Scriber

by Ben S. Dobson

  “Thank the Mother and the Father, they found someone,” one of them—a tall bald man—whispered with relief. They stepped aside, allowing me a full view of the patient.

  As soon as I saw him, I knew that there was little I could do.

  His face was bruised and misshapen where he had been struck; the upper left side of his forehead dimpled inwards grotesquely beneath his thick black hair. Beside him was a bucket he had clearly been sick in more than once; the odor rising from it was foul. He was conscious, but his blue eyes were glassy and unfocused, and he seemed unaware of his surroundings. A spasm ran through him as I watched, his right arm and leg twitching violently for a moment before falling still.

  “We need to drain the blood from the skull,” the other Scriber, a heavyset man with dark hair, informed me. “But neither of us has the training.” He gestured helplessly.

  “You needed to do it half a day ago. From the look of him, I’m surprised he is not already dead.” Uran Ord would undoubtedly be an invalid for the rest of his life even if he survived; the pressure on his brain had likely already done irreversible damage. But one could not simply refuse to treat the High Commander of the King’s Army.

  I knelt beside the cot. “Go to Captain Bryndine’s wagon and get the trephining drill from my chest. I’ll also need a sharp knife, and make sure they’re both sterilized by alcohol and fire.” I closed my eyes, trying to think what else I might need. It had been a long time since I had even practiced the procedure. “Something to cut his hair with. Bandages too, this will be messy. And light, I will need more light.”

  The two men scrambled to obey, clearly glad to have passed on the responsibility for the High Commander’s life. Warfare trained Scribers knew combat better than anything; these two had a medic’s training, which qualified them for quick patch-up work in the field, likely even amputating limbs. But in the area of head and brain injuries, the Academy was only just beginning to make strides—few had the experience to confidently treat such ailments. I was no expert myself, having only practiced on false skulls at the Academy.

  Even if I had been able to make the attempt earlier, it would likely not have been enough. From his apparent symptoms I suspected there was bleeding within the brain itself, not just the tissue surrounding it, and the severity of the wound suggested a serious skull fracture, which meant many small fragments would likely need removal. If either of those things was true, the surgery required was far beyond my abilities.

  A young page came into the tent carrying two more oil lanterns, and I directed him in their placement around the cot. Shortly after that, the medics returned with the tools I had asked for. At my direction, they sat Ord up in bed and cut his hair as closely as they were able with a pair of barber’s shears, cleaning the stray hairs away with a wet cloth and wrapping a bandage around his brow to catch the heavy blood flow that always came with a cut to the head. He remained docile throughout, staring ahead with clouded eyes, though several times he cried out to someone who was not there, and the spasms passing along the right side of his body were frequent and unpredictable.

  “Do not let him move,” I instructed as I gingerly set the knife against his bare scalp. Taking a shaky breath, I pushed the blade down, starting the incision.

  Ord let out a tiny whimper as I sliced into his scalp. His blood flowed copiously out over my hands, staining the bandage above his eyes a deep crimson. But he did not struggle—he was too far gone. For all I knew he was reacting to some vision only he could see rather than the knife cutting into his head. Even a fully successful surgery would not return his mind to him, I suspected, but even so I forged ahead. It was the only thing I could do: he was the King’s nephew. If he died while I was in the tent, the consequences would not be pleasant for me.

  I peeled back the skin of his scalp along the incision, revealing the skull. The fracture where he had been struck was immediately obvious; the bone was cracked and depressed inwards, pressing in on the brain. Had I been more skilled, I would have attempted to lift the shards out of the depression, but I did not trust myself to do such delicate work. If I could make the trephination without complications, there was a chance it would relieve the pressure long enough to get Uran to the Academy for further surgery; anything beyond that was outside the limits of my ability.

  Trembling hands forced me to stop, and my stomach heaved, but I mastered my nerves and took the trephining drill in my hand. There was resistance as I began to turn the drill, and I wasn’t sure I had the strength to penetrate the bone, but then the teeth engaged and slowly began to bore through.

  By the time I penetrated the skull and the layer of soft tissue beneath, my arm ached badly, and sweat beaded on my brow. Blood spurted around the drill bit, spattering my shirt and gushing over my hands, thicker and faster than I was ready for. Pressure was certainly being released; for a terrifying moment I thought that it would not stop. But as I held my breath, the flow slowed to a manageable level.

  I had done it. My held breath burst from my lungs in a triumphant laugh. I shook my sore arm to loosen the tense muscles as I looked to the two Army Scribers with a satisfied smile.

  “It’s done,” I told them. “He just may survive this.”

  When I looked back, the High Commander was no longer breathing.

  “No.” I put two fingers against his neck; there was no heartbeat. Desperately, I pounded a fist against his chest once, then again, but it did no good. In the brief moment I had looked away, Ord had slipped quietly into oblivion.

  “No, no, no! It was done!” I lashed out with my foot and caught the bucket sitting near the cot. The foul smell within the tent grew fouler as vomit spilled across the ground.

  “He is with the Father now.” The bald medic put a hand on my shoulder. “You did all you could.”

  I wrenched myself away from him. “It doesn’t matter.” I rubbed my temple, forgetting that my fingertips were stained with the High Commander’s blood. “They’ll say I killed the King’s nephew.”

  Their faces both went white at that—it hadn’t occurred to them that we might be blamed for Ord’s death.

  “No, they can’t… We didn’t—” the heavier man stammered. “We only held him! It was you that did it!”

  “Your concern is touching,” I replied sarcastically. “But don’t worry yourself. It will be me they blame. I make for an easy scapegoat.”

  “They needn’t blame anyone.” The voice came from behind the medics—from the High Commander’s cot. Both of the other men turned towards the sound, blocking my view. My heart beat wildly in my chest as I shoved between them to look upon the cot where the dead man lay.

  Uran Ord looked back at me, his blue eyes clear and alive.

  Chapter Seven

  The Brothers of the Sky and the Sisters of the Earth, collectively known as the Children, are the preachers of the Mother and the Father. Their traditions are taken from the Book of the Divide, one of the few texts to survive even through the Forgetting, presumably dating back to a time before the cataclysm destroyed ancient Elovia.

  The Children maintain holy places known as Gardens in nearly every village, town, and city in the Kingsland. The main feature of a Garden is a grassy area of carefully tended vegetation where the Children give sermons, as plant life is the symbol of the Mother and Father’s love. To quote from the Book of the Divide, “Though forever parted, their love lives in all things that grow in the Earth and are nourished by the Sky”. Beyond that, however, the Gardens have little in common—they range from humble shacks on grassy fields to ornately designed structures surrounding verdant courtyards, like the historic Old Garden in Three Rivers.

  — From Dennon Lark’s Religions of Cendonia

  “Forgive me if this seems strange, Scriber, but I could not let my men hear me asking these questions.” Uran Ord sat on the edge of his cot, his head wrapped in white cotton bandages that masked the deep incision in his scalp. For a man who had been dead a quarter-hour before, he was surprisingly talka
tive. He had sent his medics away, and for the last quarter-hour or so, had questioned me thoroughly on subjects that he had no business not knowing the answers to.

  “It’s not unprecedented for a blow to the head to interfere with memory, High Commander,” I said with an assurance I did not feel. “But I would strongly recommend that you go to the Academy for examination.” I had been trying to convince him of this since he had awoken. It was not uncommon for a head wound to cause some memory loss, but it was very uncommon for a man to rise from the dead. I should have been relieved that he lived—it saved me from being blamed for his death. Instead, his unexplained resurrection made me more nervous.

  There was a low hum in my skull that made my head ache. The stench and the dim light in the tent did not help, but it was more than that; it felt as though there was a presence in the air that I could not see. I truly am going mad, I thought glumly.

  He gestured impatiently. “I assure you, I am fine. You did your job admirably; I won’t forget it.”

  He kept insisting that my treatment had saved him, but it was not true. I had seen him dead, felt his lack of breath and pulse myself. How he had come back I did not know, but it was imperative that he be looked at by a Scriber pinned in Medicine. “High Commander, you must—”

  “Enough. I am well, Scriber. Now answer my question.”

  “I have told you, Commander, I am not part of your company. I don’t know the officer’s names. There was a Lieutenant Ralsten watching outside your tent, that is all I can tell you.” This was one of the issues Ord had questioned me on at length—he had no memory of any of his men, or even his own cousin. I had been able to tell him why they were here; about Bryndine, and Waymark; but I was unable to tell him the names of his men.

  “Did he seem loyal to you? Would he help me in this quietly?”

  “I haven’t any idea, Commander. He appeared concerned about your well being, I suppose.”

  The noise in my head intensified and my headache grew worse as the conversation went on. I knew the sound, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it to myself; whispered voices, many speaking as one. I almost wept. Ever since I had dreamed of them, I could not seem to escape those voices. Soon, I knew, they would call for me to burn, and I would have no choice but to do as they told. I needed to get out of that tent.

  “Please, send him in for me.” Ord dismissed me with a wave of his hand, but as I turned away, his voice stopped me. “And Scriber—do not tell my cousin of this conversation. I… would not worry her.”

  It was strange, I thought, that he would be so concerned for a cousin whose name he could not remember. But I was happy to agree; I had my own issues to speak with Bryndine about, and no desire to prolong that conversation. Eagerly, I ran for the exit, nearly sprinting out into the night.

  The fresh air silenced the sound of voices, and I gasped it in gratefully, aware but uncaring that Lieutenant Ralsten was eyeing me suspiciously.

  “What happened, Scriber? The others said that the Commander had come back to his senses, but that I should not enter. Why was I not called in immediately?”

  “He will see you now, Lieutenant. He simply had some questions for me first.”

  “Is he recovered, then?”

  I chose my words carefully. “He is… much improved. It may take time for him to be as he was.”

  “But he will recover with time? I warn you, Scriber, it’s on your head if he doesn’t.”

  “Of course it is. I should have thought of that when someone else shattered his skull,” I said dryly.

  Ralsten narrowed his eyes and was about to respond, but I cut him off.

  “Lieutenant, for good or ill, his recovery had little to do with me. Go, he is waiting for you.”

  As I walked through the camp back towards the wagon that held my things, I was stopped several times by people from Waymark. Word of Uran’s recovery had apparently already spread, and now they had one more thing to congratulate me for that was not my doing. I was not polite in setting them right on the subject, but most simply refused to hear my protests—though I did send Penni Harynson away weeping with a particularly rude rebuke.

  The cloying, ignorant admiration of the villagers would have been bad enough, but each time I was forced to stop and talk was also a moment longer standing there in my filthy, bloodstained clothes. I had not changed since the attack, and my clothing was stiff with dried blood and sweat. All I wanted was to put on a clean shirt and pants and wash my hands and face.

  I was pulling a change of clothes from my chest in the back of the wagon when Josia Kellen approached me. I did not notice her immediately, until she spoke my name in a thin, broken voice.

  “What is it, Josia?” I asked, annoyed at this latest interruption. “If you’re here to talk about the Commander, I had nothing to do with his recovery. I’m busy.”

  “You saw her do it, didn’t you?”

  “Saw what, Josia? I don’t—”

  “You saw her kill my Hareld.”

  I was taken aback by the dangerous edge in her voice. She did not sound like the kindly, overly talkative woman I knew. “Josia, he was trying to kill me. Bryndine stopped him.”

  Josia cocked her head, as though listening to something far away, and for a moment, I thought I heard the faint sound of whispering—but no, it was nothing, just wind in the trees.

  “He wouldn’t!” she insisted. “She murdered him!”

  She had lost her home and her husband in a single night; she deserved sympathy, more than any of the others did. But this was dangerous talk. Bryndine was the King’s niece, and while her reputation led to a good deal of insults and mockery, Josia sounded as though she was on the verge of attacking with more than just words.

  I climbed down from the wagon to speak with her. “Josia, I’m sorry. This must be… hard for you.” I tried to make my voice comforting, but it sounded unconvincing even to me. “But Hareld… he was—”

  “He wasn’t with them!” she shrieked, wrenching herself from my grasp. She backed away several steps, staring at me with tears in her eyes. “I thought you would understand. You saw it.”

  Again, I thought I heard a quiet whisper in my ear—it sounded like “Vengeance”. It isn’t real, I told myself. I’m imagining it. But I saw Josia’s eyes go wide as she turned away from me.

  “Josia, wait!” But she didn’t stop, and I couldn’t follow—it felt too much like giving in to the voices I was hearing, admitting they were real.

  I was certain that she couldn’t have actually heard the whispers—there were no whispers to hear. Whatever was happening to me, it was only in my head; it had to be. But still, I resolved to warn Bryndine when I spoke with her, for Josia’s sake. If she did try anything stupid, Bryndine could probably subdue her without harm.

  When I had changed my clothing, I went to find Bryndine. She and her company had built up their own fire on the outskirts of the main camp, though I did not know if they were avoiding the other soldiers or if the other soldiers were avoiding them. Several women loitered around the fire talking; others were busy seeing to the horses, sharpening weapons, and doing various menial tasks. I still had not gotten a clear count of their numbers, but my earlier estimate of about twenty seemed accurate.

  As I approached the fire, I recognized a few of the women around it. Sylla stared sullenly into the flames as she sharpened her longsword, and I wondered why she was not with Bryndine. Genna sat with two other women—a slim redheaded woman I recognized from the battle in Waymark, and a wildhaired blonde who was telling a story full of extremely foul language. The last woman I knew was Tenille, who stood with her back to the fire, speaking to two younger women who immediately moved to follow whatever order they had been given.

  Tenille saw me coming before the others. “Dennon,” she greeted me. “I’m glad to see you on your feet again.” The women around the fire turned towards me, save for Genna, who focused her eyes on the ground in front of her.

  “What happened to you anyway, S
criber?” asked the foulmouthed blond woman. “You were screamin’ like a cut-rate whore, I thought one of the village girls was havin’ a little fun watchin’ the fight. Some folk, the danger gets them goin’.” She grinned at me and I felt my cheeks redden.

  Genna’s face flushed redder still. “Orya!” she squeaked, horrified.

  Orya just laughed, raising a hand to scratch at the wild tangles of hair atop her head. “Mother’s teats, Genna, it’s a joke. He don’t mind.” She looked to me for verification. “You know I don’t mean nothin’ by it, right Scriber?”

  I did mind, in fact. I was in no mood to be mocked on this particular subject; not while the voices still haunted me at every turn. But I didn’t know what to say. I was certain that any attempt to defend myself would only make me look more foolish.

  “Missing the point as usual, Orya,” the red-haired woman said, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement. “The Scriber was just calling for reinforcements. What brings the High Commander running faster than the sound of a cut-rate whore?”

  Laughter broke out around the fire, and Orya guffawed louder than anyone. I found myself chuckling along with them—Uran Ord’s taste for seedy brothels was one of the nobility’s worst kept secrets. Only Sylla remained silent, grimly sharpening her blade. I wondered if she was even capable of laughter.

  “That’s hardly appropriate, Deanyn,” Tenille scolded, trying and failing to keep the smile off her face. “The High Commander is wounded.”

  “Rumor is that the Scriber’s already taken care of that,” Deanyn said. “Besides, I’m not speaking ill of him. I’m just admiring his devotion to putting money in the hands of the less fortunate.”

  Another round of laughter. Apparently Bryndine’s women were not fond of the High Commander. I wondered if Deanyn realized the favor she had done me; if so, it had been accomplished deftly, making Ord the butt of the joke in my place with a single comment. Whatever her intent, I was grateful.