Aspirin.
Not quite a miracle drug, but it could reduce a fever and cut minor aches and pains.
Could Belegir swallow them?
She'd worry about that later. She emptied the tote, stuffed everything she could into her purse and piled the rest beside it, and slung the empty tote over her shoulder in case she found something she wanted to carry back. Ready to go.
But something made her hesitate, and finally she came back and picked up her sword.
She wasn't sure why—there was nothing here in the temple that could harm her—but by now she'd learned to trust her hunches. In the here and now, they were all she had to go on, and so far, they were working about as well as anything else.
Then back up the stairs again—she'd lost count of how many times today that made—with all the muscles in her calves and back screaming a chorus of protest.
Her first stop was the sleeping rooms, where she grabbed a couple of mattresses to make her bed for tonight and carted them back to the top of the stairs. Next, the robing room, where she added an armful of shapeless fluffy white wool robes. They'd give Belegir a new frock, and the rest could be used for bandages, and what she wouldn't give for a pair of scissors, or even a sharp knife, right now.
The easy parts done, she grabbed one of the golden buckets, and wandered through the rest of the Temple, looking for anything useful. Unfortunately, anything useful to two bushwhacked adventurers was something of use to embattled fleeing refugees as well, and she didn't really have the time to turn the lumber rooms inside out, or the mother wit to recognize something clandestinely useful when she saw it. She saw large amounts of gold and silver Objects; paintings and tapestries, porcelain and glassware, books and scrolls; but nothing that was offhand valuable in the current situation. And she didn't really dare wander all that far from the main drag, not really. It would be too easy for her to get lost in a vast underground Temple of unknown size, and then where would they be? Bad enough that they were going to be starving soon enough. Her stomach was already rumbling, reminding her that one handful of dried fruit in about two days and a breakfast that went by twice in under an hour was not the equivalent of three squares, and no chance Belegir was going to be able to ride out of here any time soon, not with him pissing blood the way he was.
If it isn't one damn thing it's another.
Giving up on the side rooms—Allan Quartermain might have had a field day here, but he would have come with a pack full of food—she headed for the Oracle's wellspring, sword in one hand, bucket in the other. Best get the water and head back.
Everything was just as she'd left it. It was only a few hours ago that she and Belegir had woken up here after an eventful but useless night, but it seemed like that had been another lifetime. And somewhere along the way between then and now, almost insensibly, she'd developed a Plan.
Belegir said the Warmother was on the top of Elboroth-Haden—or at least that She had been. Glory was going to go see. And then she was going to kick the bitch's ass from here to breakfast. She was tired. She was pissed. And she was fed up with oracular bitches coming along and telling her she was some kind of test case and not telling her what they meant by it.
All she had to do was get herself and Belegir out of this mess alive, first.
Glory removed the bar and opened the low door to the Oracle's spring.
The cavern was still dark, and cold rolled out of the little room like the breath of the Earth itself. Glory shuddered, unaccountably reluctant to go in. But nothing bad had happened to her in there before, and Belegir said the water might help. Probably do him as much good as the aspirin, any old how. She pushed the door open wide, propping the bar and her sword against it just in case, and went in.
She knelt down at the edge of the spring. It seemed like a good time for a prayer, but Glory wasn't sure who she ought to be praying to. She'd never been a very religious person back home—she'd always felt that if God tended to His business, she'd tend to hers. Prayers and bargains always seemed a little like cheating somehow, and besides, Erchane wasn't her god.
She dipped the bucket into the spring. The water was numbingly cold. Remembering how Belegir had filled the chalice the night before, Glory plunged the bucket in as deep as she could manage, and held it there for a minute.
"All right, you," she said aloud. "Belegir's always been straight with you. He stood by you even when it didn't look like you were paying much attention. Now it's your turn to do something for him. That's all."
She felt a little silly once she'd said it, but there was no way to take the words back. She lifted the bucket out of the water—it was much heavier now—and set it carefully by the side of the spring.
And just in case there was something in Belegir's belief that the spring could do something about the infection, she pulled off her sweatshirt, unsticking it gently from her shoulder, scooped up several handfuls of the water, and washed out her own gashes thoroughly, pinching and prodding until they bled freely again. The cold made her shoulder feel better, if nothing else. She also washed her face, and rinsed the blood-spot out of the shirt as best she could. Going to have a pretty bruise in the morning, if the heat on that cheek is anything to go by.
She got to her feet, pulled the damp sweatshirt back on, picked up the bucket, and left the grotto, collecting her sword on the way. She realized she was going to have to set something down to bar the door again—not that it was really necessary, but it was the way she'd found it, so it was the way she'd leave it—when she realized that something had changed.
The door to the armory was open again, the violet light flooding out of it as if it were a high-end designer boutique on the Bois de Expensive.
She knew they'd closed it the last time they'd been down here.
She was pretty sure it'd been closed when she'd gone in to the Wellspring just now.
She knew what was in there.
"God's Teeth," Glory groaned tiredly, setting the bucket down again. Cinnas' gods-be-damned Warmothering sword was in there, with all its freight of can-be-carried-by-the-One-True-Hero and all that happy hoo-hah.
She bet it was sharp, though.
Sharp enough that if she'd been carrying it this morning, Belegir need never have gotten hurt at all. She could have cut the monster up like a breakfast egg, made it bleed, ruined it with a blow or two, enough to take it out fast and sloppy. Nobody hurt. Nobody dying by inches, and her with no way to help.
That decided her.
She set down her sword, closed the door to the Oracle spring, and picked up her sword again, then walked into the armory, giving the floating glowing sword a wide berth.
She might as well look around here for something useful before getting herself into trouble meddling with magic. Fortunately, she found something, which improved her temper a bit. On a table in the back, there was what was obviously a maintenance kit of some sort, picks and rasps laid out on a chamois square, including several small hooked knives, sharpened on the inner side, for shortening the straps that held armor in place. The leather straps were nowhere in sight but the knives were still sharp, and there was a small stoppered pot of what was obviously leather cream—Belegir had said this stuff hadn't been used since the Time of Legend, but she bet someone had still got the job of cleaning it regularly, back when the Oracle Temple was full of Acolytes. She worried the cork out and stuck a finger in it, sniffing, smelling beeswax and lanolin. What would do for leather would likely do for skin as well. She added both knives and leather dressing to her bag, and the chamois square as well, then returned to the hovering wizard's blade.
Unless she dragged the table over, she couldn't climb up to it, and even if she did, there was no guarantee she could pry it loose from the air. Magic, Glory told herself sagely, on the basis of no information at all, was funny that way. And if the blade was as sharp as it looked, she didn't want to grab the end she could reach.
She reached up with her own sword and prodded at the other blade tentatively. It didn't
even wobble, but the sound the two blades made when they connected was like hitting a tuning fork.
A very big tuning fork.
Hit really, really hard.
She winced, staggering back from the high sweet ringing. It faded quickly, and Glory had the odd feeling that Cinnas' sword was laughing at her. In a fond paternal way, but laughing at her nonetheless.
"I am not amused," she said aloud.
She couldn't knock it down, she couldn't yank it down, what did that leave?
She looked down at the sword-blade-shaped slot in the stone on the floor, and then at the sword in the air, and then at the one in her hand.
They say King Arthur got his way by pulling a sword OUT of the stone, but he was a Pom. Let's see if things go by opposites.
She flipped her sword up and dropped it, point-first, into the slot in the stone.
It had been quiet before, but suddenly it was as if a sound she'd gotten used to hearing had suddenly ceased. She jumped back with a startled yelp as The Sword of Cinnas fell down out of the air like a startled rock and clattered on the floor, bouncing and ringing on the stone floor like a crowbar flung from a speeding car.
When it was lying perfectly still, she approached it warily. The bright neon glow had faded, though the jewels set in the hilt were still rather bright, but the whole thing still looked weird as hell. Eldritch, that was the word. The sword looked eldritch.
She went back over to her prop-sword, and gave it an experimental tug, but it was now welded fast to the stone. She nodded, obscurely satisfied. Give a sword to get a sword. It made sense. She only hoped that the next bright laddie who came along needing a good blade would appreciate what she was leaving for him, and would have the mother wit to be able to winkle it out of the rock. But that wasn't her problem.
The armory was darker now, the background glow slowly fading, as if the Temple itself were telling her she had no more business in this room. She turned back to Cinnas' blade and reached for it cautiously. It seemed to be finished with signs and wonders, though, because it was nothing more than a sword in her hand, if a bit lighter than the one she'd given up. She touched the edge of the blade gingerly. And sharp as she'd thought. That was a plus. She swung it experimentally and felt herself smile. Hairy buggers beware. This time when she hit them, she'd split them for sure.
Carrying the sword carefully away from her body, she left the armory, picked up her bucket, and headed back for the front of the temple.
She didn't look back.
Getting her loot down the stairs took her a couple of trips, and by the time she wrestled the mattresses down, Belegir was awake again. Fortunately, she'd gotten the sword down on the first trip—no sense in giving the old fellow heart failure when she didn't have to. She'd tell him about the sword later.
"We'll give you a nice wash-up straight from the Oracle," Glory told him, with the spurious cheerfulness of the sickroom matron, "and then pop you into one of these lovely angel-robes and I can brew you a nice cuppa. How's that?"
Belegir had a strange look on his face, not entirely due to his discovery of the close proximity of Gordon.
"Slayer, I have no magic. And I did not think to bring flint and steel. I am sorry."
It took her a moment to figure out what he was getting at, and when she did, she smiled in relief, even if it did make her face hurt.
"No worries. For once, I brought something useful along with me. I've got a lighter. I can make the fire. We'll have tea, no worries. Now let's get you squared away. Do you think you could get a couple of pills down you?"
She got out the bottle of aspirin and shook some tablets into her hand. Two for her, two for Belegir. She thought it over, then dissolved his in one of the tea-mugs with a bit of the mead. It'd make a nasty-tasting drink, but probably easier on his bruised throat than the whole pills.
"This is going to taste foul," she said, bringing over the cup, "but it might help."
He swallowed it down without complaint, though he did shudder at the taste. She followed it with as much as he could hold of the Oracle-water—if it worked, it would probably do as much good inside as out—then sorted through the robes, selecting the largest two for Belegir's use. The hooked knife made short work of another two, converting them into large bandage-squares and a number of long binding strips.
About half the bucket was left. She dipped her rags into it, daubing off the blood on his face and chest as gently as she could.
"You are . . . very efficient," Belegir said in a breathy voice.
Glory smiled to herself.
"I grew up on a— well, I guess you might call it a farm. Sheep station. Dad's still there, but Mum was a city girl at heart. Out in the country, you have to do for yourself. No one to do for you."
With the blood gone, the bruising was spectacular, and to her concealed dismay, the gashes on Belegir's chest were already bright red and puffy and starting to ooze a straw-colored fluid. She wrung out a cold compress for his bruised face and sopped up a couple of wooly squares to cover his chest.
"Now you just let that perk for a while. I found a nice pot of goose-grease in the back to make a proper dressing with. Not all according to Hoyle, but it should make you more comfortable." If it doesn't kill you outright. She covered him up with the blankets again. No sense him catching pneumonia while she was trying to save his life.
The most important thing done, she returned to their meager supplies. There was some grain left, a couple of the fruit-cakes, a little of the mead, another skin of ale, and of course the sugar and the tea. That was all.
She sighed, and shook her head. A steely eyed adventurer would consider the horses as extra provisions, and it wasn't that she was averse to eating a horse—well, not exactly—but she had no way to kill one of the ponies cleanly and no idea of how to butcher it, and even if she did, there was no way inside the Temple for them to cook it afterward, and she definitely drew the line at eating one of the damned things raw—which pretty much put paid to her notion of going back for the rest of the other pony, even if she was willing to risk the trip.
As for the protein on the hoof . . . they couldn't eat them, they couldn't ride them, and the cart was pretty useless outside of the temple, so there was no point in even trying to make a go of hitching the beasts to it and going on from there. All that being the case, the logical thing to do was to turn the beasts loose to fend for themselves and hope they survived.
But if she was going to do that, she might as well do it in the morning after they'd had a good meal, or as much of a good meal as she could field them. A couple of handfuls of grain wouldn't make much difference for her and Belegir in the long run. She shook her head. Soft-hearted, that's what she was.
She divvied the grain up into two neat piles, widely separated, then led the horses over to their meals one at a time. Afterward she watered them, then tied them to the packsaddle, several yards away from Belegir and the supplies. No sense leaving them to wander loose and get into trouble.
The area around the Pilgrim's Fountain was starting to reek strongly of stable, and Glory told herself she'd be just as glad to be rid of the nasty smelly beasts, but she knew she'd miss them, especially since she knew they'd probably fall down the first rabbit hole going and break a leg, or be eaten by another of those pants-wearing nightmares, or by something else just as horrible. Still, they'd have a chance, which looked like more than she and Belegir did.
She changed Belegir's compresses. Was it her imagination, or did the gashes look a little better? Please, let it be so. Then she got to work setting up the little tea-boiler.
She picked up the round pottery bottle and her lighter, and got the wick alight with a few snaps of her thumb, then set up the rest of the tea-boiler around it. When they'd had their tea, she could boil down a couple of the fruit-cakes in the pot. She didn't think Belegir was up to chewing, but the thing ought to be willing to turn itself into soup with a little encouragement.
Belegir was lying back on his improvised ho
spital bed, watching her. His color was better, and despite the purpling bruises, and the white cloth laid over half his face, he looked pleased.
"Here now, Bel, how much of this tea-stuff do I add to the water?" Glory asked, shoving her braid back out of the way and waving the canister.
"Come here, and I will show you," he said.
Obediently she carried the canister over to him, and watched as he measured an amount out onto his hand, looking to see that she understood. He poured the dry leaves back into canister and beckoned her close.
"I think you are a very great hero," he said, smiling.
"You're demented," Glory said, not unkindly. "The water's boiling."
After the tea had brewed and she'd poured it into mugs, she washed out the pot in the fountain and refilled it to stew two of the shredded-up cakes of fruit. Before bandaging Belegir, she tried the salve on her arm, changing back to her now-dry T-shirt first. It didn't hurt, and it might help. She wound some of the wool bandage firmly around her arm, and tied it in place as best she could. At least she wouldn't have to look at it now.
Bandaging up Belegir was an awkward and messy process, leaving her slathered with goo to the elbows before she got the dressing firmly tied in place. But once she got a new robe over his head, both of them felt better.
"I have not worn something like this since my days as a novice in the temple," Belegir said ruefully, smoothing down the pale creamy wool. "And that was long ago."
At Glory's quizzical look, he continued.
"Those of us who feel Called to be mages serve at the Temple, so that we may become used to Erchane's presence. Sometimes it will happen that there will be no place for a new apprentice for many years, or a Mage and an apprentice will not . . . suit."
I reckon there's a whole story in that, Glory thought sagely.
"So until the day comes when an apprentice may leave the temple to serve his Mage, he serves here. I served here a long time, until Acoril chose me."
"What was he like?"
"She. Very strict, very . . . all that I am not. She said I was the burden Erchane had called upon her to bear, and that she had chosen me only so that no other Mage would be so terribly afflicted." He smiled at the memory. "She did not wish me to study the Old Texts. But she chose me when no other would, and for that I honor her memory."
The Warslayer Page 14
