Within

by Aaron Bunce

  “From the Old City arch to the lower market…had you been faster? Had you been faster, you’d be dead, Ama’lik. Do not doubt that one bit. There was no alarm. Our watchtowers never saw them coming, and when others ran, you charged in,” Jiqou grinned proudly.

  “Reckless? Yes, but standing before adversity defines character, son. You earned your scars today. Most young soldiers come up here because they haven’t any other choice, but you. Well, you and your young friend Sky are different. You two chose to pledge your service here, to serve out your initiation when all the others choose places warmer and safer. You fought with bravery today and brought honor to your father’s name,” the steely-eyed captain added.

  “Thank you, sir,” Julian replied as the cleric continued to fuss over him. Captain Jiqou knelt down closer.

  “You are a warrior now, son. You have bled, and you have killed. No amount of training can prepare you for what you experienced today. But understand this, you saved many a life today,” Jiqou said softly.

  Julian nodded. He didn’t know how else to reply. Jiqou reached out, put a meaty hand on Julian’s shoulder, and then stood once again.

  “I should leave you to this young woman’s aid now, but I will say this first,” Jiqou stepped in closer to Julian and Sky. “Look at these men all around you. Do you see how they watch you, how they look up to you boys? Most of the men that serve here are sons of the mountains. Hardy lads, but most are not fighters. Then they see you two, lads of privilege pledged into an elite order most them only dream of, and they see you willingly serving amongst them. I don’t think you understand how much inspiration you bring to them. Serve them true, bring honor to your families and show bravery like you did today, and they will all become stronger because of it. Now, let this young lady tend to you Ama’lik, you’re no good to me as a cripple.” The large man spun and walked off.

  The pretty young cleric grabbed Julian gently, but firmly by the chin, and turned his head. She peeled open his eye and mumbled quietly. Julian hissed as the claw marks on his face burned opened and started to bleed once again.

  “You’re very lucky,” she said, her voice very soft.

  “I don’t feel so lucky right now,” Julian quipped, slipping deeper into the emotional hole from the battle. Even the praise heaped upon him by Captain Jiqou could not erase the overpowering sense of despair.

  “Most men would have bled out on the field with that,” she said motioning to the wound in his leg. “You are lucky,” she repeated, looking him in the eyes.

  “Many of these wounds are deep, deeper than I can completely heal right now. It is important that I clean and close them.” She rocked back on her heels and took a deep breath.

  Sky helped her remove the creased armor from Julian’s leg so she could clean the wound. Julian clenched his jaw as she painfully pulled the cut open and swabbed it with a clean cloth. He wanted to cry out, to push her away and cradle his battered body protectively so she couldn’t poke at him anymore. Sky stayed by his side and helped draw his focus away from the pain.

  When she had finished cleaning his leg, Julian watched the cleric pull the wound closed. She bowed her head and spoke. Her words were barely above a whisper, memorized recitations that only she knew and understood.

  She closed her eyes tight in concentration. The skin beneath her hands became very warm, and he felt a crawling sensation upon his flesh. And then she lifted her hands away. The deep crease in his leg had healed over, the skin knit together as if by an invisible hand. Julian ran his fingers over the angry pink scar that marred the skin.

  “The wound is still deep. It will need more attention,” she said wiping her bloody hands on her tunic. The effort appeared to have taxed her. Her shoulders sagged, and dark circles appeared beneath her eyes.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be much good to anyone until I have a chance to rest. But those,” she said, pointing at the raw, bloody claw marks on his face. “Those need to be taken care of before an impurity takes hold, and fever sets in.”

  After rummaging through her small satchel, she turned and scanned the chaos. Then, with a great effort, she hoisted herself to her feet and bustled off. She disappeared into the chaotic square and reappeared a moment later.

  “This is a blessed tonic of distilled dragon tongue, witch hazel, and moon wood,” she said, kneeling back down before him and hoisting a bottle. “It will clean and close your wounds, but a healer will need to put them right eventually, lest they never heal fully.”

  “Thank you,” Julian said, embarrassed by what he believed was unnecessary attention. His wounds seemed superficial compared to what others were dealing with at the moment. The young cleric smiled and pulled on the stopper. After struggling to pull the cork free, she held it up to Julian. He took the small bottle, and with a quick twist, popped the stopper free.

  She smiled gratefully. “This is probably going to burn…a lot.”

  She tilted Julian’s head back gently. He closed his eyes and welcomed the dark. He could feel her hovering over him. It felt like she was radiating energy, and it bristled the hair on his arms.

  The tonic ran down over his face. He felt her massage the thick liquid into every cut and crack in his skin. A complex, earthy perfume filled his nose.

  Julian’s face grew horribly tight and very hot, and for several agonizing moments he didn’t move or breathe. But the heat quickly faded, and when he drew in another breath all could smell was flowers. He felt a clean cloth against his face, his skin now quite raw to the touch.

  He opened his eyes. The young woman’s face was very close. Her hands supported his head, as she looked him over closely. He blinked rapidly trying to clear away the grime that blinded his right eye.

  Her hazel eyes hovered closer, and he couldn’t help but stare into their depths. He felt her breath on his skin. There was an invigorating spark inside of him as she brushed a loose strand of his hair back. A host of emotions flood into Julian, too many to immediately sort out.

  The young cleric let go of his face, and the connection was broken. The warmth within him retreated, leaving him feeling cold and empty.

  No matter how many times he blinked, he couldn’t clear away the blur in his right eye. He waved his hand out before him, but could see little more than shadow. Julian looked up and caught the cleric watching him. He could read enough from her expression to know that it wasn’t good.

  “My eye?” he asked softly.

  “There is a chance we can mend it. The prayers of our elders are strong. We have tended to worse maladies,” she said hopefully.

  “It’s alright. Really, it is,” Julian said dismissively.

  “I’m sorry I can’t do more for your pain, but I must go and see if I can help the others. Come to the Chapterhouse tonight. They will make sure you are properly looked after.” She bowed slightly and threw him a small smile before turning and moving away.

  Julian sat back and watched her disappear into the chaos. He fought desperately to hold onto the residual warmth that had sparked between them, but it was only a memory now. The ground seemed harder and colder, the sun dimmer, and every ache in his body hurt just a little bit more.

  Sky walked back over and pulled him to his feet. “You’ll fit in now, missing fingers, toes, ears. Hell, maybe now you’ll be just, well, just as good looking as the rest of us. Besides, your eye looks fine. It’s your hair you should be worried about. You look like shit. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink!”

  * * * *

  A few pints of frothy ale to dull the pain, and some much-needed sleep later, and Julian awoke bruised and sore. He forced himself up and out of bed. He picked up a small mirror from the table next to the bed. He barely recognized his reflection.

  Hair was missing from his scalp where the scars started. He traced the angry red claw marks all the way across his face. His nose looked broken. It was pushed off at an angle. Julian set his feet and braced himself. He pushed on his nose until it popped backs in place. His eyes instantly sta
rted to water. The pain was horrible.

  “You look horrible,” he said to himself, setting the mirror back down on the table. With a great effort, Julian eased his bulk back down upon his bed and rang the small bell that sat next to the mirror.

  After a few moments, a low rap sounded on the door, and the broad-shouldered figure of Gertrude appeared. She swept into the room, moving with purpose.

  “I was wondering when you would be stirring. I’ll draw you a bath. When you’re done cleaning up I’ll bring you something for your supper,” Gertrude said.

  Julian opened and closed his hands repeatedly, trying to work away the pain. He slipped gingerly into the hot water when the bath was ready, anxious to soak away the ache.

  He traced the scar up his thigh, troubling over the damaged flesh again and again. He fought to relax, but every time he closed his eyes he would see horrible things. He saw men’s faces, broken and ruined. Blood splattered across bodies. Their screams split the silence of his mind and clung to him like stains the hot water could not wash away.

  His spiraled deeper into his emotional hole. It was a bottomless pit filled with violence and conflict. He was assaulted by memory after memory until all of the light in his room seemed to slip away. The darkness crept in, threatening to swallow him whole. He started to believe that it was all he would ever know.

  A bright memory pierced the violence. He thought about the young woman, the cleric who had picked him up and put him back together. He remembered the warmth that blossomed deep within him as she used her healing magic on his torn leg. It felt like she had pushed a piece of her soul inside of him.

  Julian suffered his share of injuries growing up and received the attentions of a number of clerical healers. But their healing touch had never affected him like this before. It filled him with warmth and a strange sense of purpose. Without it, he felt empty and hollow.

  Gertrude pushed back through the door, jarring him from his thoughts. She kicked him out of the tub, despite his protests. His hands and feet were wrinkly and the water quite cold. Julian eased himself down on his bed, moving like a decrepit, withered old man. He eased into some clean clothes and settled into a chair to eat his supper.

  Julian sat before the hearth, staring listlessly and chewing. He ate all of the food, despite not having much of an appetite. He clutched his hands together. Even after scrubbing them clean, he swore he could still feel the dying soldier’s blood. He couldn’t stop thinking about the fear on the man’s face. He wondered what his last thoughts were. Perhaps of loved ones, maybe even regrets. The realization and finality of it all trouble him.

  Julian stared into the dancing flames, struggling to keep his thoughts from sliding back to dark places. A loud bell rang outside, signaling the change of the guard. Thankfully, it tore him away from such thoughts.

  He made his way slowly through the old city a short time later. He was moving towards the Manite Chapterhouse but actively tried to talk himself out of going. He believed that he could live with the scars. His wounds would heal. He was young and strong. He just needed rest. Yes, time could heal most wounds.

  It wasn’t just that he was prideful, for it was a strong thing. He didn’t want to be seen as weak, but that alone wouldn’t stop him from going. As much as he was compelled by his experience with the young healer, he was also wary of it too. He felt an attraction to her. But something about his feelings didn’t quite feel normal. He couldn’t put it into words.

  The streets were blissfully quiet. Dusk drifted over the city as the mountains claimed the last of the sun’s waning light. Iron braziers were being pulled out to line the streets. The city worked feverishly to repel the darkness in the wake of the morning’s violence.

  Where were they this morn? Julian thought bitterly. He had never seen so many soldiers walking the streets before. Some paced nervously. While others walked brazen, boasting loudly of how they could have single-handedly defeated the gnarl attack. Julian felt his face flush but fought the urge to slap them in the face.

  His easy stroll turned into a painful chore. The climb towards the upper city caused his leg to throb. Julian had to stop to catch his breath and rest. As he lingered, people would venture out of the dark doorways and alleys. Some looked homeless while others were more likely pickpockets looking to lift his coin purse. He pushed himself forward.

  After an arduous walk, Julian finally reached Bringenhald Square. He passed meticulously sculpted trees and carved water fountains. He limped along under the cloudless, periwinkle sky, the plants creeping between the stones of the walkways spongy underfoot.

  The Manite Chapterhouse loomed at the far end of Bringenhald square. It's smooth, hand-cut stones and jutting buttresses cast an impressive figure over the sprawling gardens. A small robed man pushed open the large polished wood doors as he approached, and without a word, closed them behind him.

  The sanctuary was a cavernous space. Its ceiling opened up, towering into a single peak far overhead. At the room’s center stood an impressive dais of solid granite supporting a solitary statue.

  The statue, crafted from pure moonstone, was the pride of some of Denoril’s finest artisans. The goddess, depicted in resplendent robes, stooped towards the ground, lovingly gazing upon a small figure lay prone in her open hands. Pilgrims lined up to touch or pray at the feet of the statue. Many held fresh flowers and other offerings to lie at its base.

  It wasn’t a new sight for Julian. In Ban Turin, people lined the streets, regardless of the cold or heat, for an opportunity to spend a few moments communing at the feet of the statue.

  Julian casually pushed through the line of pilgrims and made his way into the sanctuary. Clerics bustled about, tending to the sick and weary that sat or lay upon the ground. He kept out of the way and scanned the room, hoping to catch sight of a familiar face.

  He made his way all the way around the room and felt a pang of disappointment when he didn’t see her. He doubled back around, taking less care as he pushed through the line of pilgrims. The room, lit only by a mass of glowing candles, had grown darker. With only one good eye, Julian struggled to focus on the faces all around him.

  “Do you need help?” a man asked.

  Julian turned, expecting to find a withered old man in a robe, but instead found a sparkling eyed youth in an overly large tunic.

  “No…well. Yes,” he said, flustered as he continued to look around the room.

  “Can I help you find someone?” the young cleric asked hopefully.

  Julian rehashed his part in the attack earlier in the day, and the directions the young woman had given him. The young man nodded and listened. When Julian finished, he led him to the back of the sanctuary and into a round chamber lined with benches.

  “I will fetch Father Jorna. He will tend to you.” The young man bowed and swept away without another word.

  Julian found the hard bench uncomfortable and paced back and forth for a short time before finally settling back down to wait. People lay on the benches all around him, some infirm, coughing or moaning, while others were bandaged and bloodied.

  A lone figure, old and stooped, shuffled around the room, checking on people and whispering support. Julian shifted painfully on his bench to see all the way around the room. He was shocked to see so many people sick and hurting. It was a sobering sight.

  Julian grew uncomfortable. His injuries seemed trivial compared to the suffering of those around him. He decided to leave.

  Julian turned and started to slide off of his bench, but froze. Perched on the bench behind him was a young woman. Her red hair was matted and tied up to keep it out of her face. Her tunic was stained and wrinkled, and she looked haggard. Despite it all, Julian thought she look even more beautiful than before.

  “I knew you would come,” she said.

  Julian couldn’t help but smile.

  Chapter 8

  Retracing troubled steps

  The road provided Roman time to think, and on this particular errand that wa
sn’t necessarily a good thing. The arguments, fights, and dirty looks of the two winter thaws spent at Garon’s farm tumbled out of their hiding places.

  He hadn’t ever planned on confronting them again. Now, he had to deal with them, and he wasn’t entirely sure how. Foxglove and prairie thistle brushed against him as he plodded on, letting his mind wander back to troubled times.

  Greta took him in the day his father died, but when Garon found out, he smashed a mug on the table and threw his plate of food at the wall. Garon’s twin boys Arrin and Devlin laughed, and true to their nature, worked to throw fuel on their father’s fiery temper. Garon made sure Roman knew that he was not wanted there, often.

  Roman spent much of his time hiding in the farmstead’s kitchen, talking with Greta. He would help her cook and clean, and in the midst of peeling potatoes and baking loaves of bread, she would thrill him with amazing stories. Most, she claimed, were passed down through her family, from the days of Denoril’s first settlers.

  Roman loved to hear her tell of King Darius of Fanfir, and the Great War. It was a story of the old world and the bloody conflict that forced their people from their homeland.

  “King Darius was an old King,” she would say, “with many sons, tall and brave. Their nation was rich and prosperous. Their mines were heavily laden with ore and gems, and their soil rich with many crops.

  “There would be no peace. The nomads from the nearby mountain deserts of Tulibal invaded. A cruel man called ‘Marstus the Blooded' led an army of his hardiest desert kin. He wasn’t a King, but had proclaimed himself chieftain and War Lord of all the Ishmandi. His banner was stained scarlet by blood and war.” Greta told him that Marstus possessed terrible powers, and with those dark gifts fashioned an army of slaves, both man and beast.

  “King Darius’ army was large and well trained. They held against the onslaught for thirty sunrises. They were equal to the task of repelling Marstus and his hordes, but Darius underestimated him. The War Lord possessed a powerful staff. A relic of ancient power lost to the world of the sun and stars for an age.