Alliance for Antrim

by Thomas Lombard

  Chapter 12

  Orris

  This cannot be happening. This did not happen! Nevin felt like he had just emerged from some kind of dream state; it was unlike any experience he had ever had. Blinking and shaking his head to gather his senses, he quickly surveyed the surroundings. He was inside a small structure he had never seen before. When he rose to look around, he bumped his head on a ceiling joist.

  The two men stared at each other as they stood in a one-room building with a table and two chairs in the center. By the size of the table and chairs, and with the ceiling barely six feet in height, this structure was obviously not meant to accommodate persons of Nevin’s size. Another bump to his head on a ceiling joist dissuaded Nevin from the thought he was dreaming.

  For the time being, Nevin decided to suspend judgment about this extraordinary experience. He had enough presence of mind to realize that he was not hallucinating. The sights, sounds and smells were real. Again, he looked around the dimly lit room and noticed a set of shelves against one wall, cluttered with several oversize books and written articles, some standing upright and others laid on their sides. An old manuscript lay on the table, its several pages disheveled. Daylight illuminated the room through glass windows in each of the four walls; the window glass was not exactly clear, but the room was bright. Centered in the wall adjacent to the shelves was a closed door.

  A bit of movement drew Nevin’s attention to a boy’s face looking in through one of the windows. With mouth agape at the sudden appearance of the two men, one of whom was the tallest man he had ever seen, the boy shook himself to action and made for the door. Cautiously opening it and peering in, he said, “Is that you, Master Anson? Oh, bless us now that you have returned. And you have brought a tall warrior to fight for us! Or is he a handsome troll meant to kill us?”

  The boy was very small by standards familiar to Nevin, less than four feet tall but with facial features that made him appear not as a child but a teen-ager. The youth’s open-mouth stare changed to a look of relief when Anson stepped forth with a hearty greeting.

  “Jon, my lad! It is good to see you! This is Sir Nevin and though he is as big as a troll, I assure you he is here to help us. What is the condition of the village, my boy? Are there Gilsum Guardsmen about?”

  “No, Master Anson. The soldiers all left the morning after they attacked. Fourteen in all were killed, Guardsmen and Huxley people. We think they were after you. They left when you were nowhere to be found. Some of the older children have taken turns waiting here, hoping that this might be the place of your return. I must to take you to a hiding place where three of our good King’s Armsmen are recovering. Come! We must go!” Eager to carry out his responsibility, Jon continued to eye Nevin with a mixture of curiosity and caution. The boy jumped back when Nevin suddenly started shaking his head and sputtering.

  “Wait a minute before we go anywhere!” Nevin held up his hand and spoke forcefully, his voice booming in the small room. “I need to get a grip. Give me a minute to figure this out.” He eased into one of the chairs, which creaked in protest. Propping both elbows on the table, massaging his fingertips at his temples, he slowly shook his head from side to side and muttered, “What the hell just happened here?”

  Anson put a hand on the tall man’s shoulder and lightly patted it. With somewhat less deference and more familiarity than he had shown previously, he said, “We have succeeded, my friend. We are in Huxley and this hut is what we use for a library. You emitted such a burst of mindpower, Sir Nevin!I am surprised we are whole. With such power I was afraid we might end up somewhere different, but we are at the place we desired and we must make haste to leave to a better place of safety.” Turning to the boy, who was staring again with mouth agape. “Jon! Can you guide us without walking through the village?”

  “Yes, Master Anson. We can go around back of this…uh, library, and stay hidden among the trees all the way.”

  “Good. Now, Sir Nevin! We must hurry. Jon, you take the lead and we will follow you. Go!”

  With haste, the three of them left. Nevin and Anson followed as Jon ran around to the south side of the building. They made for the line of conifers that marked the edge of thick woodland. Jon moved quickly, outpacing the older men, although there was no visible path. After a few minutes, the boy stopped and came back to his two companions. He whispered a request for them not to follow in a line behind him. Nevin was puzzled by the request, but Anson explained this was necessary so they would not create a worn path that would give away their route to undesirable pursuers.

  Pursuers?Nevin wondered what degree of danger they were facing.

  After about fifteen minutes, they came to a creek bed with a lively flowing stream. They followed the bank for several minutes until they came to a place where the stream had worn a sizable gully that traversed fifteen to twenty feet at the deepest parts. Jon stopped and looked around, checking that they were alone, apparently following some well-drilled instructions to preserve the secrecy of their destination.

  Perspiring heavily by this time and out of breath, Nevin gasped, “How much farther?” To his surprise came an answer from behind him.

  “If you are a foe to Antrim, big man, you’ll go no further than the spot under your feet.”

  Nevin spun around to see three men move out from behind heavy tree cover; two were armed with bows and a third waved a small sword. All three men were similar to Anson in height and wore the same type of heavy poplin trousers and linen chemise; their clothes were quite dirty. The man who spoke recognized Anson and lowered his weapon, ordering the other men to do the same. The leader walked over to Anson and greeted the mage. A second man spoke, “Have you brought us only one giant then, Anson? Can this one fight to match his beastly size?”

  “Mind your tongue, Shank!” Anson replied. “This man has come from a far place to help us.”

  The third man called out, “What do we call him, The Tall Man from somewhere?”

  “He is called Sir Nevin…the Reasoner. He is not a fighter but a sage, a man of greater knowledge than any you or I have known.”

  Shank replied with half a laugh, “It would be better if he was Sir Nevin the Belligerent. It is not reasoning we need, but skill with a sword or a bow.”

  “You are being insolent. That is no way to greet a man who might someday save your hind end from the prick of a Gilsum sword!” said the leader, who introduced himself as a farmer named Cresten. “You are welcome to Huxley, Sir Nevin. Do not judge us all by the rudeness of these two.”

  Cresten motioned for Anson to step off to the side for a private discussion. After several gestures by Anson that seemed to convey verbal reassurances, Cresten returned to face Nevin. “Sir Nevin. Anson vouches for you and assures us that you will not betray our hiding place. He says that you might offer some help in tending one of our wounded Armsmen. Please come with us.”

  Nevin nodded and replied, “Well, I’m no doctor, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Cresten took the lead and the troupe walked a short distance until they approached another man standing astride a cave-like opening in a high side of the creek bed. At first, the guard fingered his sword apprehensively as Cresten, Anson and Nevin entered the opening in single file. When Nevin passed and looked down at the sword with a somewhat bewildered stare, the guard’s eyes opened wide and he quickly removed the sword from sight.

  Nevin and the others walked a short distance into the narrow sloping corridor, like a mine entrance, with hard dirt floors and walls. Nevin could hear the muffled sounds of conversation ahead. The corridor soon opened into a large underground grotto that had two tables and several chairs, some of which were occupied. Several oil lamps provided flickering light, plus some daylight filtered in through some holes ventilating the earthen ceiling. There were several people in the room, all frozen still as they saw the new arrivals.

  In addition to Cresten, Nevin counted four men and two women, all about Anson’s height but of varying ages. Three men we
re clothed in uniforms colored royal blue, all heavily soiled, and each man looked as if he was recovering from a skirmish. Nevin became a little uncomfortable as all eyes remained on him. One uniformed man reached for a sword lying on a nearby table.

  Anson raised his hands to draw everyone’s attention and the people responded immediately. Anson spoke in a forthright tone, quite different from the more humble mien he had shown before their deliverance. “Friends, I have returned from a long journey. With me is a special man, known in his land as Nevin the Reasoner, who has traveled at his own peril to aid me in a plan to beseech King Lucan to end the war with Gilsum. Sir Nevin is an honored man with vast knowledge and skills borne of scholarship and high learning. He is not a soldier nor trained in the use of weapons, but we need his help for our plan to succeed.”

  One of the blue uniformed men stood up and raised a sword in his right hand. Nevin took a step back in fear of assault, almost falling over a chair, and literally jumped when the man slapped the flat side of the blade on the table with a loud bang. The man spoke with a tone of authority. “As Captain of the King Lucan’s detachment in Huxley, I welcome this man, Sir Nevin the Reasoner, and am grateful for any help he can provide our King.”

  This ritual seemed to make everyone in the room relax; there was an immediate rise in chatter as everyone wanted to know more about Nevin and their plan to meet with King Lucan. While Nevin responded to questions from all sides, Anson walked over to the soldier who had spoken, greeting him with a firm handshake that marked them as friends. “Well met, Orris! Thank you for the welcome. I am relieved at your good health. The last time I saw you I feared you had met your end.”

  Orris was a man with rough facial features, mid-thirties in age, and large dark eyes that gave him a fierce look when he concentrated his attention. As he shook Anson’s hand, the look changed to one that reflected friendship but beleaguered with travail. “I nearly did meet my end, my friend. My damnable horse went into a panic from that foul air. He threw me and then fell, unable to get up. I took a good blow to the head when I hit the ground and went out like a snuffed candle. I woke here, along with two of my comrades who survived. It is fortunate for all of us that Meire’s Guardsmen left soon after they stormed us. I believe they were not bent on more mischief than simply looking for something or someone. It seems likely they were seeking you, since they had probably heard of your skills in magery. I told you many times it was an awful risk for you to live so openly, Anson.”

  “It looks like you suffered more than a bump on the bonce. How do you come by that wound?” Anson pointed to a bandage on Orris’ left arm.

  “I got a good slice from a Gilsum sword early in the fray. I did not lose too much blood, but I am afraid the cut festers and fever has roused. This is not just a bruise or a scrape from a training session, my friend. I need your help if I am going to add any more years to my military career.”

  Anson motioned for Orris to sit. After examining the wound, Anson motioned Nevin to a far corner of the room for a private discussion.

  Nevin was enjoying the barrage of questions about his homeland and what “fighting skills” he possessed. Despite their preoccupation with his size, he found the Antrim people engaging and likable. He gracefully withdrew from their attention as Anson pulled him aside.

  “Sir Nevin,” Anson whispered. “The wound on Orris’ arm concerns me deeply. I do not think he has lost a lot of blood, but this type of cut from black metal weapons often ends either the career or the life of a soldier. I have seen more men die from light-looking wounds than actually succumb in battle—only it takes some days longer to suffer the agony. If the festering becomes green, the man must lose the infected limb. Men like Orris, who are too proud or too afraid to suffer the loss of the limb, usually die. I can tell that Orris already fears this fate, though he would not willingly show it. My knowledge of herb lore offers little help. If it is not already too late for Orris, do you know anything we can do to save this good man?”

  Nevin said he would take a look and do what he could. He and the mage went over to Orris, where Nevin gently raised the soldier’s injured arm and grimaced as he removed the crude cloth dressing to examine the wound. After studying the three-inch slice on the distal side of the left bicep, he motioned for Anson to come closer. “I want both of you to know that I am not a physician, but I can see some things wrong with the way this gash has been treated. It was not adequately cleaned and it was bandaged with this blue cloth. Also, it is a jagged cut and it will not heal properly unless it is stitched.”

  Puzzled by the tall man’s criticism, Orris said, “It is not uncommon to sew wounds, I know, but what is wrong with using a cloth bandage? This is how such wounds are commonly covered.”

  “It’s not the way the wound was bandaged, it is the colored cloth. The blue dye in the cloth is probably toxic, which accelerates the infection.” Seeing that Orris looked confused, Nevin continued, “The dye that colors the cloth is probably poisonous once it gets soaked into your blood stream. It would probably affect you gradually over several days by making you feel listless and weak. That type of condition, by that I mean blood poisoning, makes it harder for your body to fight the infection that certainly will come. It’s no wonder you lose a lot of men from this type of injury.”

  Nevin had Orris’ full attention. While the veteran soldier did not understand all of the words, he had seen many men deteriorate in the way Nevin described. From the certainty of Nevin’s demeanor, Orris felt sure that this man—the first so-called “sage” he had ever met—knew what he was talking about. The soldier steeled himself and responded directly to the tall stranger, hopeful he knew a way to save his life or limb. He asked, “What is needed, Sir Nevin?I have seen many men die from black metal cuts half as serious as this. Few survive as whole men, and fewer still ever return to duty. Just tell us what we need to do and it will be done.”

  Nevin felt quite uncomfortable at this request, which did not disguise the soldier’s high expectations. While Nevin felt he understood biology and anatomy well enough, he was inexperienced at any medical practice other than first aid. Also, it was certain that there was no kit, corner pharmacy, hospital emergency room or any other modern conveniences available. Despite the limitations, this man needed more help than he had gotten so far.

  Nevin settled himself. “All right, Orris. I’ll do what I can, but I make no promises. First, we need some clean, white cloth. Linen cloth will work if you don’t have cotton, but it must be white and clean. Boil it if necessary, and tear the cloth into strips about this wide,” he said, holding his thumb and forefinger about two inches apart. “And make them about as long as a man’s height. We should need about ten of these strips; I’ll use one now and save the rest for new dressings.”

  By that time, everyone had gathered around to observe the examination of Orris’ injury. Cresten and one of the women immediately left the grotto and could be heard scurrying on the ground overhead. They returned in an hour with the cloth strips, still warm and damp from boiling. In the meantime, Nevin had moved Orris outside where he could clean the wound without spilling water on the room’s earthen floor. Everyone followed them, eager to see what this tall sage planned to do.

  Nevin proceeded to tear the sleeve completely off the injured left arm, ignoring the soldier’s weak protest at spoiling his uniform. Next, Nevin sponged the wound with clean water heated over one of the oil lamps. After the wound was thoroughly clean and the cloth strips rung dry, Nevin reminded Orris and Anson that the gash should be stitched to promote its healing. He explained that the skin along the edges of the cut would develop necrosis, which would provide a “dandy nest for bacteria to breed infection.” Anson had anticipated this need and already arranged for the sewing utensils and strong thread.

  Nevin was chary about stitching the skin flaps of Orris’ wound, but Anson said there was another experienced at stitching small cuts who was willing to do it. Thankful at being spared the task, Nevin directed th
e volunteer, a young woman who was evidently highly regarded for her tailoring skills, in boiling the thread and sterilizing the needle. Before allowing her to begin, he asked for some “strong spirits” to use as an antiseptic. “Beer doesn’t have enough alcohol; we need something stronger. Get the most potent spirits you have.”

  The last request immediately caught Orris’ attention, who replied with a good-natured grin, “Ay, Sir Nevin, wherever soldiers are gathered there will be ‘strong spirits,’ as you call it. The only thing I want to know, Sir, is whether I get to apply an extra helping of the spirits to the inside of this injured body, if you get my meaning.”Someone produced a flagon, the contents of which went half on the wound and half to heal “the inside of the injured body.” Nevin politely refused to share the brew.

  The seamstress was deft in sewing the cut and applied several stitches in no time at all. Nevin was sure the grain alcohol they used was effective as both anesthetic and antiseptic, since Orris barely flinched with the operation. After the stitching, Nevin prepared to dress the arm but surprised everyone with a most unusual request, “We need some sort of antibiotic before we put on a dressing.”

  Seeing that no one understood, Nevin realized they could not provide what he requested. He pursed his lips, trying to think of some alternative. Maybe no one else there understood, but he knew that sterile dressing alone would not counter the infection already started. How could he approach this scientifically? What served as antibiotic treatment before there were corner drug stores? His face brightened. “I know what we can use. Anson, can somebody here get us some moldy bread? The moldier the better. No, wait!Moldy cheese would be better yet.”Everyone present stopped what they were doing to mull this strange request. Bread and cheese for a wound?

  Anson dutifully arranged for someone to return to the village to get the strange commodities. While they waited, Anson and Orris exchanged puzzled looks until Anson finally blurted out, “Sir Nevin. Please do not think me insolent, but it is confusing to us that you cleaned Orris’ wound so thoroughly yet you intend to cover it with moldy bread or cheese. Can you explain?”

  “I suppose it must seem weird to you, but there is a sound basis for this treatment. A long time ago in my country, we had a lot of fighting similar to what is going on here. We called it our Civil War, and thousands of men died days after they were wounded. These deaths were caused by uncontrolled infection, like your soldiers get from sword lacerations. We had so many wounded men that the doctors ran out of cloth bandages and started using bread to dress wounds. They discovered, after a time, that the wounds treated with the moldiest bread recovered at a much better rate than those with cloth bandages. When scientists examined the bread, they discovered tiny substances in the mold that limit the infection, and that’s what we hope will happen for Orris. As I recall, the mold in cheese and fruit is even more potent.” Looks of disbelief and skepticism appeared on faces all around.

  Orris and Anson shrugged their shoulders, the soldier giving a wince of pain. They knew they had little recourse but to trust Nevin, even if he wanted to do something as strange as treating a sword wound with moldy cheese.

  A man arrived with several pieces of cheese and bread wrapped in a large cloth. Nevin sorted through them, selecting the most heavily encrusted. He proceeded to dress Orris’ wound, applying the moldy side facing the cut and covering all with clean cloth.

  While Nevin attended to Orris, Anson arranged for a meal. It was nearly dusk and preparations had to be made for the newcomers to sleep in the underground room. Back in the grotto, there were blankets and straw for bedding with designated sleeping places. Orris, still feeling a little spirited from the antiseptic, assigned rotating guard duty to four of the men. Nevin advised Orris not to take guard duty himself, but to get as much sleep as he could. Orris resisted so that he would do his share, until rebuked by Anson for not following Nevin’s orders. It was becoming apparent that confidence was rising among those gathered. Not one to waste time with small talk, Orris asked what everyone wondered, “Anson, what is this plan you and Sir Nevin have to beseech King Lucan?”

  “Yes, I’d like to know more about that myself,” Nevin added.

  Anson explained his idea about meeting with Lucan to convince him that this war would have no winner, no matter who prevailed in the last battle. He described what he had learned about vaporous gas that preceded the Gilsum attack. He suspected that a man named Stryker, who had traversed from Nevin’s far off land, was advising Gilsum’s King Meire. If true, Meire had gained an invincible edge from the knowledge Stryker brought. A little later, after making certain that everyone else was asleep, Anson showed Orris the war pictures from the Hempstead College library.

  Nevin’s initial reaction was irritation that Anson would deface library materials, but he caught himself. That reaction just did not make sense any longer. He knew Anson well enough by this time to understand he was a gentle, reverent man who would not have taken these pictures unless it was important. If Anson’s fears were true, as was now supported by convincing physical evidence, then it was time to help. Nevin drew a deep breath at this bit of introspection, reluctantly letting go of his disbelief of all the recent mystifying events. His intellectual objectivity was losing out to the sounds, smells, and sights of this experience.

  Orris’ reaction to the pictures added more incentive for Nevin to join the cause. The grizzled Guardsman seemed awed by the dimension of devastation depicted in the pictures, even for a veteran soldier who had seen and probably caused much death himself. Orris turned very serious at the sights and quietly bade Anson and Nevin good night. Upon standing to leave the table, Orris looked again at the pictures and then at Anson. He quietly agreed that Antrim’s future grew more uncertain by the day. He had seen signs everywhere that collapse was dangerously close at hand. The population of towns all over Antrim had diminished to their lowest numbers in memory. Grain fields were poorly managed. Farm stock was often untended and found wandering, a sign of neglect never seen before. Small groups of bandits had begun to appear. King Lucan needed to know this, so it was good that Anson had a plan to meet with him.

  “Despite the uncertainty of the future,” Orris said. “I am glad to spend this night with friends: One old friend who returned for his love of the land and its people, and one new friend who comes with high knowledge to help those so sorely in need.”

  The passion underlying these words persisted in Nevin’s thoughts as he struggled to sleep. He was thoroughly exhausted from the day’s ordeal, but still excited at experiencing something seemingly impossible. The newborn “sage”—and a High Sage at that, he smirked—wondered what these people would expect from him. He would certainly try to help them if he could, but what could a scholar offer, here, in a place where there was no apparent technology and the town library had three dozen books. Tossing and turning restlessly, he tried applying a relaxation technique to help him get to sleep but had trouble remembering how to do it.