Savants of Humanity (The Scholar's Legacy Book 2)

by Joshua Buller

  “Walk with me,” Uraj said, his voice losing some of its edge. He beckoned with his hand and started walking down the road he had come from. Hawke was right behind him, and I fell in half a step behind Hawke.

  “Luke and Winter are okay,” Uraj said as we walked. I felt the breath whoosh out of me in relief. I wasn't sure how I would have taken it if things were otherwise.

  Still, looking around I could see that things were far from okay. Most of the town had been burned, and what few buildings hadn't been gutted by fire were streaked with cinder and scorch marks, blackened streaks scarring the perfectly white walls.

  Even worse were the red smears that painted the cobblestone roads, too many to count. The few white robed figures we came across rushed from building to building, only taking time to carefully tread around those gruesome markers.

  All this death and carnage. It looked like an army had massacred the town.

  “Who did this?” Hawke said in a hoarse growl.

  Uraj pointed ahead of us, where the church loomed. My heart sank at the sight of the building; it hadn't been spared whatever befell Liturgy. Most of the walls had caved in from fire damage, the paint blackened and peeling off what still stood. Shards of stained glass were scattered around it, the only remnants of those dazzling window murals I had seen just a fortnight ago. The interior was exposed to the outside and had been cleaned out completely, everything inside undoubtedly destroyed.

  A small group of robed citizens were inside, making pious gestures over a number of lumpy white tarps that filled most of the floor space. I knew all too well what was covered by those tarps. I was surprised to see that some of the figures praying for the dead inside wore black robes, the white robes for once not seeming to care.

  But there was something else just ahead of us as we drew close to the church. A lone black tarp was stretched out in the central square, weighed down with stones to cover some lumpy object in the middle. Just the shape of whatever was under there made my insides squirm.

  “What's this?” Hawke asked. We stopped at the edge of the black tarp, and Uraj eyed it like it might jump up and bite him.

  “Ricard Valentine von Bojangles the Third,” said Uraj, “or what's left of him.”

  Hawke's eyes widened, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Bojangles? He did all this?”

  “We think so,” said Uraj.

  “What do you mean, you think so? Isn't this his body?” said Hawke. Uraj shuddered and swallowed hard.

  “We…aren't one hundred percent sure. The description from the survivors fits, but the body is…well,” Uraj nodded towards the tarp, “unrecognizable.”

  Confused, Hawke peeled up an end of the tarp and stuck his head under. I couldn't see around him to catch a glimpse, but after a moment Hawke made a choking noise and dropped the cover back down. His face had gone deathly pale, and he looked like he was trying his best not to vomit.

  “Micasa, don't look,” he urged me, gagging a few more times as he tried to compose himself. “Uraj, you're telling me that was a person?”

  Uraj shrugged. “The body parts and organs confirm it was definitely human. Whatever did that, though, could very well have not been.”

  “I've seen a lot of horrible things in my life, but that…” Hawke blanched once more. I had been wondering just what was under there, but the more they talked, the more I decided to fight my usual curiosity for once.

  “So how do you know it's Bojangles for sure?” I asked Uraj, trying to give Hawke some time to recover.

  Uraj reached into a satchel at his side and pulled something out, holding it between his fingers. It looked to just be a rock at first glance, but there was something familiar about that muddy color, that glassy sheen.

  It was a nullstone.

  “They found this on the body,” Uraj said. He turned it over again and again in his hand. “Everything else they found on the body they burned, but they were unable to destroy this. It's the genuine article. This, along with the descriptions I've been given, means it was Bojangles without a doubt.”

  I looked around at the wreckage of Liturgy. The damage looked far beyond the power of a single man. Then again, I knew that Uraj or Hawke would be able to do the same, if they got it in their mind to. A person with enough essence and the right power - or wrong one - was as dangerous as a whole army, That made me wonder something else.

  “How did they stop him then?” I asked.

  “I don't know,” said Uraj, “but I think Luke and Winter do.”

  Hawke finally managed to find his tongue. “I figured you would have asked them already,” he said.

  “I did when I got here two days ago,” Uraj assured him. “Neither wanted to talk to me, though. I don't think they like me very much.” He wasn't quite able to keep the hurt from his voice.

  “Let me talk to them,” I said. More than anything else, I wanted to make sure they really were okay.

  Uraj nodded in agreement and beckoned us to follow. He led us through the ruined streets, more than once forced to make a detour when wreckage blocked the path. Twice more I saw a group of white tarps covering innumerable bodies, and I shuddered. If there truly was an Almighty, it didn't seem to have been watching his believers very closely.

  We cut through an alley, and Uraj led us to the Kamsons' front door. Their house had held up better than most of the other buildings, by the virtue of being one of the few that hadn't been burned to the ground. Other than a few scorch marks, it looked little worse for wear.

  Uraj knocked on the door, stepping back and urging me to step forward. I guessed he hadn't been warmly treated during his last visit. I walked up to the door just as it creaked open.

  A familiar pair of brown almond eyes peeked out, squinting suspiciously, but when they landed on me, the door flew open. Winter stood there, wide eyed, still wearing a white robe and holding her hands over her rounded belly protectively. I breathed a sigh of relief. I had feared that, even if Winter was safe, something might have happened with the baby.

  “Micky!” she cried, rushing forward to hug me. I returned the embrace and let her drag me back inside the house. Uraj and Hawke followed right behind us and closed the door. Winter shot Uraj a dirty look, but didn't say anything.

  “I'm sorry to barge in uninvited, but we need to talk,” Uraj apologized. I stepped lightly out of Winter's arms and quickly locked the door tight with a tap of my hand, just to be sure of our privacy.

  Winter ignored Uraj, instead turning to Hawke. “I'm glad you were able to make it. Luke's in real bad shape. You have to help!”

  I took a good look at Winter, noticing a few details I had missed before. Blood stained the sleeves of her robe, and her eyes were shot with red and puffy. I had never seen her so distraught in all the time I'd known her.

  Hawke seemed taken aback by her plea. “I don't know a lot about medicine, but I'll do whatever I can. He might not be so happy for my help, though.”

  Winter made a hissing noise and waved her hand. “I'll bind and gag him if that's what it takes, or Micky can lock him up. It doesn't matter.” She turned and stormed to the back of the house. Hawke looked at me, shrugged, and followed reluctantly. I looked to Uraj, but he had taken a place by the door.

  “Looks like I'm still not wanted here,” he said, trying to feign indifference. “Go on, I'll keep things held down here.” He smirked, and I gave him my best sympathetic smile before leaving to join Hawke and Winter.

  The Kamsons' bedroom had been tidied like the rest of the house, the usual papers and books moved elsewhere and the smoky odor I used to associate with the Kamsons only lingering faintly. The only documents to be found were heaped into a pile on a polished oaken desk on the far side of the room to the right of the entrance. Between the door and desk was a king-sized bed, heavily stuffed and layered with plush blue quilts.

  In the bed lay a mummy.

  At least, that's what it looked like. Luke had been wrapped in so many bandages I could barely make out his shape. Blake
's bandages I thought a bit overdone; these were grotesquely excessive. I could just make out a nose, pair of eyes, and mouth peeking out from the depths of the gauze around his head. His eyes were closed, and his breath sounded labored.

  Winter sat at the edge of the bed next to him, her face tight with worry. Hawke had circled to the other side of the bed, near the desk, and was looking at Luke disapprovingly.

  “We'll need to get these bandages off and see the full extent of the damage,” he said. Winter nodded and pulled back the covers covering his torso, revealing the rest of the patchwork job. Hawke clicked his tongue and started working on finding a place to unravel him. With Winter's help and a pair of scissors, we peeled the bandages off layer by layer.

  “'Ey,” croaked a raspy voice. I looked up to see Luke's eyes fluttering open. It looked like that alone took him considerable effort. “Who asked you for help?” He looked at Hawke with what was probably supposed to be loathing.

  Hawke didn't bother looking up. “Winter did. What kind of injuries do you have?”

  Luke grumbled, refusing to reply. Winter was quick to answer, however. “A couple deep cuts across the chest. Stab wounds to both legs. Bruised ribs at the least, possibly cracked.” She rattled off each one in monotone, like reading down a list. Her eyes seemed far away.

  “Has he gotten stitches for the lacerations yet?” asked Hawke. Winter shook her head a little. “We'll need some needle and gut for that, then. Can you find us some, Winter?”

  She nodded, a bit of life returning to her eyes. “I'll go snag some from the medical supplies in town. Be right back.” She bent forward and placed a feather-light kiss on Luke's forehead, stood, and strode from the room in one smooth motion. I'd never seen such fluidity from anyone, let alone a woman heavy with child.

  Hawke had worked non-stop to cut away the bandages and reached a layer that was crusted with blood and pus. Together, we both carefully peeled them away from his wounds. Luke sucked air through his teeth, his face tight with pain.

  Finally, we pulled off enough gauze to see what we were dealing with. The cuts on his chest weren't as bad as I was dreading; three long, raw red gaps had been slashed across his front, but they didn't look to go deep enough to damage his organs. They were bleeding, but they hadn't putrefied yet. It was better than I'd hoped.

  The stab wounds in his legs were a different story. They had punched all the way through his thighs, right above each knee. They bled much more than the cuts, to the point where Hawke quickly reapplied the bandages to stem the flow. With the covers removed, I could see the dark splotches that already stained most of the bed.

  “Micasa, we need to disinfect the wounds,” said Hawke. He sounded normal, but his face betrayed his concern. We might have come too late.

  I nodded and turned to Luke. “Do you have any wine in the house?” I asked him.

  “Funny time to want a drink, Micasa,” Luke said. His speech was slurring; not a great sign.

  “This isn't a time for jokes,” I snapped. That seemed to sober him a bit.

  “Yeah, bottom cupboard on the far right.”

  I rushed to their small open kitchen and flung the cabinets open. A few dark bottles rested in an alcove, and I snatched the one that looked darkest. Uraj raised a questioning eyebrow as I rushed back. I let my silence tell him how bad the situation was.

  In my hurry, I almost ran right into Winter. She was sitting where she'd been before, passing a spool of stitching gut and a thin silver needle to Hawke. I hadn't even heard her return.

  Hawke took the stitching supplies in one hand and reached toward me with the other. “Micasa, the wine.”

  I handed him the bottle, and he snatched it, staring hard at its mouth. I suddenly realized I had forgotten to remove the cork in my haste, but before I could say anything, the cork ripped free as if on its own. Then, still focusing on the bottle, Hawke's hand began to glow the sullen orange of angry coals.

  Soon, the wine started bubbling over the lip, accompanied by a healthy dose of steam. The burning liquid trickled down the side and onto Hawke's hand, but he didn't so much as flinch. He looked over Luke's wounds, his jaw tightening.

  “Winter, you might want to hold him down,” he said. “This is going to hurt a lot. Micasa, help her.”

  Winter looked like she might argue, but settled for glowering at nothing in particular. I hurried to take hold of one of Luke's arms as she took the other.

  “Hold up, what are you—” Luke started to protest. He didn't have time to finish the thought, as Hawke tipped the boiling contents of the bottle onto his cuts, and I found myself fighting to keep the writer from ripping himself free as he thrashed in agony. He was much stronger than I expected, but Winter and I managed to keep him still enough.

  Even as Luke screamed, the hot wine dribbling down his sides and staining the bed, Hawke quickly moved to his legs and gave them the same treatment. His feet kicked out in spasms, but Hawke leaned over and pinned them down himself. Winter and I had to put our whole weight into keeping him from ripping free. The wine flowed through his wounds, dripping out the other side a brighter crimson than it had going in.

  After a few moments, Luke stopped thrashing. His eyes had rolled back into his head, their lids half-closed. He had passed out.

  Winter let out a shuddering breath. “Please don't make me do that again.”

  “Hopefully, there won't be another need to,” said Hawke.

  He handed me a towel, and I worked on cleaning the runoff from Luke while he got to work on the stitches. For a man who claimed to know little about medicine, his sutures were nearly immaculate. I had studied a bit of first aid under the Medicine Man, and probably could have done the stitching too, but Hawke's work was comparable to a practiced surgeon. After just about a quarter hour, all of Luke's injuries had been neatly sewn up. It was a bit of fortune that he had passed out. I didn't relish the thought of trying to hold him still through the whole thing.

  “Will he be okay?” Winter asked, her eyes never leaving Luke.

  “I'm not sure.” Hawke sighed. “I did the best I could to disinfect the wounds, but I'm not nearly experienced enough to tell if infection has already set in. The tools aren't ideal, either. If possible, we need to get him to a proper doctor. Are there any in town?”

  Winter shook her head as she carefully tousled a loose strand of hair from Luke's face. He had always been a rather pale man, but his face had taken on an unnerving milky tinge.

  “The closest Liturgy had was a priest who knew some basic first aid,” she said. “He died in the attack, though. Otherwise I would have gone to him right away.” She choked a little. “I didn't realize how stupid it was to live in a town without a proper doctor until I needed one.”

  “Winter, about the attack…” Hawke started saying. She cut him off with a shake of her head.

  “Not right now. I don't want to think about it.” Winter pulled her legs up into the bed and lay next to her husband, oblivious to the soggy patches and crusty dark stains. She gently closed his eyes the rest of the way with a brush of her fingertips. Luke's breath came slow and steady. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully. I hoped he was sleeping peacefully.

  “You two can stay the night, if you'd like,” said Winter. She sounded more exhausted than she had just minutes ago.

  “I think we'd be happy to take you up on that offer,” said Hawke, looking to me.

  “Of course,” I agreed. Winter smiled a bit, the first time since we'd arrived.

  “Good,” she murmured. “There's some spare blankets in the closet. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you're hungry.” Her eyes started to flutter shut. We knew our cue to leave and slunk away as quietly as we could manage.

  Uraj was still standing by the door, arms crossed, as we eased the bedroom door shut. His eyes met ours, and he gave us a pointed look.

  “It was worse than I thought,” said Hawke, “but I think he'll at least make it through the night.”

  Uraj cursed
under his breath. “This is my fault.”

  “How so?” Hawke asked, confused.

  “Silvia was the strongest defense this town had. If she had been here, she might have been able to stop Bojangles before it came to all this.” He grimaced. “In trying to protect her, I got all those people killed. I might have gotten Luke killed.”

  “There's still a chance he'll pull through. We really need to get him a doctor, though,” said Hawke.

  Uraj looked surprised that Hawke was trying to console him. His expression grew determined.

  “I'll send out some messages, see if I can't get a doctor out here with all speed.”

  I still expected Hawke to make some biting retort, but instead he just nodded. “Thanks, Uraj. Luck to you.”

  Uraj's eyes widened, just a bit. I shared his surprise. This was the most civil discussion I had seen the two have up to now. The Forge returned the nod, and only waited around long enough for me to release my lock. Then he was out the door and into the darkening twilight.

  With the door closed and locked again, the quiet of the little house pressed down around us. I couldn't think of anything to say, so I chose to busy myself with making up some beds for us with the blankets Winter had mentioned. Hawke dug through the pantries, making a show of trying to find something to eat, but ultimately didn't touch anything. That was fine by me. My stomach was too twisted to keep anything down.

  Hawke offered me the couch, choosing to plant himself against the wall near their bedroom door. I curled up and pulled the blankets to my chin. They were soft and clean, though there was the faintest scent of smoke still clinging to them.

  I thought of Winter and Luke, laying in puddles of blood-soaked wine just the next room over, and felt a twinge of guilt mesh with the fear knotting inside me. As I lay awake, wondering if Luke would make it through the night, the silence of the house grew heavier. That only made it easier to hear the faint whisper that came from the back room every so often. It was the barest breath of a sob.

  Chapter 13: Deeds Over Words