Unfortunately, Kheled had left all of his syringes at home. He’d been afraid that the delicate instruments’ glass would break while traveling, and he’d assumed burn victims wouldn’t require any treatments that used needles. Didn’t he look like a fool now?
His clinic was over one hundred miles away. Kheled had never tried to summon an item from such a distance, but if he wanted to save this kid, he couldn’t see that he had another option. He extended his left hand, closed his eyes, and willed the syringe to rest there. He was convinced that he’d brought one, single syringe from its resting place in the medicine cabinet, across the miles on horseback, to where he knelt on the outskirts of a dead human settlement.
The energy drain nearly knocked him out, and Kheled swayed in place. He shakily jammed the needle into the young man’s right side and pulled back on the plunger, relieving the pressure on his patient’s lung. Never regaining consciousness, the youth took a deep breath and respiration resumed.
Kheled flopped, leaving the needle in place for the moment. Gods above, he hated magic.
For several long minutes, he leaned back on his palms and took the time to simply breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, and repeat.
“Please, sir, how badly is Raimie hurt?” the father’s cloying voice interrupted his reverie.
“Well,” the healer wearily replied as he snatched his syringe out of the kid, “he’s not in perfect health, that’s for sure. Those ribs are going to be a burden for at least a month, but at least he’ll live.”
“What about his hands?”
Kheled lifted one of the youth’s arms and turned the palm up. He cursed quietly.
“I have a salve that will soothe the pain and prevent infection, but that’s the best I can do. I’m sorry.”
“That’s not good enough,” the older man said belligerently. “There has to be something else.”
Kheled hated this part of his job. Delivering news that would ruin someone’s life was bad enough, but dealing with the recipient’s denial, grief, and hatred was occasionally intolerable. If he could in good conscience lie to this man and let someone else deal with steadily crushing each hope until the truth was accepted, he would, but it was part of the job. And he loved his job.
He squatted in front of the father.
“Listen, over half of the skin on your son’s palms has been melted away. I’m surprised he was able to function like that. The pain would have been incredible. As it is, we’ll be lucky if he gets to keep them. With so much exposure, there’s no way to tell how many infections and diseases the open sores have collected. The best course of action for your son…” Kheled broke off, realizing he had no idea what to call the man. “Sorry. What’s your name? I usually ask before now, but I’ve been a bit busy fighting and saving lives.”
“Aramar,” the man said through tight lips, “my name is Aramar.
A funny noise escaped Kheled’s throat. He looked up, and sure enough, two other Kheleds hovered over the youth’s body.
“Aramar as in Eledis’ son, Aramar?” he asked faintly.
“Indeed. Do you know Eledis?”
His brain had stopped, overloaded by surprise and horror.
First of all, two splinters? He’d never seen such a thing before.
Second, this was his ally? A scrawny teenager who’d already maimed himself irreparably?
The world was doomed.
Kheled coughed.
“Um, Eledis… yes,” he began as his brain slowly ticked over into functional mode. “He’s waiting for you two at home. My home. Which is, in fact, Allanovian.”
“That bastard!” Aramar exclaimed. “He said he’d move on after a few days, not a few weeks.
“And who are you? One of the Council’s cronies?”
“In fact, no,” Kheled said, backpedaling even harder to catch up. “I’m out here despite orders to stay put. Allanovian’s Council actually told their best healer to stay away from a disaster zone and thought I’d do as I was told!”
He was panting at the end of the tirade which was interesting. After decades of numbness, the sudden deluge of emotions was throwing him off balance. If Kheled wasn’t careful, they could cause him to slip up, something the world couldn’t afford.
“Oh, I like you,” Aramar said amusedly. “You and my son will get along famously. Speaking of Raimie, you were talking about how you were going to fix his hands?”
That’s right, the damn hands!
“Yes, I was indeed talking about Raimie’s hands,” Kheled said, stalling for the time he needed to despairingly flick through every treatment plan contained in his mental index. “I was saying that I’ve an experimental treatment I can try that will give him limited function, but it’s a procedure I’d only feel comfortable attempting in my clinic back home. In the meantime, we can apply a salve to the burns and wrap them in bandages to avoid further contact with possible contaminants.”
There was no experimental procedure, but he couldn’t tell Aramar what he really intended to do. He’d have to come up with a fake treatment to fulfill the man’s expectations before they returned to Allanovian.
“Limited function?” Aramar grimaced. “It’s not as good as a full recovery, but much better than what I’d expected. I approve!”
“Wonderful! Now, may I please take the arrow out of your neck?”
Aramar chuckled.
“I almost forgot about this thing,” he said ruefully. “Please yank the damn thing out.”
He carefully lifted his hand away from the entry point. The projectile had jabbed its way into the base of the neck where it met the shoulders.
“You’re lucky,” Kheled commented as he took hold of the shaft. “Another few inches forward, and you’d have been losing blood uncontrollably.”
He tugged up and out, and the arrowhead emerged cleanly from Aramar’s flesh. Kheled had to give the man credit. He’d forgotten to offer anesthetic or a bite block, but even going without, the older man only sucked in a deep breath and grunted. Kheled placed gauze over the wound to staunch the trickle of blood and indicated that Aramar should continue to place pressure while he checked on Raimie.
At the young man’s side, Kheled slathered both palms with a disinfectant and anesthetic combo and wrapped them in bandages. Before he’d finished binding the wounds and without putting too much thought into it, he Let Go, and it was done. He hoped the consequences wouldn’t be too harsh.
“I’m going to dispose of the monster that attacked you,” he informed Aramar as he passed.
“Healer!” Aramar shouted. “Sorry, I must have forgotten to ask your name after the stress of escaping a wildfire and barely surviving an attempt on my life.”
“You can call me Kheled,” the healer replied, tone acknowledging Aramar’s subtle admonishment.
“Kheled,” Aramar chewed the word contemplatively, “we have one more issue that may involve burdening you further.”
“I see. What’s the problem?”
“I can’t feel my legs.”
Tick, tick, tick. Comprehension.
“Ah. Not to worry,” Kheled said. “Small towns like Fissid usually have carts stashed away somewhere. I’ll find one for us to use. The residents certainly won’t need it anymore.”
Tears sparkled in Aramar’s eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“You’re welcome.”
That was all that should be said. There was no need to draw the conversation out. Kheled left the older man alone with his thoughts and carried out the last task on his list.
Heaving Teron over his shoulders, he hauled the monster to the well that was guaranteed to stand at the center of any established human settlement. He dumped Teron’s limp body and commenced a search of the town, pointedly ignoring the carnage so that he could retain his stomach contents.
Several of the homes hid long lengths of rope, and the blacksmith’s shop contained one bulky strand of thick chains and several padlocks within its depths.<
br />
Task complete, Kheled located a small horse drawn cart beside the village’s carriage house. He retrieved his borrowed horse, led it into town, and attached it to the wagon. After he’d climbed into the cart’s seat, he flicked the reigns. He was eager to leave this scene of death and destruction behind.
* * *
Teron inhaled and immediately attempted to stand. Constriction across his shoulders and chest forced him back down. He quickly took stock of his surroundings.
The bodies of the cattle that had inhabited this pustule upon the earth sprawled all around him, and carrion and scavengers had already commenced their feast upon the freshly slaughtered meat.
The deep satisfaction he felt upon observing his handiwork was ruined when he comprehended his predicament. Ropes, a chain, the inability to stand, and the abundance of death surrounding him led to only one conclusion. He was bound and chained to the town’s well.
Teron angrily shook and struggled against his restraints. The fury built as the first hour passed until it was released in a roar that scattered the carrion into the air.
* * *
A faint bellow reached the three men in the cart trundling away from Fissid. Kheled glanced back and upon observing the flight of crows from the far distant town, he smirked. Facing forward, he flicked the reigns and whistled gleefully.
Chapter Seven
Arivor’s guards dumped me inside central command none too gently, perhaps hoping that with my hands bound, I’d fall, and they’d get the rare pleasure of seeing one of their betters scrambling in the dirt. I caught myself from tripping and glared scornfully at them.
My friend looked up in muddled confusion from his maps, in the thick of battle plans. A hood cast a shadow over his disfigured face.
“Damn those humans!” he exclaimed as he came back to the present. “They’re always more aggressive than I need them to be.”
He untied my hands.
“I apologize, Erianger. You’re lucky that they had the foresight to bring you to me instead of killing you outright.”
I rubbed my wrists, wincing as I tried to stimulate circulation back to my numb fingertips.
“Arivor…” I began.
“Don’t call me that!” he screeched before composing himself and calmly continuing. “I have a new name now. You should use it.”
I shook my head, beseeching the heavens for guidance. I hoped that I could bring my friend back to reason, but I knew how unlikely that would be.
“Fine,” I began again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Doldimar? Do you plan to annihilate the entire city just to get to the Council?”
“I will if I have to!” my friend shouted hysterically, fighting to hold onto his composure.
The outburst made me realize how very deep into madness Arivor had crawled.
“Tell the city,” he said in a restrained voice, “that if they send the Council out to me, no one else has to die. Tell them that the old fools will receive a quick, painless death if you want. Say and do whatever you think it will take because if that city refuses my request, I can’t guarantee that my army won’t rape their women while throwing their children into the fire once all of the men have fallen in my push to the Council.”
I had no response to that, but I was certain that what had happened to us had irrevocably changed Arivor into something twisted and unrecognizable from my easy going, lackadaisical friend. All I was concerned with now was getting out of his army’s encampment alive.
He growled irritably and yelled for the guards.
“Take him away,” Doldimar snapped at them before turning his attention back to me. “Make sure Lirilith and the baby aren’t in the city if you fail in your task. I can’t control every member of my army, and you know how humans are. They’ll destroy whatever’s most beautiful in that city, and I’d say Lirilith comes close to claiming that prize.”
He gestured imperiously, and humans dragged me away.
When Raimie came to, his pair of vagrant anomalies hovered over his face, somehow giving off an air of concern even without discernable facial features.
“I can’t decide if I’m relieved or annoyed that you two are back,” he murmured sleepily, a slight rasp tingeing his voice.
Bright and Dim buzzed rhythmically, shoulders shaking. They excitedly droned back and forth to one another.
“You know, listening to nonsense that’s supposed to be an understandable conversation is extremely irking,” Raimie snapped. “Please get out of my face so I can take a look around.”
When Raimie pushed to his elbows, a sheet slid down his chest. He appeared to have been bathed, and his clothes had disappeared, replaced by a simple, white, woven shirt and pant combination.
He swung his gaze over his surroundings, taking in the small cave with slits carved through the rock to allow the outside air in. An opening on the cave wall next to his bed led deeper into stone. A distant roar of water drummed in the background, but only an inconsistent trickle passed in front of the makeshift windows. Raimie wondered what the constant noise could be coming from.
With natural light pouring through the windows and soft illumination provided by lamps and lanterns, the cave was well lit, enough for him to determine that he’d woken in a clinic or possibly a hospital. Rows of cots, both man-made and carved from the walls, lined the room. Each was carefully made up with white sheets, generic pillows, and gray blankets. Only one bed in the corner was a mess with covers thrown every which way and books, instruments, and herbs strewn across its surface. A large cabinet dominated one wall, stuffed with glass bottles and stacks of bandages. Shoved in between the cabinet and the messy bed was an assortment of funny shaped glasses along with a pile of metal rods pierced with holes and ending in clamps and several little bowls filled with ash.
The familiarity of the scene stole Raimie’s breath for a moment as a sense of déjà vu zapped through him like lightning. This looked remarkably similar to… no. It couldn’t be!
Panicking, he swung his legs over the mattress’ edge and immediately winced, throwing a hand to his right side. Strips of cloth stiffly wrapped his chest, enveloping the totality of his ribs.
Abruptly remembering the wounds to his hands, Raimie jerked them away from his chest, expecting pain at any moment. Instead, all he experienced was cool numbness. Burying his apprehension, he carefully unwrapped one hand.
A smear of viscous paste blanketed most of his palm, and the portions that had been red and blistered now glowed a slightly healthier pink. The black strips in the center were covered by skin stitched in place by gut string.
Raimie absently flexed his hand, pleased by the lack of pain. So, it hadn’t been a nightmare. A fire had destroyed his home, he’d managed to escape it, and a monster had…
“You shouldn’t be up yet,” an unfamiliar voice cautioned from the clinic’s entrance.
From their customary spots hovering on the edges of his vision, Dim popped out of existence, and Bright zoomed over to stand behind the newcomer’s shoulder.
The man leaned against the archway that guarded the only means of exit or entrance, arms tightly folded across his chest.
The height was the first thing Raimie noticed. The stranger would tower over him by at least two feet, but somehow the lanky legs and arms seemed graceful rather than awkward. A sharp nose jutted from his face, and a laughing mouth currently morphed into a frown sat beneath it. Auburn hair with a faint green tint plastered the top of his head. His eyes were a fascinating shade of gray, and though they currently radiated disapproval, they also assured Raimie that he had nothing to fear. His light blue tunic consisted of a soft-looking fabric, his leather pants conformed well to his legs, and the cloak strewn from his shoulders was reminiscent of the deep green of the woods, dyed specifically to make the wearer blend with the environment of the forest.
“Who are you?” Raimie asked with caution.
Strangers had brought him nothing but trouble lately, and he couldn’t help his suspic
ion of another. Besides that, Raimie wasn’t sure how to maintain the façade around such an unknown. His father and grandfather were familiar, known variables that were easy to predict. How did he pretend to be a nice, young man around someone he’d never met before?
“Stop picking at that,” the man said in response, inclining his head toward Raimie’s lap.
Raimie stopped his fingers from pulling at his stitches with difficulty. The tall man pushed off of the arch with a sigh through his nose and snatched several lengths of gauze from where they lay on the unmade bed. He hunched in front of Raimie, grabbed the exposed hand, and expertly rewrapped it.
Throughout the man’s wandering about the clinic, Bright stuck to him like glue, hardly a step back unless forced away by physical objects. Adoration gushed from the figure of light in powerful waves.
“My name’s Kheled,” Kheled said, “but my friends call me Khel. I saved your life.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Khel. I’m Raimie. I’d shake your hand but…”
He glanced down significantly.
“Thank you,” he continued, “I don’t know what you did, but I can actually breathe now, and my hands aren’t in agony.”
The healer completed one final circuit and pinned the gauze’s end into the bulk of the dressing. He sat on the cot opposite Ramie, and Bright perched on the edge alongside him, so close that the apparition almost converged with his lap. Raimie could have sworn Kheled glared sidelong at the anomaly, but the motion was so brief that he doubted himself. Bright, however, did scoot further away, giving the man space.
“Your hands sorely tested my abilities. I had to abandon conventional medicine and attempt something brand new. I grafted samples of skin from your shoulder and lower back to the ruined parts of your palms,” he explained. “I’m sorry that you became my test subject in this manner, but it was the only way I could see to help you keep them.
“I’d recommend sleeping on your left side for the next week or so to allow the donor sites room to breathe. I think you’ll retain all function in your hands, which is a minor miracle in and of itself, but you’ll lose your sense of touch on the parts that were badly burned. How did you manage to do such a thing to yourself by the way?”
The Undying Champions (The Eternal War Book 1) Page 10
