.
“No one else survived then?”
“None that were hit,” the sergeant replied curtly.
“Do you know if he was hit directly by the spell, or was it a glancing blow?”
“My man who witnessed it says it was a direct blow. The men to either side of him caught the edges. They were incinerated.”
The chirurgeon shook his head. “Magical injuries are not within my normal practice, but I can see he’s been treated already. Did the Healer leave you any instructions?”
“It was a pair of priests and no, they only said they’d done what they could and it was up to him from there on.”
“Priests? What denomination?”
“I don’t know. Whatever faith they were, it’s one that lends healing powers to its true believers.”
“This could be worrisome. Did they require he follow their faith after this? Certain faiths change the patients when they receive a Healing. It can effect the outcome if the one in question doesn’t accept it.”
“One of the men asked. They don’t require such.”
The head chirurgeon nodded, storing the information away. “There’s little left to do then. I can apply salves to help the blistering and a few drafts that will boost his energy; his body will need it. But I don’t like the sound of his breathing. He might be succumbing to consumption. I think we’ll need to keep clearing his lungs.”
The sergeant wanted a simple answer, same as every other the head chirurgeon had dealt with during his time in this band. “Will he live? Can he continue fighting?”
“Yes, I’m confident he’ll live after receiving the Healing, if we keep an eye on him. I’ll assign one of the new journeymen chirurgeons to stay by his side, and I’ll check on him myself every few candlemarks. Fight? I don’t know. The priests you had work on him managed to repair all of the lasting damage that I can see, but if the young man doesn’t want to heal, he won’t.”
“Then he’ll heal.”
“Only as long as he believes he can.”
“He’ll heal,” the sergeant repeated. “I know his type. He’ll want to be out working with his sword as soon as he wakes.”
“About that…”
“You want to have him tested?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve already broached the subject with Commander Torrance. He promised to have Tollaf come over and check my lad out.”
“I think I can tell you what he’ll find. It’s the only reason I can think of that would account for his surviving a direct blast.”
“If he has latent talent, it might have burned itself out protecting his life from the spell.”
“Or it might have fully awakened. That would have…ramifications.”
“That’s Tollaf’s area. I’ll talk to him once he’s had a chance to examine Marik.”
“As for the rest of his injuries, I expect it will take him at least a pair of eightdays before he can leave the bed, and another pair to regain his strength. The last re-growth in skin will take until midwinter. The consumption, if it’s there, and the rest of the immediate problems can be handled over the next few eightdays.”
“He lucked out then.”
The head chirurgeon shook his head again. “Luck? Finding a priest with true Healing talent can be difficult even in a large city. Surviving an attack like this, and then finding two such priests nearby in the field? That’s more than luck. Someone is watching out for this one. Someone has plans for him, I think.”
Fraser snorted, his contempt for this idea clear. “I expect Tollaf will be around soon.”
“I’ll be looking for him.”
The two left the room, the chirurgeon noticing that the sergeant continued past the closed door without stopping to speak to the young man’s friends. Like all the others, he left it to the chirurgeon to explain the details to those concerned, as if he had nothing better to do than repeat himself all day. With a deep sigh he opened the door on their expectant faces.
* * * * *
Marik lay on a grassy hill, watching the clouds and hoping the dream Pate would not appear to drag him back to the workshop. He was hesitant to move lest he fling himself into a deeper cesspit within his mind. Lying here in the cool spring breeze felt refreshing. Restarting the whirlwind journey anew might finally shatter the remains of his sanity.
In all his traveling, he returned most often to the tree edging the forest clearing. Ashlin stared up at him with dead, accusing eyes. No life sparkled in them yet they seemed to see him all the same. Though he did not speak, Marik could hear words.
In front of you! I died in front of you! My blood dried on your clothing for candlemarks while you stood there doing nothing! How dare you forget me? How dare you think of me as a number? One lost in rover attack. Are your new friends no more than acceptable losses? Are you?
The voice echoed louder, harsher, increasingly accusing the longer he stayed with Ashlin. Marik knew a simple movement could whisk him off to a different scene from his past, but if he so much as twitched, arrows would kill him as surely as they had killed Ashlin. Many believed if you died in your dreams you died in truth. Perhaps they were wrong, perhaps they were right. He did not want to learn the truth the hard way. At first he’d thought to sneak away in the dark as he had before, except the daylight persisted through endless marks. Finally, after enduring Ashlin’s cold gaze for days, he would summon enough courage to risk the arrows and fly away on the winds of history.
But soon enough, back he would be at the tree, listening to Ashlin’s hollow voice challenging his loyalties. How many times had he waited endless days pinned to that tree? Ten? Twenty? He did not know. When he had found himself on this hillside, he vowed to remain immobile. This was a fairly pleasant place to spend eternity. If he returned to the dead man, he might cross into the abyss of raving dementia.
Secure in his safe mental harbor, he strove to think, to understand what had happened to him, for something surely had happened. All his memories were jumbled, not only these vivid reconstructions. No matter how he strained, he was unable to pinpoint when he had fallen asleep, if sleep it truly was. He was no longer certain that he hadn’t fallen into one of the hells on the deeper levels of Vernilock’s domain. The unit was in the north pursuing a bandit gang. Clearer recall beyond that eluded him.
He rolled to his side, which turned out to be a mistake. Tattersfield’s hillside melted in a wash of colors. The running paint solidified and he lay on his cot in the Ninth’s barracks. Everyone else slept. Only he lay awake.
Well, this isn’t so bad either. I just need to stay still.
Marik remained immobile, listening to men breathing, watching the lump identifying Dietrik buried in his blanket cocoon. The familiar sight comforted despite its falsity.
Except it had changed. He knew the barracks as well as his own hands by now. An unidentifiable, subtle wrongness assailed him. Marik could hear the breathing fade. The atmosphere grew hollow, such as a room that has been unused so long a person could tell immediately upon entering.
His vision swam. Marik turned on his back, forgetting he should remain immobile. When the world stopped spinning, a new room surrounded him. He still lay flat on his back.
Dietrik and Kerwin talked silently beside the small room’s door. Marik felt confused. Could he remember any time when Kerwin had joined the two of them without Landon? He tried turning his head for a better look but it took colossal effort to move, so he shifted his eyes instead.
No, Landon was nowhere to be seen. Instead a stranger sat at a small table beside his bed, grinding brown powder in a pestle. Marik did not know him, or rather he could not remember which memory this man sprang from. He wore
the white and soft sky-blue colors of the Healers and chirurgeons…except Marik could remember no time when he’d had occasion to meet one.
Young, with sandy brown hair, the stranger glanced up from his grinding to notice Marik studying him.
“Oh, hello. I’m glad to see you awake.”
This immediately caught Dietrik and Kerwin’s attention, who, seeing his eyes open, rushed to his side.
“Marik! Hells, it’s bloody good to see you awake!”
The stranger raised a hand. “Now, I know you’re happy and all, but stand back for a few moments and let me examine him. Step back, please! Look, why don’t you stand against the wall there? Stand!”
They reluctantly gave him room to work. Marik’s confusion intensified. When had anything like this ever happened before?
“Are you thirsty?”
When he attempted to speak, to ask a question, his throat seized. He found it to be as dry as the mud flat in the training area. Marik managed a slight nod after the man’s question penetrated his fog-shrouded mind.
“That’s good. Here, let’s get you a drink of water. Take only small sips.”
He held a cup to Marik’s cracked lips and allowed small trickles to tip into his mouth. The refreshing sensation felt like the heavens. Marik held it in his mouth for several moments while the moisture saturated his fevered being, then panicked because he could not swallow.
“Careful now! Let it slide down your throat. Don’t work the muscles. They’re as battered as the rest of you. Good! Let’s drink more.”
They emptied the cup after a great while. Profound exhaustion gripped him by the time they finished. The young man apologized and explained he needed to check several vitals before he would go away and let Marik rest.
He asked Marik to move each of his toes, his fingers, all of his joints. While holding a small candle flame, he asked Marik to follow it with his eyes as he moved it left and right. He placed his hand under Marik’s, whispered in his ear with increasingly softer words, telling Marik to tap with his finger every time he heard a sound. Probing across his body revealed no numb areas yet elicited several sharp gasps from the patient when raw flesh received pokes. After making him drink further, the young man said he had checked enough for the moment, then left Marik with his friends.