Winter Warrior (Song of the Aura, Book Two)

by Gregory J. Downs

  “At least he rests undisturbed,” Lithric sighed, shaking his head.

  Gribly grimaced and tried not to look as helpless as he felt. “Let’s see the wound.”

  It was ugly. The old cleric woke the apologetic guard to unwrap it.

  “Didn’t know… I… sorry for…”

  “It is all right,” Lithric told the nymph, “We’ve all been taxed heavily, and luckily no harm came to your lord while you slept. Make up for it, and help us to look at him.”

  Just then, a familiar voice broke in on the three gathered at the sickbed.

  “Wait for me! I think I can help, if you’ll let me.” It was Elia. She apparently had followed them from minutes after they had left. “It didn’t hit me until you had left, but my Second Form allows me some power in healing. I may be able to help the Raitharch, if…” she broke off and looked at Gribly suddenly embarrassed. He understood.

  “In case I can’t do anything? Well, we’ll just see about that,” he huffed, turning to Varstis’s side again.

  The blow had been dealt with a blade- that much even he could see. As the folds of cloth were carefully peeled back from the Raitharch’s body, a violent-looking, inch and a half-wide hole was revealed, dark and bubbling with the nymph’s blood. It was in the lower part of his trunk, where Gribly supposed a person’s stomach probably sat, on the nymph’s left side (Gribly’s right). The sheer volume of blood on it and the sheets was astounding. He almost choked, and Elia made a scared, sickly sort of noise behind him.

  “H-how hasn’t he bled to death yet? And why isn’t his wound closing?” Gribly spoke quickly and sharply to keep himself from feeling sick. Cleric Lithric rolled his tongue in his mouth, musing on an answer.

  “Though I have not the elemental might of a Strider, Prophet Gribly, I am granted power of a different kind by the Aura and the One Whom they serve. I have been bending all my will and the strength of my prayers towards keeping Varstis alive, and my wishes have been granted. As for the wound, I am utterly at a loss. Our healers are few here, but such as they are they have been able to find no solution. It bleeds and yet does not heal or scab, and it will not dry on his flesh.”

  “Ah… uh… I think…” Gribly stammered, feeling bile in his mouth. “Woulth you minth if I thpit thomewhere?” he finally managed. Lithric raised an eyebrow, and Gribly felt the cleric both understood him and was not surprised.

  “By the head of the bed,” he motioned, and Gribly stepped across him to see. Behind the bed was a hole in the ground, raised up almost a foot and descending downwards into a shadowy depth that could not be measured. Water splashed and slapped below.

  Gribly spit, then returned to the side of the bed, feeling woozy. Elia had changed into her Swimmer Form, and was staring impassively ahead. He hoped he hadn’t made her mad, but he couldn’t tell.

  “I don’t get sick as easy, this way,” she said, as if to no one.

  He looked at the wound again. It was thin, but almost triangular.

  “Does it come out the other side?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Cleric Lithric nodded, looking gray.

  Gribly felt a cold, soft touch on his shoulder. Elia.

  “Please, would you mind if I tried to heal him?” she asked. “I’ve never worked with anything this serious before, but I’d like to try.”

  He searched her face, anxious for some sign that she cared or was angry with him. It was just too hard to tell, when she didn’t look like a human. He sighed and nodded, stepping aside. What did he know, anyway? The Wave Strider stepped forward, wincing a little at the still-flowing blood, and put her hand out towards the wound. Her fingers quivered with tenseness and, likely, fear. The watery translucence of her hand entered the wound, and the result shocked those who saw it so much there was a collective yell.

  Steam hissed up from where her fingers touched the blood. A loud hiss broke the silence that had crept up on them all in anticipation, and Raitharch Varstis woke with a scream. “AHH!”

  Elia hiccuped in fright and stumbled back, almost into Gribly’s arms. He steadied her, shaking from the unexpected scream himself, trying to look as if it hadn’t fazed him. She shrugged off his arm as soon as she was steady again, frowning at him. That one look cut like a wound, and Gribly quickly looked away…

  …Straight into the wild eyes of King Varstis. The panicked Raitharch snatched his elbow before he had time to think, and pulled him closer to the bed- an impressive move for an invalid.

  “Help me, Prophet!” he rasped, his eyes bloodshot and spittle flying from his lips. “It’s gotten inside of me and I can’t get it out! Help me… help… me…” Then the nymph’s grip relaxed and he fell back on his pillows, unconscious and shaking with illness and pain.

  Silence. Complete, total, depressing silence. Gribly looked around and found all present staring at him hungrily. Gazing, afraid and expectant. Waiting for him to save their king.

  “I…” he started, then turned sharply away. He couldn’t do this! He didn’t even know what he was supposed to do!

  Reaching out tentatively, on a morbidly curious whim, he touched the wound as Elia had.

  An image flashed before his eyes and mind, more real than waking: the young Pit Strider with the same face as he, glaring venomously at him as flames devoured his face.

  Then it was gone, and he found himself tipping over from a whole new wave of exhaustion. He heard cries of “Quick, he’s going to fall! Catch him!” and “Look! By the Powers, there’s something in the king’s body! It’s moving!”

  Strong, rough hands caught him and held him upright. It was the sleeping guard. Ever practical, Lithric issued instructions from behind. “Keep his hand on the wound! There, yes! Yes! It’s coming out! Gracio lei Yuvatarr! I’ll deal with this!”

  Gribly felt something sticky and hot poke his thumb where it rested on the Raitharch’s wound. Then a wave of nausea hit him, and he fainted.

  Not again…

  Chapter Twenty: We Will Rejoice…

  The cycle repeated itself: Sleep, Dream, Wake.

  Sleep: Gribly felt nothing, not even pleasure as the sleepless days of toil were washed into oblivion. He was too deep in the flow, and the aches of his journey were slowly falling from him, one at a time, bringing relief and peaceful rest.

  Dream: When at last he did, it was of Elia. Elia as he knew her, and Elia as he wished she would be… Pleasant, but fuzzy and unreal. He knew, somehow, that they were all dreams. All except one: a dream of her, standing by his bed, bathed in moonlight from a high window. She was crying in that dream. It played itself out over and over again, always a little differently than before.

  Wake: When he finally did, Gribly found it to be not-so-different from his dreams. Moonlight. A round tower of warm stone, stretching up above him into a domed roof. A comfortable bed, and a fire in the hearth. A fire… ah, that was good. It had been too long since he had felt real warmth, and now he was immersed in it. Too good to be true. It had to be another dream. Elia stood by his bed in nymph-form, brushing the coverlet with her hand.

  When she saw he was awake, her wistful expression turned to a slight frown and uneasy eyes. No, this was not a dream after all. It was real, for better or worse.

  “Where am I?” Gribly heard himself saying, before his thoughts had caught up to his situation.

  Elia’s face lost a little of its coldness when she heard his voice shake. “You’re in the Tower of the Stars. Menstron Lithi. It’s Cleric Lithric’s personal chamber.”

  “The Cleric’s?”

  “Yes. He was gracious enough to lend it when you collapsed back in the sick room.”

  “How long have I been… asleep?”

  “A day and several hours. Lauro and I were given quarters too, and we’ve been sleeping in them for most of that time. We were all so tired…” her voice trailed off and her eyes lost their focus. She doesn’t look like she slept much, Gribly thought, and he wondered why that was. “Raitharch Varstis is alive, and getting better,” sh
e said, speaking as if it was an afterthought. There was a pause.

  “Well,” he said finally, to break the awkward silence, “I don’t feel very tired now. In fact, I feel like celebrating! It looks like all our troubles so far have turned out for the best…” a memory of Byorne came to him then, bleeding and dying. He gulped. “At least… better than they could have been.”

  Some of the girl’s serenity returned as she answered him, smiling. “Yes, I suppose. In fact, there’s a celebration going on right now, right in the place where we- I mean, you- defeated the Sea Demon. The Reethe are hard to scare, I guess. They’ve cleared away all the ash and built beautiful white canopies to have feasts and games and dances under. The celebration hasn’t stopped since it started half a day ago. It’s glorious.”

  Her eyes glowed when she said that, looking off into the distance as if savoring a sight she could see but not touch.

  “Haven’t you gone down to it, then?” he asked, sitting up and propping himself up on the mountain of paleswan’s feather-pillows at his back.

  “No,” she said. “But Lauro has. He’s there now.”

  Odd. He calmed himself and tried to keep from thinking why that all might be.

  “Well, I think I’ll go down there now. I feel hungry enough to eat a dozen roast beasts!” he exclaimed. What he had said jerked him back to another, dangerous thought. “Wait… Elia, what happened to Steamclaw? In all the ruckus after the fight… Oh no! I don’t even remember when I last saw him! He could be anywhere now!”

  “I don’t think it-he’ll hurt anyone. He left almost as soon as he saw you were all right.”

  “How do you know?”

  She paused and looked uncertain. “He told me… or at least, I think he did. It was strange, but I got the feeling he’s just waiting for us to leave here so he can join us again. It’s like he sensed you were all right, and knew he could leave for a while. But I’m sure he’s fine. Let’s not talk about it.” She looked more unhappy with each sentence. Gribly wanted to scream, but instead he tried to smile as friendly as he could.

  “Well, no use moping. What do you say we go down and join this feast? Maybe even dance? I could use some not-life-threatening exercise for once.”

  His grin quickly faded. Blast it! What’d he gone and said now? Elia was blushing and fidgeting at his mention of dance. Why couldn’t he have just kept that to himself? He hadn’t even really been serious… Ugh.

  But something odd happened. She shook her head, and he slumped back down, thinking he had been defeated.

  “Much better now,” she said, rubbing her forehead and pushing back her shimmering hair. He looked up and her face was less sad than before… more open, perhaps. She looked him in the eye. “I’m sorry if I’ve been acting strange. Everything’s just been a bit much, is all. I’d love to go to the celebration now, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Yes, I would.”

  He smiled, and slipped out of the bed. He found warm, light shoes with high tops and a buckle on each to wear. He found he had been dressed in a white garment that allowed free movement while still keeping him warm. It looked decent, and he smiled at Elia when he was ready to go.

  “I know I’m just a street boy, Elia, and I know I’m not worthy of all the good luck that’s come my way… but…”

  “There isn’t any such thing.”

  “As what?”

  “As luck. There is no luck. Only the will of the Creator, and the Aura who obey him.”

  “Oh.” He stopped and frowned. And why not? He smiled again. “Then in that case… I’d say their will was for us to forget the blazes we’ve gone through to get here, and enjoy the blessing of all these good friends and noble warriors. What do you think?”

  She smiled back at him. There was sadness in that smile, and hurt, too. But she meant it, and that was all that mattered to him.

  “Fine,” she agreed, “Let’s go.”

  ~

  “Years of toil endured across the realm,

  Years of war and ruin;

  And he laughs like a child with his tone always mild;

  Yet our peace barely won is his doing.

  Hither he goes, thither he goes,

  Telling us naught of his homeland;

  But stories he'll tell- of the fair and the fell;

  And deeds done by a hero's hand.

  He pays every inn-fee with legends;

  Tales of valor his right-of-way,

  Taking his sup as the fire leaps up-

  He tells through the night into day.

  Men do not fear him, their welcome is sure,

  They know him, and welcome his charm,

  Through wastelands he delves, meeting goblins and elves,

  Even the evil ones dare do him no harm.

  Always he travels- has he no home?

  Many lives of great men has he wrought,

  But little they know- it has always been so,

  For a life all-immortal he's bought.”

  The poem sounded wonderful to Gribly, more because it was about Traveller, the Aura who seemed determined to be his guide, and even more so because it was Elia humming it to him. They were seated on thick, colorful mats laid out on the smooth space in the celebration circle, listening to two nymph women and one man sing in smooth, sweet harmonies, stunning even without music, and powerful without being loud, hauntingly melodious in the ancient tongues of the first Reethe to build homes from the ice with their hands and their frost-striding gifts. The girl was translating it to him in a soft voice, even managing to make the words rhyme. A bonfire blazed happily behind the singing trio, and candlelit tables overflowing with food and drink stretched away behind the Singing Canopy, still occupied by countless nymphs.

  Gribly had never been so happy in his life.

  Elia had unbent towards him a good deal during the feast. It had lasted all through the night, and even now the gray dawn was slowly creeping into the eastern sky. During the meals (and there were many), he had completely lost track of time.

  Gribly had stolen a hefty amount of food in his life, and though most of it had been no better than the shriveled onion he’d pinched at the Royal Market, what seemed like an eternity ago, a goodly amount had been scrumptious enough to satisfy a nobleman’s daughter… who was exactly the person he’d stolen it from, incidentally.

  The Reethe celebration put all of it to shame. How the nymphs grew such delicious items in what he could only think of as a barren, ice-crusted wasteland was beyond him.

  Fruits he had never seen, arrayed in dishes and arrangements he’d never imagined! Meat from a hundred different succulent, thick-muscled animals and fish, spiced with flavors that tantalized the tongue and made the mouth water nonstop, just from the smell! Green plants that tasted sweet and sour and wholesome, all at the same time! Breads and pastries of all shapes, sizes, textures, and flavors!

  There was course after course and dish after dish, all made from ingredients totally foreign to him… and totally palatable, of course. Not to mention the drink: ales, wines, and meads of a hundred different flavors, and varying levels of potency. Gribly drank some, but not much, preferring the sweet, cool, fruit-distilled drinks given to the younger feast-goers.

  In Ymeer, there had been no distinction between wine and water- in fact, wine had been cheaper, and even more so was the flat, brown ale gulped down by the barrel by every citizen, poor or rich. Gribly found it interesting that the Reethe did not allow their young ones to drink- perhaps they knew more than they boasted about raising families. It looked like a good practice- there certainly were more and healthier children about, and almost every family was large, boisterous, and happy.

  So events had gone, and now were coming to a close. The celebration would continue on until the Raitharch ordered a stop to it, but Gribly felt a restlessness growing inside him that he couldn’t quell. Morning would bring on a newer and stranger chapter in his quest, he was sure. He thought like that now- always ahead, always perc
eiving things he hadn’t before- bad as well as good. All the more confirmation that there was something powerful and ominous about his new role as a prophet… whatever that might entail.

  For instance, Raitharch Varstis.

  They had gone to visit him, Elia and Gribly, before they attended the feast. He had been pale and thin, but alive and growing stronger every moment. The jagged tip of a white-bladed sword had been removed from his wound, wriggling out in what Cleric Lithric hinted later could have been an attempt to pierce Gribly himself, as he touched the wound. It had been disposed of, and now the Reethe King was making a miraculous recovery. Elia had stepped in once the blade tip had been removed, and found that her powers finally had an effect.