Healer's Ruin (6 page)

'Yes,' said Chalos..

The corporal laughed heartily and slammed both hands down on the healer's narrow, round shoulders. The healer's knees almost buckled.

'Good! We are all friends, then!'

The hands gripped, firmly.

'Now, I hope you have a strong stomach, Rovann!'

Chalos was led to the rear of the caravan. At the corporal's gesture, one of the half-castes dashed over and opened the back of the vehicle, folding the door down into a ramp. Then he pulled back the tarpaulin and secured it. The smell of excrement and sweat seeped out.

The murmuring was coming from that warm, foetid darkness.

'What's in there?' Chalos asked softly.

'Prisoners!' said the corporal. 'Riln scum! Slime of the northern kingdom!'

'What do you want me to do?'

But he already knew the answer.

'Heal them!' the corporal grinned. 'So we can start our interrogation afresh!'

Perhaps it was the combination of the stench and the man's joviality, or the idea of the horrors inflicted on the poor wretches within the caravan, but Chalos suddenly felt sick. He staggered a few steps and slouched to the ground against the side of the vehicle. He pressed the balls of his hands to his eyes and took a deep breath. The corporal chuckled.

'Come now, little Rovann. Steel yourself.' A small leather flask was thrust under his nose. It reeked of some sweet spirit. Chalos batted it away weakly.

'I'm alright,' he said, clearing his throat and climbing to his feet. 'I just need a moment.'

The corporal straightened and looked about, his gaze lost to the blackness between the trees. Narrowed pale-green eyes, the pupils wide and shining, seemed to find a truth there. 'What a rotten part of the world,' he sighed, his armoured torso heaving up and down. 'The sooner we civilise it, the better.'

Despondency had settled in the healer's heart. He pushed a lock of black hair from his eyes and smoothed his robes with a sharp sniff.

'Let's get on with this.'

'Excellent!' the corporal said, secreting his flask away in the folds of his Baldaw Mesh. 'Let us not waste any more time then!' He waved to one of the half-castes. 'Bring the men out!'

Two of the Tarukadul scurried into the caravan. Pathetic groans sounded amidst much scuffling. When they emerged, they were dragging two tangled lumps that had once been people. Chalos stared, wide-eyed, and fought to control his breathing as the ravaged forms came into view. The fire cast shadows that seemed almost impassable, walls that carved the world of light into abstracted territories framed with blackness.

'Where do you want them?' the corporal asked.

'There is fine,' said Chalos in a low voice.

He walked over to the ramp and stood by one of the bodies. The arms and legs were crooked, suggesting that they had been broken and twisted. The face was a purple pulp. He could hear ragged breathing escaping from the pursed and swollen lips in a soft wheeze. Chalos extended his hands, placing them an inch or so above the ruined limbs, and closed his eyes.

Such were the demons prowling in his imagination, and such was the doom that haunted him, it took Chalos a couple of minutes to find his mirror but eventually he felt himself sink utterly into the world of magic, immersed in the undulating parallax of light and colour that was so familiar, and so welcoming, that he could already feel himself wanting to relinquish forever the claim the real world had on his soul.
If only I could stay here... lose myself to madness and remain... forget all about the Ten Plains King and his war... let them abandon my catatonic body, let it starve here, on these leaves, or drown in the cold river... while my mind wanders forever in this glorious delirium of unearthly power.

But then he felt the world of magic staring back at him, clasping his soul, and there was a sensation of a chain pulling taut. Then he felt energy buzz in his arms, running down to his fingers. When his eyes opened they were blazing with intent.

The corporal gasped in genuine awe and the half-castes gathered round to watch as the limbs of the wounded Riln man began to reshape, the bruises began to flatten and the blood began to dry and flake away. It was miraculous. But Chalos could not share in their amazement. He was now a conduit, his thinking automatic, his mind's eye conjuring images of anatomy, detailed sketches he had studied so many times that they could now be recollected effortlessly in their entirety, floating on a free axis to be applied to whatever physiological terrain was in front of him. Broken bones fused perfectly. Fractures vanished. Gouges of flesh made by knives and clubs were filled in with fresh flesh that simply slid out of the air itself, forming from tiny sparks of light.

It took mere minutes. Chalos stepped back, letting his hands fall to his sides.

'Great Fire-Spine Reborn!' the corporal gasped. 'Such power!'

Clearly the corporal had never seen healing up close. This was not too much of a surprise. Officers had better things to do after a battle than wander amongst the wounded.

Chalos walked around to the other man. Despite the dried blood and accumulated grime, he  recognised the leather armour the Riln soldier was wearing. He had been one of the archers that had assailed them as they stepped from the Doyu Basin into the Dallian Woodland. How many days had passed since then? Chalos was shocked that he could not recall. The days had blended together in the enormous forest.

He stuck his arms out and resumed contact with his mirror. The process was faster this time as Chalos was finding his stride. Something approaching exhilaration spurred him on. The thrill of having pure magical energy course through him, leaving him untouched but affecting what lay beneath his splayed fingers, was incomparable. No pleasure of flesh could compare, nor none of the soul. Nothing born of lust or love could touch the joy of all that power coursing through his body.

With a jerky movement he pulled his hands away. The Riln man sat up with a start, coughing and staring about with wild eyes. One of the half-castes darted forward and smashed him about the head with the butt of his sword and the man slumped back down.

The other man, who had been healed first, was watching in shock, stammering silently. Chalos turned to meet his gaze. The healer's face was expressionless. The real world had not yet regained its edges, its colour. He was still lost to magic.

'Now bring out the girl,' said the corporal.

The two Riln men were dragged from the ramp and into the dark woods. Then a vullok entered the caravan, returning with a pale, naked form. Chalos blinked and swayed slightly on his feet. On some deeper level his consciousness was trying to break through the haze of magic. It failed. Mechanically, he moved over to where the Riln female was deposited and began healing her myriad wounds.

'I am astonished, Rovann,' the corporal said. 'This one was near death. We thought her soul lost to Doggosh.'

Doggosh. Their death-god. A bull-skeleton with a head of worms and maggots. His eyes bleed.
Chalos began to repair the girl's skull. She was younger than him, but muscular. There were tattoos on her body, images of birds and dragons.
Well, Krune, can Doggosh do this? Can he restore health, or merely destroy?

She groaned and rolled onto her side, drawing her knees to her chest. Then her eyes flickered open and found the healer's.

'Well,' she said, sourly. 'Another of your slinger dogs to be fed to the Wielder of Aphazail!'

'Silence, Riln bitch!' the corporal hissed, clouting her with his mailed fist. She fell silent, her eyes fluttering shut.

Chalos came to with an intake of breath. Taking a few steps back from the caravan he stared in horror at the naked girl. The realm of magic now seemed a distant memory and the real world reclaimed him with a vengeance.

'What did she say?' he stammered.

'Eh?' the corporal asked, scratching his chin, still marvelling at the healer's handiwork.

'The girl... what did she say?'

'Never mind about that,' the Krune said, slapping Chalos on the back. The Rovann staggered under the blow. 'You did a fine thing here. Jolm will be pleased with your conduct! Now go, get some sleep. The Tarukadul have work to do. Dirty work, yes, but of a sort their wretched kind enjoy.'

Chalos looked at the girl. She was now unconscious. He hoped she would remain that way. He turned to look towards the trees where he could hear muffled yelps and cries.

'You're torturing them...'

'Of course!' the corporal laughed. 'They did not tell us much the first time around. Maybe this time will be different!' He nodded and grinned at Chalos. 'Thanks to you, the vullok get a second crack at them! Who knows what secrets they hold, eh?'

Then he turned away, shivering in the cold of the night as the corporal watched him in befuddlement.

'Be merciful with the girl,' Chalos said in a low voice. 'Will you do that, please?'

'Oh, she's in good hands, little Rovann!'

'Please,' Chalos said again before slinking away, his shoulders hunched against a cold that was now in his bones. As he left the vullok torture den behind, he heard the corporal call after him, a barely concealed mockery in his voice.

'You get a good night's sleep, Rovann! When the wretched Tarukadul have finished with those Riln scum, you may be asked to repeat your little miracles!'

Chalos bit his lip until it drew blood and marched faster to his bedroll, to Samine, to Mysa, and away from the deep woods where the men he had just put back together were being slowly, methodically and excruciatingly dismantled beneath the pale-green gaze of monsters from another land.

In the early hours the camp was roused to wakefulness by a terrific clamouring from the west. Even the jagged tips of the mountain range were obscured by the canopy of the Dallian Woodland, but the sound still carried. It turned the whole green world around the Black Talon force into a cacophony of squawking, roaring and rasping as the beasts – from the vicious and colourful parrots to the coiled, reticent predators to the darting, spindly insects – began to panic as one.

The tumult raged, shriller than thunder but just as full of force, slavering cracks of invisible whips slashing the air. It sounded as though the mountains themselves were being rent asunder and were about to spill into the forest world, crushing all beneath a torrent of enormous rocks and rolling fields of magma.

Then, as sudden as it started, it ceased.

Chalos heard the Krune marvelling at how brutal the storms were in this northern kingdom, and saw the sherdlings scampering about trying to capture spooked shadamar that had slipped their tethers and fled into the dense trees to the east of the camp. Then his eyes settled on Samine who was sitting up in her bedroll, the material clutched around her, eyes wide. She was staring up at the canopy as if willing the great leaves to part so she could see what travelled in the wake of the storm's fury. But it was fear he saw in her face, not the thrill of curiosity.

What kind of storm strikes terror into the heart of a Dread Spear?
he asked himself.
What sort of storm transfixes the whole of the Black Talon, some of the most feared warriors of the entire Ten Plains?

Something twitched beside him and he looked down to see a black eye blinking up at him. The bird wriggled one wing free from the burlap and stretched it out tentatively, wincing in pain. Its chest rose and fell in a heave.

'Mysa!' Chalos gasped, leaning over the bird, his fingers hovering over the matted black feathers.

'It's not a storm,' the bird said, her voice weak and frail. 'It's him... the deliverer... their hero...'

Chalos scooped the bird up and cradled her against his breast, leaning his head close to her. The crow's heart was more fierce now, like a hot drum. Closing his eyes, the healer fought back tears of relief, so overcome with emotion that he barely heard her words.

'He has come to save them, to save the Riln from slaughter and enslavement. He rides the storm, he shapes the wind, he carves the lightening. He is the Wielder.' She looked up at Chalos, saw a tear skip loose from his eye and roll down his cheek.

'Oh, Mysa... I missed you!' the healer said.

The bird sighed with resignation and nestled against her master.

'There are things I have to tell you,' she said.

A sour wind came in from the far west, hissing between the crags of Moknakyr. That sawtooth line of old black stone marked the outer edge of a huge and towering world of rock that sat like a palanquin on an army of carven granite fists that thrust their burden heavenwards. Within the crevices and cracks of this unearthly place lived an ancient race, grey-skinned and fifty feet tall, wide as they were high and hunched, their eyes glittering like flawed diamonds. Born of a war that had raged before the gods had even earned their names, the Giants of Baldaw had been forging arms and armour out of habit for thousands of years, preparing for the empires to come. For that was their purpose: to churn out weapons, to ensure that there was never peace, to make sure that the world continued to murder itself soul by soul.

Dark creatures they were, heartless and detached.

Baldaw Mesh was the most sought-after armour in the entire world. When formed into plates it could shatter the head of a warhammer. In rivets and links it was as supple as silk. True, the Giants of Baldaw were as likely to eat merchants as they were to trade with them, but the prize of Baldaw Mesh was worth the risk.

Thanks to geography and a little diplomatic luck, the Ten Plains King had come to control a domain that roughly encircled the lair of the Giants. So he sent a flood of merchants into the region, knowing that the enormous fiends would at least strike deals with some of them. But in the end, the Giants had surprised the King. First they had welcomed the horde of merchants, then they had bowed their heads and vowed to serve the King until death.

His death, of course; the Giants were eternal.

The vast creatures doubled their efforts, keen to arm the hordes of the Ten Plains King with the weapons required to set the whole world aflame. As the armies marched, conquering all manner of enemies, the Giants toiled in their crannies, crooning with delight.

They were serving their purpose. And the Ten Plains King? Well, he was serving his. For he, like the Giants of Baldaw, served the oldest god there was.

A god so old, its name was lost. 

A god so vile, its mien was abhorred.

A god so feared, its name was a curse.

Only the Giants remembered it, and worshipped it with every blade and every plate and every link they forged.
Uor, master of the world, Uor, saint of the worm, Uor, extinguisher of inner light, Uor, womb of the weaponsmiths of Baldaw... we will never forget you.

And the Giants toiled, singing their ill songs, praying for the annihilation of the world and the well-earned sleep that would be their last reward.

The attack came just as the Black Talon was ready to resume its slow but steady progress through the Dallian Woodland. Arrows whizzed from between tight-knit trees to the right of the column, bouncing off armour or embedding deep in shadamar flank. The Krune responded in a heartbeat, dividing into two forces, one brandishing crossbows and the other drawing blades and thundering forward. Head-on, the shadamar were a harder target, their distinctive skulls covered in that long, tapering mask of bone, and before long the Riln were forced to abandon their missile weapons and charge out, swords and axes in hand, to face the Krune blade to blade.

The Riln had enjoyed the element of surprise but again they had spent it without success. Now, they were committed against a vastly superior foe. The engagement felt like a training exercise as the Black Talon, hardly breaking a sweat, massacred their attackers. What was left of the Riln force fled shrieking into the secret recesses of the Dallian Woodland. The Krune bellowed after them, waving their wide-bladed, blood-drenched swords.

Samine had been at the fore, slamming waves of fire at the enemy's loosely coherent right flank. As the Riln had begun to break and flee she had sent snaking columns of fire after them, columns that were serpent-headed and slithered between trees, hunting down their targets. Screams were sounding many minutes after the enemy had fled as the conjured serpents latched onto their quarry and burst into flames, charring them to the bone.

Chalos waited despondently for orders but none came. Jolm strode past him with his curious gait, slapping him on the shoulder.

'No work for you today, slinger!' the lieutenant boomed through his nightmarish helm. 'Not a scratch on the men of the Black Talon today! Ha!'

They were on the move again not long after, the force continuing to follow the markers the Gilt Plates had left for them. An arrogant sense of entitlement had settled upon the warriors, as if they had come to believe themselves invincible.

Maybe it's true,
Chalos thought as he rode.
Maybe the enemy has nothing that can hurt us.

Mysa was sleeping again now, regaining her health and strength. Chalos thought back to the crow's murmurings early that morning, when the storm had roused them all from slumber. He had barely been able to make out that she was speaking, let alone decipher the words, so he had simply held her close. But now he had the nagging feeling that her murmurings had held some important fact, something that might have changed everything had she been able to muster enough energy to push the message through.

He ruffled her feathers gently. Whatever news she had for him, whatever baroque words of wisdom, it would have to wait until she was fully recovered.

'She's looking better,' said Samine, riding next to the healer on her proud shadamar. 'The lustre has returned to her wings.'

'I'm so relieved,' Chalos replied. 'I don't know what I'd do without her.'

He turned and looked at the Dread Spear. She still seemed haunted, her features gaunt and her lips pale. For a moment, Chalos wondered about kissing those lips and then he checked himself, pushing the thought from his mind. This was neither the time nor the place. And even if it was... well, could he be sure that her pity for him was founded on something deeper?

In this damned forest, who can be sure of anything?

'And you, Samine,' he said, clearing his throat. 'Are you alright? You seemed upset by the storm.'

She exhaled a shuddering, ragged breath, furrowing her pale brow as she searched for a response.

'Do you know,' she said at last, 'when I was a child, I had a dream that disturbed me greatly. I was in an old grey house, all alone, and I was completing a jigsaw. Piece by piece I created this beautiful picture. Flowers, rivers, fireflies, a large, white moon. Stars that were splendid and glowing. But then, I lifted a strange piece. I did not know what it was, but it troubled me. So I laid it aside, unable to comprehend its significance.' She was staring into the middle distance, her eyes not seeing the sherdlings, the pavarine or the Black Talon lines ahead. 'After a while I forgot about it. By force of will, I had sent it from my mind. But then, I took up another piece, and it contained another strange image, and suddenly it all slid into place. I knew that despite some of the beauty in it, the picture was of something very evil and that if I ever completed it, I would be doomed. I threw the pieces down and ran out of the house. Then I woke up.'

Chalos could see that the dream had scarred her somehow, marked her imagination the way a branding iron marks hide. They rode in silence for a few moments, the noise of their comrades clamouring about them.

'Do you remember what was on the pieces?' he asked.

'Oh, Chalos!' she said, exasperated. 'It was a dream! There was nothing on the pieces. And besides, the picture is not the point. There was wisdom in the vision.'

'What wisdom?'

'That sometimes we see little things and ignore them, thinking them of no significance. But, when we place them all together, they create a truth that rocks us to our very souls.'

He smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

'And you say I'm dark and brooding!'

She looked sideways at him,  making a flat line of her mouth.

'I have something I need to show you,' she said. 'But... I'm not sure. I mean, I think something may be happening. Something terrible, and we're trapped in the midst of it, being carried along by invisible forces over which we have no dominion.' Her eyes now looked down at the reins in her long-fingered hands. 'Do you trust my wisdom, Chalos, or do you think me foolish?'

In truth, the latter, but what could he say? Sitting there, sullen in the saddle of her shadamar, the years seemed to peel from the Dread Spear like petals. She was now a frightened girl in the middle of a war between the two greatest kingdoms in the entire world.

So what does that make me?
Chalos wondered.
She can blast whole regiments from the earth with her fury. I'm just an aide to torturers and deformed warmongers.

'I trust your wisdom,' he said.

The smile this earned was beatific and her eyes sparkled when they met his. She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. Her hands were cool. He blushed, looking away.

'Thank you, Chalos. Thank you for your faith.'

Then tears were in her eyes and she laughed with shame, pulling her hand free and pressing it to her face. She sniffed.

'I'm going to find Sixt. He's been scurrying about. He likes the small animals hereabouts. A voracious one, as you might expect of a Dread Spear's Accomplice!'

And with that, she broke away through the sherdlings and their cattle and out of sight. He watched her go, his hand hanging limply in the air.

Then he noticed there was something in it.

For a moment, he thought it might be a trinket of love, a gift to show how she felt about him. But even before he began to unwrap the leaf, removing first the piece of twine that kept it folded, he knew this was not the case. By the time the leaf was unfurled and he was looking down at a piece of glinting metal, he was cursing the romantic fantasies of his young imagination.

It was an arrowhead, its fluted surface nicked with flakes of dried blood.

Mysa's blood
, he knew, sensing magic in the stains.
This is the arrow that wounded her. Samine has kept it all this time. But why?

He held it up to the light and turned it between his fingers. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Then he saw a line of fine script along one edge. It was part of a verse rendered in Regentine, the language of the unified plains. Unable to control himself, he uttered the words aloud in a confused whisper.

'Fly, shard of the winter's heart...'

He knew the rest of the poem, of course, and as his eyes clouded over and his fist closed around the arrowhead, he recited it word for word, as if the treasury of ancient verse he had pored over as a boy was there, suspended in air before him.

Fly, shard of the winter's heart,

to the foe of the sons of ice.

Your song began where the mountains part

on the anvil of giants, whose arts entice

demons of ancient lore and power

whose names when breathed make heroes cower

to crawl within our wrath's device.

And now it ends, our servant spent

in vicious volley and cold winds rent,

parting the shield, mail and bone

to carry your curse from the land of stone.

This was not an arrow of the Riln. It had been forged far to the south-west, in the dominion of the Ten Plains King, by the giants of legend. A huge hand, vast enough to crush Chalos, shadamar and all, with a modicum of effort, had crafted this tiny sliver of steel and passed it on to a cadre of celebrated slaughterers, who had inscribed them with sacred honorific verse.

Then, somewhere in the Riln kingdom, one of them had launched the arrow at Mysa and with great skill struck the creature down.

With intent gaze, Chalos now opened his fist and beheld again the tiny point.

'Oh-ho!' a jovial voice boomed beside him. 'A Phaeron tip!'

The healer turned to see the corporal alongside him, a cruel sneer on that huge, purple face.

'Never did trust those pixie-folk,' the Krune said. 'So high and mighty. Just because the King himself uses them as his personal guard, letting them ride under the same banner as the Fenc, his most trusted blades.' He twisted in the saddle and spat into the mud. 'Still, they're said to brandish the finest bows and arrows in the world. And they are our allies, after all.'

The Krune painted a pretty picture of the Phaeron, but Chalos knew more about the silver-skinned folk of the City of Spires. They were cold, cruel, jaded and sadistic. They served the Ten Plains King with complete obedience because he allowed them to indulge in their vices.

But why did one of them shoot Mysa? The Phaeron can sense magic. They would have identified her as an Accomplice the second they saw her.

But this was not the only thing that worried Chalos. There was another, more pressing question.

Where had the archer been?

To their rear, somewhere in the Dallian Woodland, the second wave of Black Talon marched under the leadership of lieutenant Agryce, the Tarukaveri so despised by Jolm. Then, on her heels, Duke Elas rode with the rest of the Krune battalion. Far behind were other forces – whole hordes of Rovann, Sanul skullstrippers and the turquoise-clad Ektan with their round-eyed copper masks – and behind them, countless miles distant, was the Ten Plains King himself, escorted by the Fenc and several ranks of Phaeron elites.