Bellator: An Anthology of Warriors of Space & Magic

by A. L Butcher

  “It looks to me that none of your sell-swords will be aiding you either,” Gavin sneered.

  Carol looked the guard captain up and down and snorted at the posturing men. She had little time for such masculine displays, such foolishness had started this war now banging on the city gates. “Fredrick Hilary Ormson! You always were one to be awkward, even as a boy. I see nothing has changed ‘cepting now your sword is real. I brought you into this world, boy, and I smacked your arse when you gave your poor mother trouble. I’ll do it again, don’t you doubt it! Did you not think to fetch me to assist a woman in her need? They pays what they can afford, or they pays in kind. That is the way it is, and always has been. If some fool had thought with his purse and not his heart, you’d not be here now, nor that babe of yours neither.” With that she swept past, as the embarrassed captain stood aside.

  In short order, Carol arrived at the appropriate tent, residents of the camp helpfully pointing her along the way as word of her upbraiding of the most feared of the city guards preceded her. Handing the steeping herbs to the midwife, Lynette asked if Eleanor would be needed further, and received an abrupt, but not unkind dismissal. “There are plenty here to tend if you’ve the skill, from what I’ve seen. I will call if I need another pair of skilled hands. You have done what you can for her.”

  Lynette nodded, grateful and relieved. She pulled Eleanor away. “Let the midwife do her duty. There are others for you to see, and an apothecary’s apprentice for me to find.”

  Outside, Eleanor said with a soft voice filled with anger, “They’ve been on the move for so long with so little. I fear we’ve come too late. There is so much that should have been done...”

  “And it will be done now, under your watchful eye, my lady. Where the fire is, where I got the hot water, there’s a man suffering from a fevered dream. I really think you should go to him.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “What about those here? There are plenty who need us.”

  Lynette grabbed her arm, suddenly very serious. “Please, I really think you should tend to him. He’s…a man from our army, one of our own. Your touch is more tender than mine, and he may not have the time to wait. He needs the blessed touch of our Lady Mother.”

  Eleanor looked at the hand on her arm and the strange intensity in her cousin’s face. “What about the others?”

  Two wiry lads with small wooden cases slung across their chests arrived, looking somewhat confused. “The master says we are to give Her Ladyship whatever is required?”

  Almost shoving her towards the wagons, Lynette said, “I really need you to listen to me. Go and tend that fever. Now I’m able to aid this lass properly. Boy, bring that box over here and let us see if we can convince the wee babe to wait another two moons to arrive.”

  * * *

  Eleanor stopped just outside of the cluster of wagons and shifted the satchel slung over her shoulder, containing linen for bandages, a few poultices and salves, honey and herbs for infection and even poppy juice to dull the pain. The second apprentice hung back and just stared at the sick and injured clustered under the wagons.

  ‘So much need,’ she thought. Where did she even start? She wondered at Lynette’s strange behavior. Why was this man so special? She’d seen a few old soldiers already, mostly tending infections, the usual battle sickness, and once a younger man with his arm cleaved at the elbow.

  The one-legged old man looked up from the fire and started, as though perhaps he had been nodding in sleep and failed to notice Eleanor’s arrival. “Are you the apothecary? I thought the other lass might’n return after ‘while,” he asked, eyeing her satchel. “You brought food for us? Give some to the cripple yonder and his mate, they needs it more’n I.”

  “I?” Eleanor paused. “Lynette said there was someone with fever that needed tending. I’ve come to offer assistance until more healers from within arrive. I have some healing magic of my own, bandages and some poultices.”

  “Ah, well and truly, you both must be the Ladies Aid, or the Blessed Mother’s girl, but you’ll find no healers’ll come. We’ve called for’em before. Can’t pay, see?”

  Eleanor watched as he scooped water into a battered tin cup and held it out for her to take before pointing to the mound of ragged cloth bundled in the shadow of the far, upturned wagon, knowing she would need it to clean wounds and mix herbs. “They will come now or feel my wrath,” she murmured, the anger bubbling within.

  Feeling in the lining of her cloak, she pulled out a handful of coins, not a fortune but more than this fellow had seen in many a moon. Fetching a loaf of bread from her satchel, she broke it into pieces and handed both the coins and bread over. “For your kindness, Grandfather. There is food on yonder wagon, when I am done I’ll send the lad to bring you something.”

  She stepped over to the forms huddled in the shade beneath the upturned cart. It was cold out of the sun and she supposed most of the passersby had ignored these stricken forms, even if they had the means to help them. The crippled youth looked into the face of the woman who crouched close to his friend. She had a radiance about her, and a kindness which had been rare these last few months. Something about her was familiar, but he could quite not place what. Perhaps she just reminded him of better times, of the girls at home and the times before the war. Her hands found the pitiful pile of blankets and gently unwrapped them. “Can he drink? This will ease his fever. There is much infection here. Did the battle medics not think to tend him?”

  “Oh, aye, m’lady, but I’ll warn you; he’s a sight to see. The war was cruel, what it took from us, from him. So much lost to us, even most of the battle medics. He fought with honor, though, and he did not desert his men. Even at the end…” With slow and gentle practice, the young man lifted the bandaged head and brushed aside the matted hair and scraggly remnants of beard that erupted from the knobby scars across his face. In the dark shadows of the wagon, it was hard to make out more than a shape, but she saw Lynette had been correct. This man was a soldier, there was a broken sword at his side. They both had been in the war, for the other wore a ragged medal, which despite their need he had not the heart to sell. The man smelled of blood, infection and worse. Someone had tended him, bound the worst of his wounds but still he was a shell of the warrior he once had been. Inwardly she wept for this man, his friend, for them all.

  This was hardly the ideal place for a healing, but then she thought grimly, it seldom was. Those who needed such magical healing tended to be in dire straits so she must make the best of it. The man was soaked in sweat, muttering and moaning. She took his hand, and trying not to cry at this wreck of a man, she brushed her skin on his. “Mother Goddess Saule, give me the strength and blessing to heal this man.”

  Gently she pulled open his ragged, blood-spattered cloak and saw the glint of silver Lynette had seen. About his throat was an amulet, silver twisted in an eternal knot, and in the center was a dark and rare stone she knew so well. This was her gift to him, one summer day before he went to war. Then she saw the colors he wore, as her cousin had done. This was not just a man of her army, it was her man of the army.

  “Mother, save him. Take my life if a life you want, but spare him!” She could barely see through her tears, and touched the pendant at her own neck, also silver, a match to his. Soft white light weaved from her fingers, and she felt his pain, the terrible drain of magic spent and body broken. Washing his wounds and binding him in magic, she felt it tug at her, felt her strength ebbing, and the web of her gifts softly circled them both. Magic could heal and it could save, but such gifts were not assured. It might be too late, the wounds and magic loss too great. Even a battle sorcerer is a mortal, and what price had he paid on that field of war against his enemies? He would need time, hope, and care. Far more than he had received beyond these walls.

  Exhausted she carefully pressed the cup to his lips as the youth held his head, saying softly, “Please drink this, my love. It will ease your pain. Give you some strength. Slow sips. It’s poppy juice
and honey, with herbs, rosemary, yarrow and peppermint.”

  “Leena?” His voice trembled. Those hazel eyes she knew so well flickered open, suddenly intense despite being fever-bright. A pale and scarred hand gripped hers with surprising strength. If she needed any more confirmation, she saw the thin band of gold he wore, etched with her name in the language of the old tongue.

  Her fingers stroked the scars crossing his face. He was still handsome to his wife. She was not repelled as some would be, had been. With tenderness she wiped his brow, and whispered in his ear, “My husband, my lord, how come you to this?” Anger filled her, anger that any man in such a state, let alone the lord of the land, could be left this way, left to die, left in pain simply because he was outside the gates. What of the crippled soldier? This young soldier who’d tended his lord with such devotion. How many more? Her other hand found that of the young man and she held him too, this loyal soldier who had stayed with his lord, despite it all and despite his own wounds.

  Hearing the tell-tale rumbles of several carts nearing, and the excited chatter of the refugees as the carts passed, Eleanor called out loudly, “Gavin! Gavin, is that you? Do you have the healers? Gavin, you must see this!”

  Heavy footfalls told her it had been Gavin passing, and soon he was kneeling beside her. “M’lady? This is not a pregnant lass...”

  Eleanor held up the charm for Gavin to see. “No, it is His Lordship, my husband, left outside his own city gates. Left like refuse. Help him into the wagon, with the old man and the crippled boy too, who has been so kind. Take them to the keep. Then find others for any who cannot walk. If the merchants will not give their wagons or horses freely then commission them to the service of Lord Zander, tell them they will be recompensed, if that is all they care for. Fetch any with herb lore or a hint of healing and those who do not have it can provide food and blankets. I want the gates lashed open until every soul is inside. This is my edict as regent. If the Council refuses, then they shall be disbanded and I shall choose my own. How many more have been lost because they could not pay or were inconvenient? We will no longer turn away those in need. If needs be, we will house them in the courtyard or the gardens until they are fit to work or fit to leave.”

  Gavin opened his mouth to protest then, seeing the look of determination on her face, decided against it. Instead he laid his cloak upon the cart and gently settled his lord on it. Zander groaned, muttering the name he knew, his hand clasping her soft one. “I am here, you’re home,” she whispered.

  Walking close beside the wagon, head held high and one hand in his, she let them see him and the strength they shared. Gavin was shocked. His lord had been a big man, yet now he weighed barely more than Eleanor or Lynette. Yet he saw the look of love in her eyes, the steely will which would not yield. She would nurse him with her own hand and she would save him or die trying.

  * * *

  The autumn sun was crimson as it rose over the Golden Waters, staining them blood red. It was a fitting dawn for the memorial in the central gardens of the city. Eleanor leaned out over the battlements as she had a few months past and breathed in the cool air. Fluttering fabric caught her eye, and the bustle of bodies in the city even at this early hour reminded her of that day. Yet this day was very different. Tents, canopies and pennants lined the streets, wagons and caravans formed a circle, and a wooden stage was peopled with troubadours and acrobats. Today was festival day.

  Eleanor turned back and clambered down the iron staircase, which someone had decorated with ribbon. Standing before the mirror, she was pleased to see her complexion returned to its soft, delicate form as she slowly combed her honey colored hair, now with a hint of grey. The last few months had been taxing; there had been many heated discussions with the Council, a treasury already strained by war further strained by an uneasy and expensive peace and the recovery of many broken souls.

  As she wriggled into the crimson robes of state, now tight over her swollen belly, arms slid around her, lightly caressing the gentle curve of her stomach; arms scarred and marked by war, and their owner nuzzled her neck. With a giggle she spun and kissed him, her lips softly touching the scars on his face. “Enough of that, you need to get ready. There will be plenty of time after…”

  Zander sighed, pulling his own robes from the chest. “I never thought to wear these again,” he murmured, as she helped him dress. He was still weak, such wounds as his left a man with lasting souvenirs and he clutched the dark crystal-topped sword cane she had brought him, the stone a match to his locket. Heartstone, it was called.

  “Is Peter coming?” he asked, inquiring of the crippled soldier who had tended him so faithfully when others had not.

  “He’ll be there. This is for him too,” Eleanor said as she smoothed the red and black robes over his too thin shoulders and tied the floor length crimson and black cloak edged with gold. Finally she fetched the silver circlets, ancient and powerful, and giggled as he bent his head to her to receive it and settled hers on honey tresses, winding one in his fingers and placing it on his lips.

  The walk from the keep to the gardens took far longer than it would for a hale man, but Lord Zander had insisted he would walk to the memorial. It did him good to get the exercise and be seen.

  Townsfolk stopped to watch as he passed, some bowed their heads in respect and some threw flowers. This was both a celebration of life and remembrance of death. There was barely a family who had not been touched in some way by the war. Most of those who had once camped at the walls, those forgotten or ignored by the Council, had returned to their own lands, but a few remained. A dark-haired woman with a small babe in her arms thrust a rose into Eleanor’s hand, and Etelka dropped into a curtsy. They had nothing to return to and so they’d stayed and made a new life, and despite the odds, the boy-child thrived. They moved among the crowd to be lost to sight.

  A large black stone rose in the center of the garden, plain and polished to a mirror shine. The musicians played a song of war, a song of hope and finally a song of peace and, with some difficulty, Zander knelt to set the flowers they had bought and those handed to him by the Council members that were clustered around him.

  “This day is a day of sorrow, for we must remember those who fell. There are many who lie in a foreign field, who gave their lives in a cause they barely understood. I commemorate this stone, as those in the old days remembered the dead, to them. This day is also a day of joy, for war is over and families are reunited. This day I name ‘Eleanor’s Day,’ for it was she who brought me back and she who persuaded the Council to agree to peace. It was she who showed kindness to a cripple and his dying friend.”

  He turned to a face in the crowd, a young man, now in the colors of the city but settled on small cart. “My friend Peter, a man whose bravery was so much greater than many on that field of war, I name freeman of the town and grant him lands in the eastern quarter as Earl of Marchfield.”

  Bowing his head, Peter muttered he was simply doing his duty. A hand slipped onto his shoulder and the dark-haired widow smiled at him. With a grin, he kissed her hand. There would be no need of a dowry now. Etelka beamed. Her grandson would grow up in a noble house.

  As the music began once more, Zander slid his arms about his wife and managed to lead the dancing, until she made their excuses and settled beneath a canopy of red and black to watch the festivities. Gavin and Lynette danced to a very lively jig in the center of the throng. As the music came to a close, Gavin grabbed her under the arms and scooped her up, swinging Lynette in a wide circle before pulling her in for a passionate kiss.

  As Eleanor leaned against Zander, watching the strain of the day so far on him, Zander slipped a flower into her hair and whispered something. “Well, I see you are feeling better!” she replied, trying not to laugh.

  * * *

  About the Author: A. L. Butcher is the British author of the Light Beyond the Storm Chronicles series and several short stories in the fantasy and fantasy romance genre. She is an avid reader and cr
eator of worlds, a poet and a dreamer. When she is grounded in the real world she likes science, natural history, history and monkeys. Her work has been described as ‘dark and gritty.’

  Connect with the Author:

  http://libraryoferana.wordpress.com/

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6430414.A_L_Butcher

  http://www.twitter.com/libraryoferana

  https://www.facebook.com/DarkFantasyBeyondTheStorm

  About the Author: Diana lives in the balmy climate of the US south with her husband, two children, two dogs, two cats, and a cantakerous rabbit. She enjoys reading, sewing (clothing, costuming, and experimental toy making), and RPG games. (She grew up with the old school paper/pencil style of gaming, but has transitioned happily to the highly interactive world of video games.) Her usual writing venue is YA Fantasy centered around her universe called Feyron, the realm of magic.

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  https://talesfromfeyron.squarespace.com/welcome

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Tales-from-Feyron-The-Ripples-of-Power/421079171274185

  Russell placed his crutches against the wall and hobbled over to the chair he assumed was designated for him. It was as cold as the metal table placed in front of him when he sat. He never imagined being here, in a small interrogation room. He had heard the stories. The sal had designed them to be dark on purpose, knowing humans became unsettled when visibility was hindered. The torture devices they’d have to undergo were placed in the corner, foreshadowing what the poor souls had to look forward to in the following minutes. Electric shocks. Rapid cell regeneration in the lungs. Irradiating fingers and toes until they melted away, digit by digit. These aliens sure did have an imagination.