Winter's King

by Bryce O'Connor

  It took four of them, including Kisser, to drag i’Syul off the cart and carry him across the small yard, his wings dragging over the ground and snow. The curses started when they had to maneuver their way through the door of the physician’s home, huffing and straining under the weight of the Monster. Sven led them first right, around the door, then down a narrow hallway that opened into what once had been some sort of living space, now converted into a passing excuse for doctor’s quarters. The desk against one wall was buried under mountains of books and piled papers, similar articles spilling onto the floor and over every surface of the room. Wooden and metal models of limbs and torsos were everywhere, along with carefully painted depictions of the internal workings of the human body, organs, and bones. A well-fed fire rippled in a wide, soot-stained hearth along the back wall, filling the room with blissful warmth. In the middle of the floor was a hip-high, wide timber table, nicked and stained in places with what Kisser would have guessed was wine were it not for the assortment of wicked looking instruments laid out on a cloth atop a wooden gurney nearby.

  It was towards this table that the physician led them, indicating its cleared surface as he moved out of their way.

  “Up here,” he told them. “Gentle now. Man looks well on his way already without you lot banging him around.”

  “Ain’t no man at all,” Albur said as he huffed, heaving i’Syul up onto the table as indicated.

  “As you say, as you say,” Sven responded dismissively, not really listening. Instead he moved forward again, shooing Veret away unceremoniously before leaning over the atherian.

  “Fever,” he mumbled to himself as he worked, his mottled hands poking and fumbling over every inch of the Monster. “Wasn’t joking about the ‘on his way’ part, it seems. Where’d all this blood come from?” He paused to examine the sticky redness that spread along the lizard’s left side, causing the furs of his wide mantle to cling to the leather straps and exposed skin. “Wounded, obviously. But where?”

  “Back,” Garth barked. He’d come in with Les behind the other four as they carried the atherian in, and now leaned in the doorframe of the room. “Got a look at it when we was strippin’ ‘im of his sword.”

  “Back?” The old man blinked at Garth, then down at his patient again. “He’ll need to be flipped. I need to see it.”

  Albur and Veret glanced at Garth for confirmation. When he nodded, they moved forward to roll the atherian up on his right side. The mantle rolled with him, requiring the physician to retrieve one of his instruments from the gurney. It was a slim silver blade, almost too narrow to withstand any kind of pressure, but it made quick work of the furs and shirt beneath, and when he was done the old man tossed the ruined cloak and cloth aside.

  “Aaahh…” he breathed, leaning forward to get a closer look. Kisser for one, did the opposite, pulling away from the table and covering his nose with a hand.

  He’d smelled rot before, on the wasted food of wealthier men he had scavenged as a kid. He’d even known infection, when a former slum rat friend of his had lost his hand to a dog, and passed a week later as the sickness spread like black snakes through his blood. The sweet, sour stink had been the same, then.

  The scent of a creeping, ugly death.

  “Urgh,” Veret muttered, turning his head away from the putrid gash along the left side of the atherian’s spine and looking suddenly queasy. “Bastard’s done for, Garth. Someone run ‘im through. Take his head off and let’s be done with it.”

  “Not just yet.”

  All eyes turned to the physician, who was still inspecting the wound carefully, his nose so close to the rotten hole of flesh that Kisser couldn’t understand how he could stand it. After a moment, though, he stood straight and looked around at Garth.

  “It won’t be easy, but we can still save him. I’ve got medicines and herbs that will stop the infection, and a friend of mine is a truly gifted surgeon. She’ll be able to cut away whatever is already lost, as well as pack the wound. I’d say he’d need at least a week or two of rest after, but given your gentleman’s apparent hurry I could forgive your departure so long as you give me a day to make sure the wound stays clean.”

  “You daft, ol’ man?” Veret growled at him, letting the atherian roll onto his back again. “Ain’t no savin’ this one. Rot’s got in his lungs, I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh, you are, are you?” Sven asked him sarcastically. “Then tell me, friend, where you studied your medicine. I’d be delighted to know.”

  That shut the sellsword up. Veret retreated into silent sulkiness, walking away from the table to prop himself up against the edge of the desk. The physician smirked in silent triumph, then turned back to Garth.

  “What will it be?”

  Everyone turned to look at the bandleader, awaiting his answer. Garth seemed uncertain, taking in the atherian with pallid eyes, contemplating the unconscious man’s form.

  “Do it, if ya’ can,” he said after a moment. “Ain’t gonna pay ya’ until it’s done, though. No use wastin’ coin on a dead man. And you’ll do it on yer own. Don’t want more people knowing about this than have to, so yer friend can stay pretty and quiet somewhere else.”

  “Without her, your prize is done for,” the physician said with narrowed eyes, lifting a hand to wave it about at the room. “Look at this place, this dump. You think I earned all this with skilled hands and a steady grasp? I’m used to people saying they’ll pay after, ‘cause they know half the time they’ll walk out worse than when they came in. Either you let me bring her in, or the only thing of your beast you’ll be carrying south”—he tapped i’Syul’s muscled shoulder with a finger—“will be bones.”

  Again, Garth hesitated. Kisser wanted to roll his eyes, just as—he was pleased to see—Veret seemed inclined to do. Still, they both stayed quiet.

  “…How do I know yer woman will keep ‘er trap shut?” Garth finally asked. “How do I know she won’t make a play ‘erself, eh? Ten thousand crowns is a lot of money, old man.”

  “It is,” the physician agreed, “but that’s the last thing she’s like to do, trust me. She’ll play by your rules. She has reasons enough not to draw any unwanted attention, especially from the Southern lords.”

  Garth frowned.

  Then he stepped away from the doorframe, indicating the hall behind him with a jerk of his head. “Fetch her,” he said. “And be quick about it. Albur will be going with you, just to make sure neither of you get any ideas of your own.”

  If the woman noticed the lecherous stares she was getting from the men that surrounded her, she certainly pretended not to. Not surprising, either, as she was more than likely used to such attentions by now. When Sven had returned, Albur in tow, Kisser had found himself having a hard time keeping his eyes off the newcomer with them.

  He had his doubts the woman was anything more than modestly pretty where she came from, but up in the North her eccentricities were rare, almost exotic. Her skin had clearly paled over time, but it was still a good deal darker than that of any of the men around her, save the atherian. Her hair was pitch too, almost inky black, and it made her stand out in a world of fair and brown-haired women. Her eyes, though, were what really set the woman apart. Blue and green and hazel were colors of the North, colors of the earth and sky and snow and mountains. They could be captivating in their own right, of course, but they were also common.

  The grey of the surgeon’s, though, was rare. This far north, nosing with the Dehn, such eyes were sparingly seen. They were things of the border towns and trade roads, and occasionally of Azbar.

  They were the grey of old mortar and mudbrick, the grey of colored cloth bleached by the scorching god of the desert.

  They were the grey of a true Southerner.

  “Where in the Lifegiver’s name did the old man find this one?” Kisser had muttered under his breath to Mihk, who’d been standing next to him when the group had returned. The older man hadn’t said anything in reply, though he rarely did. This
time, however, his silence was more likely the symptom of distraction than any sullen temperament.

  She was wearing the typical garbs of a Northerner, all leather wrappings and fur, and Kisser found his head suddenly filled with twirling images of dancing women in silks and light clothes, all bare legs and tanned skin. He felt an odd disappointment—and suspected he wasn’t the only one—that the woman seemed to have acclimated well to the Northern cold, but the knowledge that more of her alluring figure was hidden under the ugly pelts and layers needed to weather the freeze was almost disheartening.

  “Her Stars,” the surgeon had said, a leather bag swinging from one hand as she paused in the doorway, entering the room behind Albur and the old physician, eyes on the atherian shivering on the table. “Raz i’Syul.”

  For a long moment she’d stared at the man in what was almost terrified reverence. Then her eyes lifted to meet Sven’s, who had moved to stand over the Monster, and the physician gave her a small nod.

  “I won’t be able to do much more than mix a draft of pomatus and trelec seed to help with the pain and infection, at least for now,” he said, then looked over his shoulder at Veret. “Flip him over, if you please. She’ll need to see the wound.”

  Veret mumbled something under his breath, but did as requested. With Albur’s help, he rolled i’Syul over onto his stomach, the man’s steel armor grating against itself as he crashed down onto the table again.

  The surgeon moved forward then, apparently as uncaring of the infected stench as Sven was. Placing her bag on the floor by the table, she leaned over the Monster. When she saw the pus-lined hole left by some blade or another, she frowned.

  “Forceps, Sven,” she said, reaching up to peel away some of what was left the of the atherian’s shirt from around the wound. “And boiling water, as soon as you can.”

  The old man nodded, picking up an odd, bent rod with two flattened ends that looked to pinch together with the right amount of pressure. Handing it to the woman, he hurried off, disappearing down another hall at the back of the room. There was a clatter of metal, and after a minute the man reappeared with a heavy pot.

  “Here,” he said, shoving the pot into Les’ hands. “Fill this with snow—clean snow---and bring it back. Be careful not to dump it all over my floor, mind you.”

  Les looked annoyed, but glanced at Garth, who gestured to the front door with another tilt of his head. Sighing, Les turned and headed outside.

  “Can ya’ save him?” Garth asked, turning his attention back on the woman. For a moment she didn’t say anything, using the “forceps”—as she’d called them—to tug at the edges of the wound, peering at its fleshy walls.

  “Likely, yes,” she said finally. “But not with the tools I have here. Sven has the means to suture and pack the wound, but not what I need to clean it and cut away the rotten flesh.”

  Garth’s eyes narrowed, and he pushed himself off the doorframe.

  “What’s in the bag, then, if ya’ didn’t bring yer tools?” he asked her accusingly, pointing at the leather sack at her feet.

  In response the woman put down the forceps and bent to pick up the bag. Setting it on the table, she popped the clasp, reaching in to pull out a thick roll of clean gauze.

  “Wrappings and extra medicines,” she said, using her other hand to pull out a couple of vials with some sort of powdered herb in them. “I misunderstood. I was under the impression Sven was looking for help with a fresher wound. My tools are in my offices at my home, though. I can leave and be back within a half-hour, if I can borrow a horse.”

  “Ha!” Garth laughed. “Like I would let ya’ take one of ours on yer own. Veret will go with you.” He nodded in Veret’s direction, and the man leapt to at once, clearly eager to get out of the physician’s house.

  The surgeon looked over his shoulder at him, and Kisser got the distinct impression she was almost sizing the man up.

  “Fine,” she said, just as Les came lumbering down the hall, the pot the old man had given him filled to the brim with clean slush. “In the meantime you can have your men assist Sven in setting the water to boil, as well as cutting the rest of the clothes from Arro’s back. I want everything ready to start when I return.”

  Garth scowled, but shrugged. “If it’s what ya’ need.” Then he looked at Veret. “Get her pretty little arse on a horse. And make sure she don’t lame one of our animals, or it’s on you.”

  Veret nodded, squeezing past Les and his load and making for the main door.

  As she made to pass into the hall behind him, though, Garth grabbed the woman by the arm and jerked her closer.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told the doctor,” he breathed into her ear. “You even think of making a play for the bounty yerself, and I’ll drag ya’ back South right along with i’Syul’s head in a basket. I get the feeling that’s not something ya’ want, is it girly?”

  For the first time, Kisser caught a glimpse of what might have been fear on what he could see of the woman’s face, and he thought Garth had hit his mark.

  Then it was gone, and she pulled her arm roughly from his grasp.

  “No, it’s not,” she snapped. “And if you were brighter than a snuffed candle you’d figure that’s the same reason I’ve got no interest in this damn bounty you’re drooling over. I’ll save your prize, you’ll pay Sven and I, and you’ll get the hell out of our city.”

  “Ooh,” Garth said, following her with his eyes as she stalked passed. “I like a girl with fire. What’s yer name, woman? After our little trip southward I might have to come back and pay ya’ a visit. I’ll be a rich man, ya’ know…”

  At the door, the woman paused. Then she turned and gave the man a venomous smile.

  “You would be surprised how certain I am that that will never happen, sellsword,” she said with all the false sweetness the world had to offer. “But if it makes you feel better, it’s Evalyn, though most just call me Eva.”

  IV

  “No man, I feel certain, has brushed the other side of the veil as often as I, in my years. At first I had only myself to count on when it came to avoiding that door that separates life and death, our world from the next. As the years passed, though, that changed, until I one day realized there would always be one hand or another behind me, ready to pull me back from the brink.”

  —RAZ I’SYUL ARRO

  “REMIND ME to sign you up for Priest Enot’s manners lessons when we get back to the Citadel,” Carro muttered sidelong to Talo. “One would think each and every one of these people had personally offended you, at the rate you’re ignoring them.”

  Talo started, and looked up from his plate. He’d let his mind wander off again, this time preoccupied with thoughts and theories regarding Gûlraht Baoill.

  They were sitting side by side at the misshapen oak table that took up much of the temple’s small dining hall. The other seats were occupied by a combination of the Priests, Priestesses, and acolytes that called Ystréd home, while yet others were scurrying about around them, squeezing past chairs and each other as they went about their morning chores. Across from them sat High Priestess Tana Atler, a portly young woman who’d come into the position somewhat abruptly the year before, when her former Priest-Mentor had abdicated the mantle to her and left to travel the Northern lands as a member of the wandering faith. Still, it was Talo’s understanding that she adapted well to the responsibilities, despite her youth, and the thought pleased him.

  It was something of a matter of pride, seeing the younger generation he had helped Eret Ta’hir sculpt so aptly shoulder the responsibilities their elders no longer could.

  Atler was currently involved in a conversation with an older acolyte sitting beside her, but even as he watched them Talo saw her glance up at him curiously, almost worryingly. Up and down the table, in fact, many of the temple’s residents were casting underhanded looks in his direction, some kindly concerned like Atler’s, others openly annoyed.

  Clearly his unconscious absence ha
d not gone unnoticed.

  “Sorry,” he said quietly to Carro, picking up a piece of bread from his plate—now cold and rapidly hardening—and requesting the berry spread at his lover’s opposite elbow with a gesture. “The Kayle just doesn’t seem to want to leave me.”

  “More like you don’t seem to want to leave him,” Carro said with a snort, sliding the spread over.

  “A distinct possibility.” Talo nodded, dipping a knife into the preserves and lathering his bread.

  “Did you sleep well, you two?”

  Talo looked up. Atler was watching him with a sort of amused twinkle in her eye.

  “Very,” Talo said with a small smile, careful not to drip berry on the table as he broke the bread into two halves. “Though Carro here would have me believe it’s not the first time you’ve asked that.”

  Atler returned the smile. “It’s possible it’s the second or third attempt. I don’t take offense though. Usually our residents find breakfast more interesting than I, so the fact that you didn’t seem keen on either made me feel a little better about myself.”

  “I apologize.” Talo frowned, still holding both halves of the bread in each hand. “I’ve had a bit more on my mind than usual, of late.”

  “More than most of us, I’m sure,” Atler nodded as Talo took a bite. “This business with the tribes… I can’t say I’m looking forward to the fallout.”

  “Our hope is to avoid getting to that point,” Carro said, letting Talo chew. “A council of Cyurgi’ Di’s most venerated faithful have been assessing the situation for several weeks now. One of them has had significant experience with the Sigûrth clan directly, in fact, and is advising all action taken thus far.”

  “Syrah Brahnt,” Atler said with a nod. “We certainly know of her. A pity the treaties she managed to establish didn’t hold in the end. Your daughter, I assume?” She looked back at Talo.

  Talo swallowed and chuckled. “Something like that. Syrah was given to the faith fairly young, and eventually came under my tutelage. She was in Stullens when Drangstek was razed, twenty or so years ago.”