Raising Evil

by Liam Reese

Why did he cut me more?

  Her original wound had been quite small, just a puckered hole where the arrow had gone in. Now she had a massive gash in her leg, and it was bleeding. Pus and scabs had formed, breaking when she moved and leaking out over her skin, to be followed by her blood.

  “Going somewhere?” Doctor Slevward asked, making her jump.

  “Out!” Khaleen barked. “I’m leaving. Now,” she added.

  “Fine!” He barked back at her. “Let’s hope you bleed to death before infection takes you!”

  Shock chilled Khaleen’s chest. No one ever spoke to her like that, not even royalty, and she would be damned if this jumped-up Waravalian quack took such a tone with her. “Now you listen to me,” she began, turning to look at him.

  “No you listen to me, General,” he shouted, silencing her. “When they dragged you in here, you were that close to dying.” He held his hand up, thumb and finger a fraction of an inch apart.

  “Your femoral artery had been cut, and you were squirting blood everywhere. I had to hack you open and grab the artery in my hands, holding it closed with one hand while I tried to sew it shut with the other. I got the arrow out and repaired the muscle there, cleaned and sealed the wound and even bandaged it myself.

  “Six hours it took! Six hours of being covered in your ungrateful blood, and you can’t do me the courtesy of staying in bed until I say it’s safe?” He glared at her, and she felt a flash of shame. “So go if you want, but don’t expect me to patch you up again. I’ll let you die.”

  Khaleen gasped at his outright threat, angered at his attitude and words. “How dare you, Sir? I am the Commanding General of the Armies of Gazluth, second only to King Besmir himself, and you will give me the respect I am due.”

  “Respect is earned, Madam,” Slevward said. “And so far, you’ve done precious little to earn mine. Now are you going to return to bed so I can dress that wound, or are you leaving, to bleed out as soon as you exit the hospital?”

  Khaleen opened her mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out and she clamped her jaw shut again. She lifted her right leg with both hands and swung herself back into the bed, trying to cover her exposed privates as she did so.

  Slevward moved off to get some fresh bandages and a large earthenware jar with something inside, returning to her bedside and throwing the covers back, exposing her again.

  Khaleen felt her cheeks redden with embarrassment as his eyes roved over her thigh, examining the wound.

  “Looks as if it’s actually doing very well,” he said, lifting his eyes to her for a second.

  Khaleen felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen, like a pair of dark sapphires in his face. How she had not noticed them before was beyond her, but now that she had seen them, she wanted nothing more than to stare into them for hours.

  “Did you really sew the artery back together?” she asked as his deft fingers spread the contents of the jar on her leg painlessly.

  “This helps stop infection, and with the pain,” he said gently. “And yes, I did.”

  “How is that possible?” she asked in awe. “I’ve seen arteries cut before, and people always die from it.”

  “Yes, well, I look at it this way,” Slevward muttered. “If one of my patients is about to die anyway, what harm can it do for me to try and sew them up?”

  He started wrapping a fresh length of bandage around her upper thigh, starting in the crease of her groin. “You were lucky. It was only nicked a little, if that arrowhead had cut it all the way through, you’d never have even made it here to me.”

  Slevward carried on with his bandaging as she watched, flicking her gaze between his beautiful eyes and his deft fingers as he worked.

  “I’m sorry,” Khaleen said, surprising herself. “I’m not a good patient, and I’m no good to my men in here.”

  “You’re no good to them dead, either, Khaleen,” Slevward said in a gentle voice. “Give me two days,” he added. “Just two days, and I’ll escort you out of here myself.”

  Khaleen nodded, surprised at the warm feeling that had bubbled up inside her at his use of her name. It sounded exotic in his mouth, exciting and strange rather than boring and ordinary.

  Get a grip, woman. “As you instruct, Doctor,” she said.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll see about having your bed moved nearer the entrance. Fresh air is a good thing for anyone, and don’t forget you can send for anyone you like. Bring them here, general, rather than going to them.”

  He smiled, his dark blue eyes fixing on hers. Khaleen’s abdomen turned to water, and she swallowed.

  Merdon woke on the third day out from Ninse to see his grandfather talking to Lyeeta. The pair sat beside the small fire with their heads together conspiratorially, and Merdon wondered what the old man was telling her.

  His grandfather had been slowly coming back to his astute and intelligent self on this ride, clean living and hard riding purging the drug from his system. Merdon knew it was still hard for the king. He shivered during warm weather, sweat breaking across his brow as he huddled beneath a cloak.

  Merdon sometimes caught him staring off into the distance as well, eyes glazed over, as if recalling how good he’d felt when in the grip of Pariah. While he never looked guilty when he had been caught in this reverie, Merdon sensed that was the case, and tried not to let his own gaze hover on his grandfather at such times.

  He watched as Lyeeta giggled at something the king said and rolled from his blankets into the morning, stretching as he padded across to them. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “I was just telling Lyeeta here about the time you got stuck in the palace chimney, looking for treasure,” his grandfather said, bringing another laugh from the young guard.

  “And who was it who told me it was up there?” Merdon asked archly.

  “Do you know, I can’t remember,” Besmir answered with a grin. The king heaved himself up and turned to walk into the woods a little way, his hands dropping to the front of his trousers.

  “I must see an old friend,” he said, making them chuckle.

  Merdon smiled, thanking all the Gods his grandfather was returning to his old self. “Was he really telling you about the chimney incident?” Merdon asked Lyeeta.

  “No.” She shook her head, sending waves of light flashing through her hair. “The king was asking if I thought he still looked like the image of him on the coins in circulation.” She grinned. “But I want to hear more about this incident.”

  Merdon’s face twisted as he recalled his grandfather telling him one of the old kings of Gazluth had hidden some treasure up there, but no one could reach it. “I’m sure it was some test of my intelligence,” he admitted. “One I failed miserably.”

  “Failed? Why?” Lyeeta asked.

  “Firstly, because he knew I was gullible enough to believe anything he told me back then, and secondly, because he built that palace. No other Gazluthian king ever saw it.”

  Lyeeta covered her mouth to hold her laugh in.

  “So there I was, stuck up a chimney in my grandfather’s study until they got workmen in to bash the stonework apart to get me out!” Merdon explained.

  A thought tickled at the back of his brain and he turned, frowning into the forest. “How long does it take to drain a bladder?” he asked.

  “A few minutes at most, why?”

  “Because grandfather’s been gone for too long,” Merdon said, panic grabbing at his chest. “Grandfather!” he called into the woods.

  “Majesty!” Lyeeta shouted as they both ran toward where they’d last seen him.

  Merdon followed the footsteps and trail his grandfather had left, reaching a tree that was wet at the base. Frantically, he looked about for any sign of the Gazluthian king, or anyone else who might have been there, but could not see anything at all.

  “Majesty!” Lyeeta cried as she reached the same spot.

  “It’s no good,” Merdon said miserably. “He’s gone
.”

  “What do you mean he’s gone? Gone where?”

  “Gone to stop Emmerlin,” Merdon said. “Alone. I can almost guarantee it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “When he asked you if he still looked like the coins, what did you say?” Merdon asked her, a sick certainty in his chest.

  “I said no,” Lyeeta said. “Because he didn’t.”

  “He can move freely about the country, then,” Merdon said. “We must be near the Gazluthian border, and he’s ditched us.”

  “But he can’t get far on foot, can he?” Lyeeta asked. “I mean, the horses are back there…” She trailed off as Merdon stared at her with wide eyes.

  The prince dashed back towards the camp, dodging trees and ducking beneath branches as he went, Lyeeta running along behind him. When they reached the camp they had spent the night in, he swore. One of the horses had been taken, but the saddle straps and tack had been cut on the other two, making it impossible to ride them without extensive and time-consuming repairs.

  Smeared in mud on the flank of Merdon’s mare was a single word: Sorry.

  Besmir linked with the mind of his horse as he charged through the rolling grasslands of west Gazluth. Ninse was but a memory now, his thoughts all centered on finding his daughter and trying to bring her around. He had to apologize, make her see he knew he was wrong for trying to coerce her into complying with his thoughts.

  Yet he knew she was dangerous, knew she had killed people for fun, and could not, would not, risk his grandson and the young guard, Lyeeta, while he repaired his own mistakes.

  Guilt made his chest heavy as he thought about Merdon, but his decision had been for the best. Now, the young lad would have no choice but to return to Morantine and safety. Slowly. Until he found somewhere to have the saddles repaired.

  Besmir forced Merdon from his thoughts and concentrated on navigating the sea of green grass before him. Riding on a roughly southeast path, he switched off his swirling thoughts and tried to enjoy the ride. He could feel the wind in his human hair and the horse’s mane, reveling in the feel of the cool air and smell of fresh grass broken by his mount’s hooves.

  In the distance, his eyes picked out a massive herd of cattle being driven north by a few horseback riders. Besmir pulled his thoughts out of the horse, who gave a little lurch, probably surprised at being ridden at speed, and made for the riders.

  Drawing near, he saw they were barely more than boys, all riding their horses bareback, and all staring at him warily. Besmir realized he must look a little intimidating, bearing down on them with a large bow slung over his shoulder and a large sword at his side.

  Without benefit of a mirror in the past month, he had no real idea what he looked like, but imagined his beard was a mess and his face was thinner than it had been in years after his stay in the cell. The king slowed his horse to a trot and approached the boys a little more calmly, smiling and making sure his hands stayed away from his weapons.

  “Ho!” he called. “How fares the drive?”

  “Well enough, sir!” the eldest lad called back.

  Besmir assumed these were brothers, or two brothers and a cousin, the younger generation often sent on these long rides not only to keep the cattle safe, but to keep them out from under the feet of the adults.

  “No sign of wolves to the northwest,” Besmir added as he drew close.

  “Good news, thank you, Sir,” the eldest replied.

  “How far to Port Vartula?” Besmir asked.

  “The port?” one of the others asked in surprise. “Days and days off.”

  Besmir’s heart sank and he stared at the ground for a second, knowing that every moment he spent catching up with Emmerlin gave her an advantage in time to prepare her forces against him.

  “Don’t listen to Gren,” the eldest said. “It’s two days’ hard ride, maybe less if you stop at our farm and buy your oats.”

  Besmir grinned before laughing out loud. “Just for that sales pitch, I’ll do just that,” he said, asking for directions and whom to speak with.

  Two more hours brought him to the farm, a well-kept group of buildings in the middle of acres of cultivated fields. Men and women waved as he passed before going back to pulling weeds or tilling soil, and Besmir felt a lump rise in his throat at seeing his people happy and prosperous.

  This was what he had striven for for years, to be able to ride out into the country and not see any poverty or hardship among the common citizens. He trotted into the farmyard and dismounted, waiting for someone to emerge.

  It was not too long before a dark-haired head appeared in one of the doorways, eyeing him as he stood beside his horse.

  “Good day,” he called. “A group of young men driving cattle north advised me to come here to get my horse some oats.”

  A diminutive woman, not much taller than the average Ninsian, emerged from the main house and hobbled over to squint at him. Around forty, she had obviously poor eyesight, and Besmir gave thanks for that little blessing.

  “They did, did they?” she asked in a cracked voice.

  “Yes,” Besmir said. “So … can I have some?”

  “This way,” she said, stomping off toward a large barn without waiting to see if he followed.

  Besmir shook his head and started after her, smiling as he did so. She ducked inside a small door, returning a minute later with a canvas feed bag which she handed to him.

  “One copper for the feed, leave the bag inside the door when you’re done,” she said, squinting at his face again. “What’s your name?”

  “Dariaan,” Besmir said, quickly using his grandfather’s name.

  “Hm,” she grunted. “You look familiar, you from round here?”

  “No, I came from the northwest, right on the Ninse border,” Besmir lied easily.

  “Oh,” she said as if that was enough explanation for her. “Kettle’s on the boil if you want some tea while yer mount eats,” she added. “Weapons have to stay out here, though.”

  Besmir followed her into the small house, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior. Three smaller children stared up at his intrusion, eyes wide as they examined him in the way only young children can.

  “Have a seat,” the woman said. “If you can find one clean, that is.”

  She shooed one of the staring children off a chair and handed her a wooden toy that the girl immediately started to gnaw, still staring at him, drool falling down the front of her knitted dress.

  Besmir sat on the cleared chair and surveyed the simple house as the woman busied herself pouring and brewing a massive pot of tea.

  “Noon meal be served soon,” she said. “Join us if ye feel like.”

  Besmir had sat on the throne of Gazluth for forty years, and in that time had received priceless gifts, and witnessed processions in his honor that rivaled any the world had seen. Yet this simple offering of a meal and tea with her family meant more to him than any of those other gifts ever had.

  He turned and watched the young girl as she gnawed at the wooden animal, her eyes glued to his face.

  “Gah,” she said abruptly, thrusting the animal towards him.

  “Cow,” Besmir said.

  “Gah!” she repeated, seriously.

  Besmir smiled, remembering his own children and grandchildren at the same age. I can’t risk another civil war.

  That thought brought him up sharply as he considered it. Gazluth and her people had suffered so many times during his rein. Wars with evil kings, wars with Gods, and other countries if it came down to it this time. If Emmerlin raised an army against him, he would surrender, and let her do as she would with his life.

  But what if she turns out like Tiernon?

  Besmir did not know how to answer that and looked to the woman, who was staring at him again. “You sure you not from around these parts?” she asked again. “You certainly look familiar.”

  Besmir shook his head and rose, reaching into the pouch at his belt for a number
of coins. “This is for the oats,” he said, handing her a copper coin. “These are for the cowherds when they come back.”

  He gave over three of the valuable tokens featuring the White Stag, his royal insignia. “And this is for you to spend on the little ones,” he added, giving her another token.

  The woman gaped at the small fortune in her hand, more than she might see in a good year with plentiful harvest. Her eyes rolled up to meet his, and she gasped as the full impact of who he was hit her. She tried to kneel, but Besmir stopped her.

  “There’s no need, good woman,” he said. “Especially in your own home. It’s me who should kneel to you. You have shown kindness to a stranger, and reminded me of the family values I wanted for this country.”

  “M-majesty,” she started. “I-I-I...”

  Besmir smiled and turned to leave. “Gah!” the child said again.

  “Gah,” Besmir agreed, stepping outside.

  He crossed back to the barn, where his horse had finished the oats. As instructed, he put the bag back inside, hanging it on a wooden peg and closing the door behind him.

  The King of Gazluth swung his leg over the saddle and settled in the leather, turning the horse for the road. He turned in the saddle as he left, waving to the stunned woman as the rest of the farm workers started to arrive on the back of a wagon, throwing curious glances in his direction.

  Khaleen studied the reports from her scouts, quizzing them over and over from her bed in the hospital. She had become increasingly annoyed at the lack of activity on the part on the Waravalian king, and was almost ready to leap up and take control of the situation. Her promise to the blue-eyed doctor, however, kept her in place.

  One more day.

  Her heartbeat sped up during the afternoon, when several soldiers arrived at the hospital, wounded and bleeding. It’s started! They’ve attacked!

  Desperate for any news, she called the men over. “What happened? Report!”

  Sheepishly, and with no little embarrassment, one of the men explained how a game of chance had gotten out of hand, resulting in a fight between them. Khaleen listened to his explanation before slumping back into her pillow, sickened by their actions.