by Dana Marton
“A child!” I squinted harder. A blue child?
Of course, not blue! The color had to be a trick of the shadows in the well. Then another, more important, detail snagged my attention. The angles of his arms were wrong as he lay.
His bones are broken. No doubt his injuries had trapped him on the bottom.
“Do not fear,” I shouted down. “We shall bring you up.”
Instead of another moan, a very adult, bitter laughter bounced up the stones. As the boy struggled to rise and more of the light hit him, I could discern at last that although the size was that of a child, the exact shape was not. Also, I had been right about the color.
We found not a blue child in the well, but a blue dwarf.
Chapter Seven
(The Dwarf in the Well)
The warlord watched in silence as the dwarf struggled.
I placed a hand on his arm. “We must bring him up.”
“Must we?” he said under his breath and glanced back toward the top of the cliffs, then down the well again. His next words came with obvious reluctance. “I felt something at the cliffs as we came up the steps.” He frowned. “When we stood on the top of the rocks.”
“As did I.” I did not feel the strange sensation here, however. I was near certain it had come from Kratos’s ruined temple, but I did not want to say the name aloud. No sense in calling that which one does not want to appear.
The dwarf below us was standing at last, panting.
My fingers flexed on Batumar’s arm. “My lord, he is a victim, the same as the others.”
The warlord’s expression remained unconvinced. He shouted down the well, “Are you a sorcerer?”
The Kadar despised sorcerers of any kind. Centuries past, Noona, the dark sorceress, had come close to wiping out their entire nation. Then also, when we had first arrived at the mainland, the sorcerer of Ishaf had nearly stolen Batumar’s very spirit. Neither of us would forget that for as long as we lived.
The warlord looked more like his old self with every passing day, but sometimes I wondered whether he had inner wounds that he kept hidden from me as he hid the outer ones, whether he had fully recovered. I kept my hand on his arm to remind myself that he was alive, that he had truly come back to me.
The dwarf watched us from the bottom of the well, squinting against the light. “Were I a powerful sorcerer, my lord, I would not be stuck here.”
Batumar considered the man’s response before asking, “Have you any weapons?”
The dwarf’s laughter was as bitter as it was weak, so thick with despair, it twisted my heart. “Had I a sword or even a paring knife, I would have long since killed myself.”
I believed him. A leathery black wing lay next to him on the ground. The rest of the bat was gone, and I had little doubt where it went. Still, a single bat was no great feast. The dwarf had to be half-mad with hunger, thirst, and pain, and the knowledge that no rescue would be coming. He could not have predicted our small armada sailing out of the hardstorms, not in a hundred years. He had likely spent the past several days preparing for a painful death.
His pitiful state must have finally moved the warlord as well, because he called down the well, “I will bring you up.”
“I should go down, my lord,” I offered. “I could heal him where he is, then we could both climb back up.”
“I do not trust him enough to have him alone with you, my Tera.”
The room on the bottom of the well was not sufficient for the three of us. If I went down, Batumar would have to stay where he was.
“The man is injured,” I protested. “He is hardly a threat.”
“I am unwilling to take a chance.”
Batumar removed his flask, then unfastened his sword belt and laid it on the ground, but he did not completely disarm. The daggers he carried in each boot, he left in their place. And truly, nearly every part of the warlord was a weapon. I had watched him take down many an enemy bare-handed.
He found a spot on the well’s crumbling lip that would hold him, swung his legs over, then turned toward the stones of the well, searching for a foothold. He never paused, but began his descent. I had no doubt he could stand his own against the dwarf, even if the dwarf did have bad intentions, but I disliked the way the dark hole swallowed Batumar regardless.
I leaned over the rim and watched him lower himself handhold by handhold. The stones were dry, no wet spots anywhere nor any moss growing. The well must have run out of water a long time ago. If the island had seen rain in the past few days, it could not have been much.
Batumar moved with power as he climbed, but not with an easy grace. The sorcerer of Ishaf had broken his bones. Even though the breaks had healed, the warlord’s body was not the same as it had been before.
As he neared the bottom, the blue dwarf shuffled out of his way. Then the warlord landed at last, and the two men measured up each other. They hesitated, as if unsure what to do next.
Oh, for the spirits’ sake. Clearly, with broken arms, the dwarf could not hang on to Batumar’s neck and ride up on his back. I should have gone down the well.
Before I could tell the warlord just that, he found his own solution. He sat on the ground and spread his cloak out behind him. “Sit in the middle.”
The dwarf did. The warlord gathered the corners of the cloak and tied them diagonally across his chest. When he stood, he had the dwarf on his back in a bundle. Cleverly done. Not that I was going to say that to Batumar.
The climb up was even more ungainly than the climb down. Yet the dwarf’s weight slowed the warlord little. In but a few moments, they were out of the well, the dwarf on the ground where I could unbundle him from the warlord’s cloak at last.
“Stay still.” I did not want him to injure himself further.
He obeyed, moving not a muscle while I inspected him in the sunlight.
He was younger than I by at least a few summers, his hair short and black, his eyes dark amber. He stayed flat on his back, squinting hard against the sun. Tiny runes covered what skin his clothes left bare. Blue tattoos decorated every visible spot—from his eyelids to the pads of his fingers. Where his short hair parted, I could see runes tattooed even on his scalp.
For protection? Some of the tribes of the Outer Islands believed in the protection of sacred words and texts.
“You must be parched.” I grabbed Batumar’s flask from the ground, uncapped it, then held it in front of the blue man’s mouth.
He held his arms immobile, but his head tilted up, and his cracked lips closed around the opening. He swallowed loudly and greedily, without spilling a single drop, sucking at the flask even when it ran empty.
Once the dwarf was satisfied that he had extracted every last drop and his eyes grew a little more used to the bright light, he pulled back and examined us in return. He inclined his head as best he could from his prone position. “My lord, my lady, I am in your debt.”
“I am the Lady Tera of the Shahala,” I said, and when Batumar remained silent, I added, “And this is Lord Batumar of the Kadar.”
The warlord already had his sword belt fastened, his right hand resting on the pommel.
The dwarf kept a wary eye on him but did not scamper back. He understood that should Batumar decide he was one of the enemy, there would be no escape.
“Would you share your name?” I asked when he did not volunteer one.
His gaze cut to me, and he flashed an apologetic smile. “I do not have a name, my lady.”
What should we call him, then? We could not leave him here, and if he was to travel with us on our ship, we could not be addressing him as Lord Dwarf. If he was a lord. His clothes—boots, britches, and a tight, sleeveless tunic—were all inexpensive and utilitarian black. Even the bulky ring on his left hand was made of steel and carried no gemstone. Where did he come from? What island? What nation?
Batumar interrupted my thoughts. “He is an assassin.”
I stared. I had never seen an assassin before. The Shahala, a n
ation of healers, had no dealings with such men, and the Kadar preferred to fight man-to-man, face-to-face.
Assassin.
Instinct pushed me to step away, but I stayed my ground. I remembered how people feared me when they’d thought me a sorceress. The assassin had made no move to harm us. I did not think he could if he wanted to. Not until his arms healed.
“How came you to Rabeen?” Batumar asked in a tone that turned the question into a command to answer.
“I ran away from my master.” The dwarf closed his eyes for a breath and sighed. “I planned to join up with pirates.”
Batumar did not move his piercing gaze from him. “You changed your mind and decided to remain on Rabeen instead?”
“I was merely waiting for a pirate ship to come into harbor. The Kadar ships came instead, four of them, but they did not carry Kadar warriors. The men looked to be Kerghi mercenaries.” The dwarf’s face twisted into a grimace. “I was at the docks and expecting no trouble. I was one of the first ones they caught.”
“How many were they?”
“Hundreds, my lord.”
“Why did they spare your life?”
“I told them when a blue assassin is killed, all his brothers come together to hunt down the killer.”
“Is that true?”
“No, my lord.” The dwarf deflated. “There is no brotherhood among assassins.”
Batumar’s questions did not relent. “How did you come to be in the well?”
The dwarf seemed to shrink, if possible. “The Kerghi set me free so they could make sport of hunting me. I was never a fast runner, but I nearly reached the olive orchards when they caught me and tossed me into the well, thinking to let me die slowly.”
A moment of silence passed before he added, “After three days, when I knew I would never be able to come up, I drank the poison in my ring.”
My gaze fell to the bulky steel ring on his left hand.
“How are you not dead, then?” The warlord’s tone dripped suspicion.
“I was trained from an early age to tolerate poison, digesting a small portion each day, my lord,” the dwarf said miserably. “Still, I had nothing else. I tried the only thing I could.” He shook his head, his amber eyes haunted. “The potion only made me suffer.”
As I was not sure what to make of his tale, let alone his profession, I focused on his lack of name. “What do people call you when they talk to you?”
A hard smile turned up the corners of his lips. “An assassin has no friends. And my enemies never see me,” he said by rote, as if repeating a mantra.
I suppose the fact that we saw him meant we were not his enemies—a comforting thought. But not having a name on a voyage that lasted several days would not do. “Had you no name as a child?”
He looked at the dirt in which he lay. “Urdy,” he said at last, in a heavy tone. Then he sighed again. “A good assassin would have forgotten that.”
“I am a healer, Urdy,” I forged ahead confidently on the tail of my small victory. “May I see your arms?”
He nodded.
While I examined the breaks, Batumar kept questioning him, but Urdy knew no more about the Kerghi invaders or the state of our island of Dahru than Boscor the chronicle keeper had.
Urdy’s left arm was bent at a nasty angle, a large bump under his blue skin. The right arm was worse, the bone sticking out. I winced, thinking about the pain he had suffered for these past seven days.
He misinterpreted my reaction for squeamishness and tried to shift away. “A lady should not have to see such ugliness. I’m sorry.”
I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
At the same time, Batumar said, “Worry not. She is the least squeamish of all the ladies in the world. Only yesterday, she gelded a man.”
I thought Urdy might have paled under all his tattoos. He definitely pressed his legs tighter together.
I cast Batumar a reproaching glare, but the warlord widened his eyes with false innocence. Then, when I lay my hands on Urdy’s arm to soften then reknit the bones, Batumar shook his head. If I wanted Urdy on our ship, I would do better to allow him to heal the natural way. Batumar would consider the assassin less of a threat without his full strength.
As I pulled my hands back, Urdy said, “’Twas worse yesterday. I had maggots in the wound.” His glance darted between me and his injury. “I ate them.”
I sighed. “That might not have been best done. Maggots clear away the rotted flesh. They would have helped.”
With his eyes downcast and chagrin on his face, he mumbled, “I was hungry, my lady.”
I could certainly understand. I too had known hunger. “Our men are gathering what food might be found on the island. We shall be happy to share. Will you travel with us to Dahru?”
“If you allow me, my lady. My lord,” he added, casting a questioning and not altogether hopeful glance at Batumar.
The warlord flashed me a look that said he was doing this for my sake and my sake only, then he shouted for a soldier to help Urdy to the ship.
“If you would, my lady.” The dwarf hesitated. “You offered healing. Would you set my arms here?”
“If you can wait but a little longer, I might find some herbs to numb the pain of the treatment. I mean to search the market.”
“I would rather have it over with.” He paused again, and I understood that he worried about being jostled as he was carried to the ship. “If I had only one broken arm, I would have set it already.”
I believed him. He looked that determined. I shifted forward. “Let us begin.”
Urdy inclined his head with a look of gratitude, then drew a deep breath. “Which side first, my lady?”
“Worst comes first.”
He thought for a moment then flashed a relieved smile. “If I lose consciousness, I shall be spared the pain of the second procedure?”
“Exactly so,” I told him.
Urdy glanced at Batumar. “I like the way the lady thinks.”
The warlord quirked an eyebrow. “See that you do not like too much about her.”
The assassin winked at me, but did so while dipping his head, so the warlord, standing over us, would not see.
I bit back a smile. “Brace yourself.”
“I am always braced for anything, my lady.”
I supposed he was if he could swallow deadly poison.
I pulled my knife from its sheath, then began my work, cutting away the dead skin, while the warlord kept questioning the dwarf, who responded between grunts and gasps. Then came the setting, and then the stitching and the splinting. He swore once, under his breath, but he did not faint.
When I finished, Batumar had one of our soldiers take Urdy to the Shield. But even as the dwarf was carried away, the warlord stayed by my side, never taking his mistrustful gaze from the assassin.
Chapter Eight
(Mutiny)
Some of the soldiers were slow to return to the ships.
The men milled in groups of a dozen here, two dozen there, exchanging meaningful looks and whispering. I did not like the way they avoided my gaze. Batumar and I had been through a mutiny on a pirate ship the first time we crossed the wild ocean. It had not ended well.
Standing at the farthest point of the wharf—well away from the dead and the flies—I could no longer see the warlord. He had escorted me back to the harbor after we had gathered as many herbs as we could from trampled kitchen gardens and also looked through the spilled goods on the ground at the market. The warlord had carried my bundles back for me, then left me to see to our sailors and soldiers as they were returning to their ships.
I handed out herbs for dysentery, set a wrist broken by rough seas, and cleaned cuts received in battle training. Then, my healing work done, my concern turned to the men gathered at a distance, talking intently with each other.
I looked for Lord Karnagh but could not see him, no matter how much I craned my neck. Then I caught sight of Tomron at the other end of the harbor, comin
g from the city, and I sent a soldier to fetch him. Tomron had been with me from the beginnings of our army, brave and steadfast. I watched him as he hurried to me, limping. He was Batumar’s age, built with muscle atop muscle, his nose nearly flat. He had once told me that in his youth, he used to fight for coin in taverns.
He bowed when he reached me. “Lady Tera, I am glad to find you well.”
“And you, Tomron?” I glanced at his leg.
“Barely a sprain.” He flashed a wry smile as he shook his head. “I survived the hardstorms, then injured myself jumping from plank to shore when we reached safe harbor at last.”
“I could make a poultice.”
He declined with thanks, and I understood. He did not wish to appear weak in front of his men, running for help with something so minor. He would tough out the pain. I did not try to convince him otherwise. We had some days left yet before reaching Dahru. His sprain would heal before we had to go to battle.
“One of the Selorm lords found an unspoiled well at the far end of the olive orchard,” he said with a wide smile. “I sent half of our sailors off with the empty water barrels.”
The news cheered my heart. “I wish we found more food.”
His smile widened. “Our Landrian archers killed a herd of wild goats on the steepest cliffs on the north side of the island. The goats fell into the sea from the cliffs, but the tigers fetched them for us, my lady. Selorm battle tigers are good swimmers. The men are field-dressing the goats as we speak. We should see them soon, returning with the meat, enough to feed all of us well for three days, or six with strict rationing.”
I could have embraced him for that news. Then the soldiers loitering ashore caught my attention yet again. “Have the men become dispirited in the crossing?”
“Some. Aye.” Tomron’s expression hardened as he followed my gaze and looked at the largest group of men who had their heads together. “They wonder if we might not be better off staying on the island.”
I absorbed his words in silence.
“The storms and the loss of the other two caravels shook them,” he added.