The Crow (21 page)

Because Hem was not a native of Turbansk or the Suderain, he did not know most of those he cared for. The men and women he tended were strangers to him, and he learned to steel his mind against their suffering, to do what had to be done to alleviate their hurts. If he had fully acknowledged the horror of everything he saw, he would have collapsed in distress, and been useless; so he turned his mind from that understanding, and concentrated instead on healing spells and salves, bone-setting and pain relief. It had not been so bad in the Room of Lanterns, where none of his patients had been in any danger of their lives; but now that he was helping Oslar again, he saw some terrible things.

On the fifth day a man was brought in on a litter. He had been above the West Gate, where the fighting was fiercest, and he had been hit by one of the evil projectiles that the Black Army was catapulting at the defenders on the walls. When these projectiles hit, they exploded in a deadly hail of spiked iron fragments and a form of magefire – liquid flames that burned into the skin of anyone luckless enough to be in the way The man had taken the main force of the projectile on his right arm and shoulder, now a mess of ragged, burned flesh and barely recognizable as belonging to a human being. Another piece of metal had shattered into his stomach and, besides scores of lacerations over the rest of his body, his right thigh was smashed so badly that splinters of bone stuck out of the skin.

Hem took one look at the man and knew he was doomed; it was amazing that he was still alive. His skin had the gray, dusty hue of one who was already dead, and his breath was harsh and irregular. His face was spattered with blood, and around his mouth the saliva had dried into a white foam flecked with black. At least, Hem thought, he can feel nothing... But then, to the boy's astonishment and distress, the man turned his head and opened his eyes, looking straight at Hem. With a cold shock, which went down to the soles of his feet, Hem recognized Boran the coffee seller.

Hem was already holding the potion of madran, the poppy tincture that stayed pain, and gently he lifted Boran's head to drip it into his mouth. Boran stirred, and his blurred eyes suddenly became very clear and present. Even in his extremity, he tried to smile.

"It's the bird boy, isn't it?" Boran's eyes were fixed intensely on Hem, as if he were the only thing left in the world. Hem nodded.

"Hello, Boran," he whispered, leaning close to the man's face. "Drink this. It will help with the pain." He held the potion to Boran's lips, but he turned his mouth away.

"It will send me to sleep, huh? And I will not wake up." Boran winced, and struggled for breath.

"No, you will wake," said Hem, knowing he was lying. "It will be all right."

"Hey boy, I know the lies of healers." Boran swallowed convulsively, and his body shuddered. "Don't try to fool old Boran. I know I'm done for. I can't feel anything, anyway." He shut his eyes for a moment, and then stared intensely again at Hem, struggling to speak. Hem leaned closer to him. "I don't regret anything, boy," Boran said. "I fought with honor. I'm glad I sent my daughter away. But all the same..."

Boran shut his eyes, and, putting the potion to one side, Hem wiped his forehead and mouth with a damp cloth, pity wringing his heart.

"All the same," said Boran, so quietly Hem could hardly hear what he said, "I would have liked to have seen her again. She is so lovely, my Amira, so lovely. She was lovely when she was born, and she is lovely now."

He lay very still, and Hem wondered for a moment if he were dead. But then Boran's eyes opened again. "If you see Amira, tell her that I love her," he said, in a voice that was suddenly clear and strong. "Tell her I will see her at the Gates, and that I thought of her when... I thought of her..." He trailed into silence, and Hem leaned over him, tears starting in his eyes.

"I'll tell her," he said fervently, taking Boran's hand, the one that was not shattered beyond recognition, in both of his own. "I'll tell her, I promise, I'll tell her." But Boran was already dead, his glazed eyes staring into nothing. A drop of water fell onto the still face, and Hem realized that he was crying.

Hem stayed bowed over Boran's corpse for a long time, until Oslar, who was attending another soldier with serious injuries, noticed him. The old Bard called another healer to take over his task, and came across to Hem and embraced him, saying nothing. Hem burst into convulsive sobs, and Oslar, with a strength that Hem had not suspected he possessed, lifted him up as if he were a small child and carried him next door into a tiny storeroom, where he put him down on a low bench and sat next to him, his arm around his shoulder.

"It was Boran, the coffee seller in the market," said Hem, when he could speak again. "He – he – he just – died."

Oslar nodded, staring at Hem with compassion and concern, and took his hand.

"I think, Hem, that I have been asking too much of you," he said at last. "You have such amazing untaught skill as a healer, and we have such need, I had forgotten that you are still a child."

Hem brushed the tears from his eyes with an impatient hand. "I'll be all right," he said gruffly. "I want to help. I'm not a baby."

"You are a child, Hem." Oslar looked at him soberly. "An unusual child, certainly. But a child, all the same."

"I hate war," said Hem, suddenly and passionately. "I hate all this killing. It doesn't mean anything. It's such a... waste. A terrible, terrible waste..." He felt the tears rising up inside him again, a whole sea of tears, which would still never be enough to express his grief.

"My dear, dear boy," said Oslar. He was too wise to give Hem any false comfort, and just held him close. They sat without speaking for a time. Then Hem remembered where they were and squared his shoulders.

"I'm taking you away from people who need you," he said. He looked up at Oslar, his face still swollen with tears, and the old Bard smiled, a sweet, gentle smile that held more sorrow than joy.

"There is no pain greater for a healer, than to be forced to tend wounds that he cannot heal," he said. "You are right, Hem. It is a terrible, terrible waste." There was a short silence.

"Well, back we go," said Hem.

"I think you should go home," Oslar said. "For a while."

"No," Hem answered. He stood up, and looked into Oslar's face, his whole body stiff with determination. "No, Oslar. You need me here; you said so. I couldn't go home, it would make me feel much worse. Let me stay."

Oslar studied Hem's face intently, as if measuring him, and smiled sadly again. "As you wish, my boy. You are right, I do need your help." He stood also, sighing heavily, and they walked without speaking back to the Chamber of Poppies, and started again on their work.

* * * *

That night, Saliman joined Zelika and Hem for the evening meal. When he entered the room he looked at Hem sharply.

"What happened?" he asked, even before he greeted them. "Something happened today, yes?"

"Oh," said Hem unhappily. "The coffee seller in the market, Boran, he was brought in today, and he died." He didn't meet Saliman's eyes; he didn't feel like talking about it.

Saliman waited for Hem to say more, but when the boy remained silent he did not ask further. Zelika, who had been sitting quietly since they came home, glanced at Hem with a sudden quick sympathy.

They ate in silence. Halfway through their meal, Ire flapped in through the open window, landed heavily on the floor, walked over to Hem's foot, and gently pecked his ankle.

"Oh, go away," said Hem thickly, and kicked out at the bird. Ire flapped away with a caw of alarm and regarded the boy warily from a safe distance, ruffling his feathers.

Saliman leaned forward and clasped Hem's forearm. "Hem," he said.

Hem would not answer or look up.

"Hem, look at me."

Hem unwillingly lifted his eyes to meet Saliman's. What was he going to say? How sorry he was? Of course he was sorry. He saw sights as bad, or worse, every day. Everyone was sorry... But Saliman simply kissed the boy's forehead. Hem felt his lips warm on his skin, and from the kiss a light like a golden lotus opened and slowly flowered in Hem's chilled heart.

"Take care, Hem," said Saliman softly, letting go of his arm. "It is only the darkness in our own hearts that will defeat us, in the end."

Hem nodded wonderingly, feeling a new ease inside him.

He thought he began to understand why Oslar spoke of Saliman with such respect; healing was a matter of the mind as much as of the body. He looked across at Ire, who had turned his back on him and was preening his feathers huffily.
Ire, I'm sorry,
he said.

Ire said the crow equivalent of "Hmmmph."

Come here, you silly bird. I have some torua for you.

Ire could never resist torua, a kind of spiced meat, and he swivelled his head over his shoulder and regarded Hem coldly, his yellow eyes unblinking. Hem held the meat out, and slowly, with exaggerated dignity, Ire stepped over to Hem and took it delicately in his beak. He was clearly very offended.

You're still not talking to me,
said Hem.
Have it your way, then.

You kicked me,
said Ire, and fluffed out his feathers with indignation.

I
said I was sorry.

Ire swallowed the torua and stropped his beak on Hem's sandal, which was the closest Hem was going to get to forgiveness. Hem lifted him onto his lap and scratched his neck, and Ire stretched out his head, his eyes slowly closing in bliss.

"Well, at least someone is happy," said Zelika sharply. "And all the rest of us can just sit around, waiting to be killed." And then she laid her head on her arms and burst into tears.

Hem stared at Zelika, astonished at her outburst. Zelika had certainly been quiet tonight, but he hadn't realized... He put Ire down on the floor again and started up awkwardly, laying his hand on her back to comfort her, but she pushed him away and looked up, her face crumpled in woe.

"I – I'm not afraid of fighting," she said, hiccuping. "I
want
to fight. But this waiting, day after day after day... It's so horrible. I feel as if the whole city is slowly toppling down on top of me."

Saliman had watched the two children, his face unreadable.

"Sieges can go on for months," he said at last. "We have supplies enough to last through winter, if we can hold out."

"I
know." Zelika sat up and pushed her damp hair out of her face. "I
know
that."

"But I do not believe that this siege will last that long," Saliman went on. "We hoped to hold off the Black Army for a couple of months, at least, to give Car Amdridh some breathing space. But Imank has only made two twists of the vice, and already the city trembles. And the Hull holds its major strength in hand. There is a main arrogance in these tactics, I would say: Imank is very sure of victory, and can wait for it, wait for us to crumble under our own weight; and then Imank will move."

"What does that mean?" asked Hem. During his days in the Healing Houses he had lost track of time, and of what was happening in the wider city. It seemed to him that Turbansk had been under siege forever; but when he thought back, he realized it was only about a month since the Black Army had arrived.

"It means that we are like a chicken on a chopping block, waiting for the blow to fall. It may come today, or next week, or not for weeks; but we all know it will come. And you must remember that Imank is not only a captain of soldiers, but also a mighty sorcerer; apart from the Nameless One, this Hull is the most powerful sorcerer in Edil-Amarandh. It is not just Imank's army that saps our will, steals the courage from our hearts and the strength from our arms, and sends evil dreams to plague our rest."

Zelika looked up, interested. "So Imank is magicking the whole city?"

"Something like that."

"Can't we magic back?"

"Of course we're magicking back," said Hem impatiently. He looked at Saliman's face, which had been gaunt with strain for weeks now, with a new understanding. "Isn't that so?"

"Aye," answered Saliman. "We fight on all fronts. And on all fronts, we are losing."

"We should do something else, then," said Zelika. Although her face was still damp with tears, a belligerent light flickered in her eyes. "Not just flap around while Imank the Hull does what it pleases. What have we got to lose?" She smiled. It was her frightening smile, reckless and fearless and more than a little mad, and Hem noticed Saliman staring at her curiously. He had not yet seen this side of her.

"Yes, Zelika, you are right," he said. "We have to wrest back the initiative from Imank. We have news today from Car Amdridh; they are ready, and our people have arrived there. We need not sacrifice ourselves to buy them more time. And so..."

Zelika's eyes sparkled. "And so?"

"We must first win back the sea route." Saliman leaned back. "Our people must be able to escape the city when it falls. For fall it will, and I think sooner rather than later. We must destroy the enemy fleet. But if Imank sees us coming, they will be ready for us; and so we are preparing an assault on the Black Army, to divert attention."

"Outside the gates?" said Hem, his eyes wide. "It's mad; everyone will be slaughtered."

"Yes," said Saliman shortly. "That is very likely. This is why those who fight in this battle will do so of their own free will. We are not Black Sorcerers like Imank, and we do not send our soldiers unwillingly to their certain death."

A terrible fear was building in Hem's chest.

"But you won't do that?" he asked, his voice cracking. "You're not going to – "

"Nay, Hem." Saliman smiled. "I am needed elsewhere. You forget that I am a captain of the harbor forces. I will be sailing with the Turbansk fleet."

This was not much better. Hem bit his lip to stop himself saying anything.

"I'll go," said Zelika. "I'll volunteer."

"You will not." Saliman looked at her expressionlessly. "You will remain with Hem. I have other plans for you."

"I will go. They will not turn me away..."