Legend of the Iron Flower Box Set (Books 1-4)
Page 25
With similarly surprising speed, the zombie dodged the stool coming at its head. Wait a second. Zombies didn't dodge, did they? Maybe it was a ghoul? Isaac knew he was dead; ghouls had more than the mindless strength of their zombie cousins, but also agility and cunning. He would have stood little chance if he was thirty years younger, armed properly, and had Jerome at his side. Jerome, who had probably been eaten while he tried to fall asleep...
Isaac was then amazed by the speed with which all this had passed through his mind, because he had gained these insights between when the "ghoul" had dodged his swing and now, as it struggled to keep its balance after leaning back and then fell clumsily onto the ground, its face contorted with... pain? Realizing then that he had indeed been given Odin's divine favor, Issac raised his stool triumphantly.
"Stop," the thing gasped bloodily, and Isaac obeyed with a start.
The surprised priest slowly lowered his stool, trying to force words from his mouth. "You—you speak? I didn't think undead could do that."
"Well, some do—at least I've heard of such in stories, but I'm—I'm alive," it—she—answered. "My name's Rose Agen. I'm a member of the road watchmen—farther downriver we were attacked by a group of... men, they looked like bandits but didn't... act it. They were bold, relentless; and showed no fear of us. I'm the only one left." She sounded honest—if she was alive, she was probably in too much pain to lie. Still, Isaac had to make sure, and reached down towards her thick neck. "You're going to take my pulse?! Hurry up, if I don't get patched up better soon, there won't be any blood left to pump!"
"Done. My lord, you are still alive, somehow. How far did you walk here with these wounds?" Pity filled Isaac, and his wariness melted away. He began to pick her up, but found her heavier than expected. The effort tired him, and he set her back down before he dropped her. Well, she was a big girl, and extremely solid... Where the hell was Jerome?
#
Rose smiled gratefully at the old priest's effort in the spite of the pain caused when he set her down on the hard ground, none too gently though he tried his best. He yelled for Jerome to no answer, then looked helplessly around. At last, he grabbed her shoulders as if to drag her, but Rose didn't want to know how it felt to be dragged with her wounds across the bumpy old floor she saw inside.
"Just give me a second," she said, and gripped the side of his door.
He stared with amazement as she summoned all her willpower and pulled herself to her feet, to stand swaying and taking ragged breaths while fresh blood seeped through her makeshift bandages. "Now help me into a bed, okay? I really hope somebody here knows how to stitch up wounds. Some of them would be, ah, hard to do myself."
The old man supported her as she walked. "Well, my assistant Jerome should know what to do. He trained as a tailor when he was a kid, cloth and skin can't be that different can it? And we've got plenty of wound dressing, they keep bringing it here for us to treat injured travelers. We haven't gotten many of those, and I'm glad about that. I figure you'll use up a lot of our stock getting better, huh?"
Rose knew he attempted to cheer her up with humor and the implication she would be all right, but also knew herself wounded enough to kill most men, and was still too numb with grief to appreciate forced jokes. So instead of responding, she hung her head and pretended not to hear as he helped her to the guest room.
But he surprised her when they reached the bed by asking, "Your friends who died, where are their bodies? I'll go bury them sometime, while Jerome takes care of you. I'm a priest, I'll make sure they get the proper blessings."
She looked at him and replied with a sincere, "Thank you. But I already took care of it. I'm no priest, but after the ordeal the gods put us through today, they would have to be crueler than the worst villains I've met not to give us some respite when it comes to proper funeral rituals."
#
Isaac finally got the girl—she was a heavy one indeed!—into the bed, and after getting her some water, began to remove her shredded clothes. Somehow, the poor thing was still conscious; as he jolted her maimed body repeatedly trying to get a good look at all her wounds, she finally screamed, unable to hold it back any longer. He looked at her hesitantly, and to his surprise she nodded, face covered with sweat, for him to go on.
After inspecting and washing her gruesome wounds, he started to sew unsteadily, calling upon the basic skills Jerome taught him when they had both been bored. Where was the boy?! Then again, it was not uncharacteristic for him to go get firewood, or fishing, in the middle of the day. It just irritated Isaac that he had picked this particular time, when he was needed most, to disappear. Not Jerome's fault of course, but still, Isaac had enough excitement and stress for the day and wanted some damn help!
Eventually, Isaac finished doing what he could for the girl, and was again amazed by her ability to retain consciousness when she asked him what he had to eat. After he told her, she requested some fish soup. When Isaac returned, however, he found her finally asleep.
Now he took a closer look at the girl—Rose, she had called herself. She was even younger than he'd thought at first, in her teens and little more than a child in his estimation. She wasn't as tall as he had thought when mistaking her for a corpse, though still the equal of many a man in height, but was as powerfully built as a young ogre. The ends of her wavy, voluminous dark hair, caked with blood, rested messily on her broad shoulders. Her face was round and pretty, with soft pink lips and eyes he recalled were a light blue color, like the spring sky.
Isaac felt tears well up in his eyes as he recalled the terrible wounds she bore. He had closed their exteriors, but several of them had been very deep. He doubted she would ever wake up again, but that was up to the gods, and Rose herself, now. After saying a few prayers for her, he tried to put her fate from his thoughts, but could not bring himself to leave her bedside. As he ate the tasty fish he had prepared for her, he found himself worrying about another matter at hand.
Over an hour had passed since Isaac heard the knocking at his door, and that made at least two hours since he last saw Jerome. Before, he assumed the boy had been working in the garden, but now it became clear he was not nearby. Gathering firewood usually got done quickly, but fishing could take hours. So there was no real reason for him to worry, and yet he did. Isaac waited for the rest of the day by Rose's bedside, but saw no sign of his assistant even well after sunset, and eventually fell asleep.
#
Rose awakened to the harsh sunlight burning into her morning-sensitive eyes. She tried to cover them, but couldn't quite muster the strength to raise her hand. It felt like she hadn't eaten or slept in a week, and every breath engulfed her in unbelievable pain. Boy, she had never felt this weak in her life! Rose saw the priest asleep in the seat next to her. The thought he'd prayed for hours for her touched her, and she smiled gratefully at the insensate man.
Well, she was glad to be alive at least, whoever she had to thank for that. At the same time, she thought of her dead friends, and began to sob softly. But she feared she would wake the priest and knew he needed his rest, so she stopped in spite of her grief. She looked around for her trusty broadsword, and took a small measure of comfort in seeing it propped up by her bedside.
#
Isaac heard the front door opening and looked to see a familiar face. "Jerome, you're finally back! Make breakfast, and come check on this young lady when you're done. I'm exhausted; need a few more minutes of rest, and hot food. What young lady? Oh, you wouldn't believe what happened last night. I almost killed an injured girl who I mistook for undead. Gods, she was hurt as bad as anyone I've seen alive. Actually, I think I should check if she's still alive."
She was, but had not awakened and looked terribly frail. Shaking his head, Isaac walked to the lavatory (a room with a hole in the floor) to take a piss, came back, and sat again. When he opened his eyes after what seemed a relatively long nap, he saw there was still no food to be had and realized he again badly needed to use the bathroom.
"What's taking so long?" he yelled, and looked at Rose to find her awake and gazing at him curiously.
"He hasn't come back yet. You were dreaming." The girl was as pale as before, and her voice small and weak.
Isaac sighed. "I know. I knew it when I woke up for real. I was just hoping I was wrong. I'll be right back." He got up and repeated the actions of his dream, only this time he made breakfast himself. As he began cooking, he thought he saw the shape of a man among the bushes outside his window. It disappeared before he could call out to it, and he decided not to investigate further. It could easily have been a shadow or figment of his imagination, and even if there really was somebody snooping around, at least they hadn't tried to harm him yet. He had no desire to do anything that might tempt them to do so.
"So Rose, what exactly happened to you? You said you were attacked by bandits? Could any of them have followed you here?" Isaac hoped she would say no.
"No, they're all dead. It was unbelievable—it's not that they didn't seem to value their lives, because they did. They all fought with every ounce of effort to stay alive and win, but never tried to run until it was too late, when they were too badly wounded to get away. It was like they had the utmost confidence in their abilities; even as their fellows died around them, none of them considered the possibility of their own failure."
Isaac frowned. "Sounds like they were insane. How many were there, and how did you encounter them?"
Rose paused as if to steady her nerves. "They attacked us as we were moving to hunt them down! Four of our members had gone missing recently, and then we found their heads outside our doorstep. So our whole Watch House went out after them, all sixteen who were left. We were fully armed for battle, and yet just after we left the outpost to look for them, they came at us in broad daylight. We couldn't have been more surprised if they attacked our base when we were sleeping.
"They rushed out of the forest dressed in foliage from the bushes, and for a moment I thought they were monsters. They fought like monsters too, many wielding weapons in both hands with shocking precision. It seemed at first they possessed incredible skill, but I wouldn't have thought men with that kind of training would have to settle for being common bandits.
"Now that I think about it, it didn't seem like they had much in the way of technique, but their coordination and reaction speed were just amazing. We were hard pressed to keep up with them, but everyone who fell died fighting. I like to think it was our determination and resolve that made us nearly a match for them. Still, it took more than one of us to kill most of them, and often"—she sniffed—"the only opening they gave was when they were killing one of us."
Seeing she was close to tears, Isaac felt guilt at stirring up her painful memories, but out of curiosity persisted. "How many of them were there, exactly?"
Now a bit of shame joined Rose's grief, as she replied hesitantly, "I'm not sure, but perhaps... a dozen of them?"
Isaac wasn't surprised. The way she had described them, these men had been real terrors. Now he wondered at the wounds she bore—had she fought to the very end and emerged victorious, if it could be considered victory, or fallen wounded early on, sparing her from the mutual destruction of both sides? "What was your part in the battle? How did you survive?"
Tears had begun to flow down her downcast face, but at his question Rose looked proudly into his eyes and the faintest trace of a smile tugged at her mouth. "I killed four of them. It was all I could do to repay them for the friends they took away."
Realizing that Rose was more than the gentle girl he'd seen thus far, Isaac said, "Go on."
She continued shakily. "Their aggressiveness made many of us hesitate in fear, but I charged them as soon as I realized what was happening. The first one I came at from the side when he wasn't looking at me, and nearly cut in half. Then I saw their leader kill a watchman and attacked him, but another came to his aid, hoping to kill me quick. They cut me many times, but I crushed the second one's windpipe with the edge of my shield. The leader stabbed me deep in the breast, and thinking me done turned to find another victim. That mistake cost him, for I grabbed him from behind and snapped his neck.
"By then most everyone else, friend and foe alike, had fallen. I fought the last one myself—damn, he was fierce! He put his sword in my gut, and that's the wound I'm afraid may be my undoing. But I sliced him on the side and then kicked him in the same place, and he tumbled into the river." Having finished her ugly tale, she let out a huge breath and seemed to deflate.
Isaac gaped. "You're that good?"
She shook her head. "I don't think I'm that good. I got a few lucky breaks, though I suppose what really saved me was that I take a lot of killing. It surprised me how much I could suffer and go on. I guess there was no other choice, but to die..."
That was true, but most people would have easily died from suffering what she had. Isaac felt strong admiration for Rose, and hoped more than ever for her survival. He suddenly remembered the shadow he had seen. "You knocked one of them into the river? Are you sure he's dead?"
Rose shrugged, but winced as she did so. "The wound I gave him wasn't necessarily fatal, but I doubt he made it out of the water with it. Why?" Her face grew worried.
Before Isaac could answer, he heard a crash outside the front door. "Stay here," he ordered, then realized Rose wasn't likely to get up anytime soon. Picking up his stool, he crept over to the door and listened. Something moved. That was it; he couldn't bear waiting any longer. He opened the door, hoping with all his heart to see Jerome.
Instead, he spotted a lean, dirty man dressed in rags with a dark bloodstain on his side, on his hands and knees next to a flower pot he had tripped over. The man rose and walked towards him. Well, at least he was wounded, exhausted, and couldn't even walk right. Maybe things would be okay after all. Isaac tried to swing the stool, but as he raised it, the man tackled him to the ground with surprising speed and began to choke him. He realized then if the man had been armed, he'd already be dead.
As it was, he was still in grave danger. Within moments he came close to blacking out, and his assailant's hands might as well be an iron vise for all he could budge them. Desperately, he grabbed the man's bloody side and squeezed. Screaming, the man released his chokehold to try to pull his hand away, but agony made him weak and he could not easily move it. Isaac used the opportunity to roll over on top of him, still clutching his wound.
With his free hand, he thought to grab the largest rock within reach, but that rock was a pebble. Instead, he balled his fist and punched. The thrashing man still reacted swiftly, and moved his head so that Isaac only scored a glancing blow. However, the pain of his wound became too great and the man went limp, moaning and semiconscious, underneath him. Only now did Isaac realize his back hurt excruciatingly from the fall he had taken when tackled.
Somehow, he managed to tie the man up and drag him inside. He thought to lock him up in the storeroom, but Rose asked to question him. Isaac felt she was in no condition to do even that, but didn't want to argue with her either. So he put the prisoner in a chair, and tied him up some more just to be sure.
#
Her eyelids were heavy and head light, but Rose wouldn't sleep until she knew why a group of bandits dared to engage in such brazen violence against agents of the law. What infamy they could gain would be worth little, as it would only last until they were hunted down and executed. When the man recovered awareness and saw her, recognition immediately dawned on his face.
Anger and a little hatred showed in his eyes, to be sure, but no more than what would be expected of someone who had lost all his companions to her and her allies' blades. Certainly not the kind of fanatical loathing it would have taken for the bandits to essentially throw their lives away, even if they won. Mixed with these emotions, though, there seemed to be a bit of admiration in his gaze.
Unnerved, Rose went straight to the point. "Why did you attack us? You knew you were going to die, one way or another."
At that Rose bristled, and saw her tension reflected in Isaac, who stood behind the bandit with chair in hand. Ignoring this, the prisoner went on. "Before our delusions, we were like any other pathetic group of bandits. We took from the weak and avoided the strong. But then, many—perhaps all, though some were more vocal than others—of us decided we needed to test the limits of our skills. We took on large caravans, with guards that outnumbered us, and won easily! We were better than we had been before. It was exhilarating, indeed! But it wasn't enough. We wanted a challenge, but we already knew we would win. We just needed to prove our strength to ourselves."
"Wait, you said you were better—better how?"
The man coughed again and grinned. "We were faster. We saw faster, felt faster, reacted faster—we thought faster. We could see blows coming like they were slow strokes used in training to teach rookies. We could easily keep track of quick movements. And we could do multiple things at once more easily, and think about them independently. We felt godli-"
Isaac interrupted. "Bewitched! Improved perceptions? Sounds like a witch cast a spell on the lot of you to further the spread of chaos in the world. Now look where it got you!"
"There are no witches nowadays," Rose pointed out quietly. "But you have a point. It does sound like magic"—she started chuckling painfully—"or becoming sober."
"I don't think even bandits are drunk all the-" Isaac began.