Death of a Darklord

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “It is his risk.”

  “Not if he doesn’t understand that risk.”

  “What does the wizard mean, Thordin, that the healer risks more than his life?” Jonathan came to stand over them. His eyes were wider than normal, a touch of wildness to them. Even the mage-finder had been impressed with this particular spell.

  Gersalius shook off Thordin’s grip. “The land corrupts everything that touches it. You know this, mage-finder.”

  “It corrupts all magic, yes.”

  “It will corrupt even this pure gift. Until this moment, I would have said no cleric was powerful enough to call divine aid inside Kartakass.”

  “If he truly can raise the dead, then surely he is proof against even this land,” Thordin said.

  The wizard shook his head stubbornly. “If that is true, all is well and fine, but if not, the healer must understand what he risks. If he does not fully understand, he has no real choice.”

  The elf leaned over the fallen man. “If I risked my very soul, I could do no less.”

  “And if that is exactly what you are doing?” Gersalius said.

  The elf blinked up at the mage. His smile softened, and Elaine felt him straighten under her hands. “Then it is what I am risking. And it is my choice, freely made, freely given.”

  “You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”

  “Leave him, wizard,” Jonathan said. “He has made his choice.”

  “If you like, mage-finder, but a few moments in Kartakass cannot prepare you for a lifetime here.”

  The elf pulled his arm, gently, from Elaine’s grasp. “Thank you for your aid.”

  She gave a slight nod.

  He placed his good hand over the man’s chest. There was no armor here to hide what was to happen. Nothing would have drawn Elaine from her place at the elf’s side.

  His head slumped forward, shining hair like a curtain over his face. She fought the urge to brush the hair aside. She wanted to see his face, to watch his features as he performed this miracle. For it was nothing less. She had grown up listening to Thordin’s stories of healers, but she had not truly understood. Now she did, and she hungered after this … magic was too small a word.

  It was a growing thing, like the earth itself waking to the sun’s warmth. A slow filling up from some unknown source; outside power met and mingled with a spark of magic inside the elf. Elaine felt it as if it were her own body. There was simple magic to this, but it was much more.

  The dead man drew a painful breath, spine bowing upward as if a string pulled him. He blinked wide brown eyes and sat up like a startled sleeper. He looked around wildly.

  “Where am I?”

  The elf gave a second beatific smile and slowly toppled forward onto the legs of the man he’d just resurrected.

  Elaine wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard Gersalius mutter, “I told you so.”

  tHe teNt WaLLS fLaPPeD aND StRUggLeD IN tHe wind. The two men that had so recently been dead lay on piles of furs and blankets. The elf, Silvanus, was curled in a corner, quite unconscious. He had not moved so much as a finger when they carried him to the campsite. The two deadmen had been much more lively.

  The larger man, Fredric Vladislav, hugged the furs to his bare chest. “It is not right that a woman should see me like this. Especially an unmarried one.” The skin of his shoulders was milk-white. Many a lady would have been proud of such skin. The jagged white scar that traced the collarbone spoiled the effect somewhat, as did his strong hand clutching desperately at the fur. His eyes were the color of storm clouds, a soft, wooly gray. The sweeping white mustache went well with his impossibly broad shoulders.

  Elaine had always thought Thordin a large man, but the paladin, for that was what he called himself, made Thordin seem small. One sword-callused palm could have covered Elaine’s entire face. His feet pressed perilously close to the tent walls.

  “I would not have disrobed if the healer had told me a young woman was going to enter.”

  “She’s a … nurse. Isn’t that what you called her?” Randwulf asked.

  Konrad spoke from the back of the tent. He was laying out his salves and bandages on a clean cloth near the unconscious elf. “Yes, she’s helped me tend the wounded many times.” He never looked up, all attention for his medicines.

  Once Elaine had thought that commendable. Now it was vaguely irritating, just another sign that she was of no real importance to him. She was just another tool, like a medicinal herb.

  “I have seen a bare chest before, Master Vladislav,” Elaine said, tugging on the fur. His strong hands held on. Short of cutting his grip free, she couldn’t budge him.

  “You have not seen my chest. Besides, girl, that is not the only thing bare under these covers.” A rush of color crept up his neck, tinting him pink from upper chest to forehead.

  Elaine smiled; she couldn’t help it.

  “Are you so brazen as to think that is funny? Are you a healer’s aid or a camp follower?”

  “I don’t know what a camp follower is,” she said.

  “I would be happy to show you,” the other man said. His voice had a happy lilt that made Elaine blush.

  “Oh, you mean a woman of loose morals,” she said softly. Her face was scarlet, and she looked away from the large man. She had tended the wounded, but it had mostly been her own family group. Truthfully, she’d never seen a complete stranger undressed. Konrad didn’t seem to remember that, or perhaps he didn’t care.

  “Now, girl, I did not mean to embarrass. I would not do that for anything.”

  “I thought you’d tended the wounded,” Randwulf said.

  “Mostly my own family.” She glanced at him. He was naked to the waist, arms behind his head as if he were posing for effect. His well-muscled chest was crisscrossed with scars. He half sat up, causing the furs to slide alarmingly. Elaine turned away.

  “Have a care, you young idiot. She’s not a camp follower to be impressed with your scars,” the paladin said.

  “Maybe a healer would be impressed with my scars, too.”

  Fredric made a sound halfway between a snort and a sigh. “Perhaps, but she is no healer. She is a young woman, and you are embarrassing her.”

  “If you do not let Elaine look at your wounds, then I will have to do it myself,” Konrad said flatly. “That will mean leaving your unconscious friend’s wounds until after I see to you. After what he did for you out there, I would think you’d cooperate.”

  Fredric raised up on one elbow, the other hand still clutching the furs. “Is he truly hurt?”

  “He lost an arm and performed such magic as I’ve never seen. He is at least profoundly exhausted, if not worse.”

  The paladin frowned. “Do not leave his side if he is truly hurt. I will allow your … nurse to tend me, but perhaps she would prefer someone else to tend our wounds. She seems uncomfortable confronted with two nearly naked strangers, wounded or not.”

  “Elaine’s all right,” Konrad said. He never turned around. His voice was vaguely irritated, but nothing more. He treated her like a faithful dog.

  It must have shown on her face because Fredric said, “If you want to send in one of the men, we will understand. I do not think your friend is aware of how uncomfortable you are.”

  She shook her head. “If Konrad says I will be all right, I will be all right.” Her voice held a warm touch of anger she could not control.

  “Ah,” Fredric said. He lay down again, hands loose on the furs. “Some people are more oblivious than others to those they see every day.”

  That a perfect stranger could so quickly see how she felt, and how Konrad ignored her, wounded Elaine. She would rather the paladin had stabbed her with a dagger than looked at her with kind, pitying eyes.

  “Will you let me see your wounds?” She would not meet his eyes. It was too painful to see how clearly he saw everything. Let him think it modesty, though Elaine feared this paladin knew exactly why she would not meet his eyes.

 
“I will.” Those two words held a quiet dignity. She glanced at his face. It was neutral, careful. He would not purposefully embarrass her; she knew that as if he had spoken it aloud.

  Elaine touched the edge of white fur. Fredric raised his hands slightly to allow her to pull the covers down. She drew them off slowly, a knuckle’s length of pale flesh coming to light at a time. His left arm bore a bite mark that still leaked blood. It would leave a nasty scar, but it was not serious unless it became infected. Infection took many a warrior when the wound itself wasn’t a killing blow.

  There was a patch of scar tissue near the center of his chest. Elaine touched it gently with her fingertips. The skin was rough and thickened like any scar. She ran fingers over his chest, as if to test that the rest of his skin was soft and unblemished, then back to the scar. It was white with age, an old scar, right over the heart. Something large had speared him there, long ago.

  “This was a killing blow,” she said.

  “Aye, Silvanus brought me back from that one.” His thick fingers caressed the scar, eyes distant with memory. “It was a good blow, straight through the heart.”

  “How many times has he brought you back?”

  “Three, counting today.”

  “But that’s … that’s …” Elaine had no words for it. She had seen so many die with wounds not half as serious as that one heart blow. But, of course, Fredric had also died, just not permanently. It was outrageous … and wondrous.

  Elaine lowered the covers another handspan or two. Even his stomach was flat and strong. Low on the stomach was the wound that had killed him this time. She folded the furs carefully at a line just below his waist. In truth, perhaps just a fraction lower. She tucked the covers firmly just below his hip bones. The smooth white skin of his stomach was in ruins.

  Claws had sliced him open in ragged furrows. Teeth had torn great gaping hunks of flesh from his stomach. Even if it hadn’t been a murderous wound, it would never have healed. There wasn’t enough flesh left to fill in the hole. The wolves had eaten down through the muscle, shoving their muzzles into his stomach and intestines. This wasn’t like closing the edges of some great wound, or mending a pierced heart. Hunks of flesh were gone, swallowed, before he was healed. The scar tissue was a great pinkish mound that covered most of the stomach.

  Elaine touched the wound. She could almost feel the new flesh sinking away under her fingers. Scar tissue held his stomach and intestine together, scar tissue where it should never have been.

  “Is this—and your arm—your only wounds?” she asked.

  “My left leg, I think.” His hands were back, clutching the covers. “You can draw away the furs from my leg.” It was clear that pulling the covers farther down was not an option.

  That was fine with Elaine. She lifted the furs from his left leg, folding them back to midthigh. It left his long body bare, save for a swath of fur across his groin, and one covered leg. His bare leg was long and muscled. His white hair had made Elaine think Fredric old, older than Jonathan, but this was a young body.

  The claws had hamstrung him. The wound was partially healed, the deeper flesh knitted together in a pink mass. The lip of the wound still gaped where the claws had sliced, but the profound damage was healed.

  “How did he heal only part of your wounds? How did the magic know to heal your worst injury? Is it possible to heal many lesser wounds and run out of spell before a killing wound is mended?”

  Fredric laughed. “Girl, I don’t know. I’m no cleric. I’ve seen Silvanus do many wondrous things, but I’ve never thought to ask how he does it.”

  Elaine looked at his laughing face. She was puzzled. “Didn’t you want to know how the healing worked?”

  He shrugged broad shoulders. “As long as it works, that’s all that matters.”

  “Spoken like a warrior with no hobbies,” Randwulf said.

  Elaine turned back to what she’d assumed was a younger man. After seeing Fredric’s body, she was no longer sure. Randwulf seemed younger at least in actions, if not in years.

  Randwulf lay naked on the furs save for a white underpant. Elaine turned away, staring very hard at the tent wall.

  “Where is the injury that killed you?” Just asking the question sounded ludicrous.

  “Don’t you want to search for it, like you did with Fredric?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Elaine, can you help me over here?” Konrad asked.

  She let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. If Konrad needed her help, he would probably tend to Randwulf himself. The brown-eyed man with his curly hair was too eager for her hands.

  She crawled over to Konrad, who was still kneeling by the unconscious elf. He had cut away the sleeve from the torn arm. Only a handspan of arm remained. The end should have been jagged with naked bone and ripped flesh, but it was smooth. The skin had pulled together, hiding the end of the arm in a smooth golden-skinned stub.

  “Is it healing?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I believe so.”

  “What do you need my help for?” she asked.

  “I need a second opinion.”

  She glanced at him. His handsome profile was serious, no smile, no teasing. He turned to her, full-faced. His green eyes studied hers. If it had been anyone but Konrad, Elaine would have said he looked uncertain.

  “If this were a normal amputee, I would cauterize the wound to stop bleeding and keep infection from the flesh.” He ran his hand over the stub. “Feel it.”

  She didn’t want to, but Konrad had never asked her opinion before. He had taught her to clean and bandage simple wounds. Her most common task was to preview the wounded and give Konrad a report of who was the worst injured. But once Elaine gave her report, she followed his orders, did as he directed. She would not be squeamish now.

  Elaine ran fingertips over the stub. The skin was soft as a newborn babe’s, smooth; no jagged bone jutted beneath the skin. The stub was fleshy, as if the end were filled up with meat. It was smooth, solid, and perfect.

  “It’s healed,” she said, softly.

  He nodded. “Should I burn the end of the stub, or not?”

  “Oh, no. It’s healed. Burning it would just injure it further. Don’t you think?” Elaine knew that cauterizing the wound was the wrong thing to do, but she couldn’t resist asking for his approval. She hated herself just a little bit for that last question.

  He stared down at the elf, running his hand over the smooth stump. “I think you’re right. But this is so far beyond my poor skills, I almost don’t know how to tend them.”

  “You tend the wounds that aren’t completely healed and leave the others alone,” she said.

  “Do I? Have you looked at the other two?”

  “I haven’t seen to Randwulf’s wounds yet.”

  “Tell me of the first man’s wounds.”

  She did. When she had finished, he sighed and went to Fredric. “See to Randwulf.”

  Elaine sat there for a moment, angry. She was not in the mood to be teased or tormented. She had been embarrassed enough for one day.

  Konrad knelt by Fredric, hands seeking the wounds she had told him of. He did not second-guess her by looking for other wounds, but went only to the areas Elaine had mentioned. It was a measure of trust. Once he had searched each body himself; now he simply took her word. He might not love her, but he respected her, and that was worth a great deal, worth enough to risk the teasing Randwulf and much more. Just because he didn’t love her, did not mean she didn’t love him. Love is like that. Once it exists, it is not so easily killed.

  Randwulf had cuddled back under the covers. Apparently, it was too cold in the tent for such blatant flirtation. The sight of only his curly brown head sticking out made it easier for Elaine to go to him. Perhaps he had been merely teasing, that when it came down to it, he would behave himself.

  And pigs would fly.

  Randwulf’s smile was lovely, but there was a hint of evil in it, a knowledge
in his eyes that was too intimate to be directed at a strange young girl. It seemed as if he knew what she looked like without clothes on, or wanted to.

  Heat rushed up her face, but with the embarrassment came anger. Enough of this, she thought. She knelt before his covered figure, face set in a businesslike scowl. “What are your injuries?” She made her voice cold and distant.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “Oh, I am badly hurt, all over. I think you had best see for yourself.” With that, he whipped back the covers, and Elaine looked down. She studied the ground as if her life depended on it.

  Randwulf’s face appeared in her line of vision. He laid his head in her lap, gazing up at her. “Don’t you want to see my wounds?”

  She stood up abruptly. His head thunked onto the frozen ground. He closed his eyes. “Now my head hurts, as well.”

  “I hope it does,” she said. She was angry with him, but more with herself for letting him bother her so. She had tended a few strangers. But none had made it so difficult. It was easier to pretend her touch wasn’t intimate if the patient pretended also.

  “There, I’ve fixed it,” he said.

  Elaine was almost afraid to look, but she did. He lay covered to his chin. His face looked very young, peeking from above the furs. He looked boyish and adorable, but the gleam in his eye was a little too grown-up for the act to be convincing. At least he was no longer naked. Elaine would take what improvement she could get.

  Elaine knelt beside him one more time. Her fingers curled around the fur to pull it back. His cheek rubbed against her knuckles. She lifted the fur and her hand out of easy reach. If he had tried kissing it, she would have jerked away and left him to his own devices, but the movement was one a cat might make. An overly friendly cat.

  She lowered the covers slowly, eyes searching his body for injuries. His skin was not as pale as the paladin’s. He looked as if he would brown in the sun. His chest and arms were shapely but slender compared to Fredric’s. He could not boast nearly as many scars. He was either luckier, a better fighter, or newer to adventure. Elaine thought the last.

  Both his forearms bore bite marks. It looked as if a wolf had grabbed each arm and held on. They were fearsome wounds, but nothing to die over. Randwulf’s flat stomach was unblemished, skin smooth.