He rose as smoothly as he could manage back up onto his knees and gave a winced curse as his hips popped. He turned the uprooted plant carefully and inspected it for injury. Satisfied, he held it one handed and reached for the linen, wrapping it loosely around the roots. Pulling the plug out of the skin with his teeth, he took a mouthful of water and spit in gently over the bundle. Deglan let the air out of his lungs, then jerked his head skyward and looked again at the sun.
High noon.
“Ha!” Deglan shook his fist at the bright orb. Then again at Bulge-Eye. “Ha-ha! Teach you to tell me my business, it will!” Bulge-Eye blinked lazily.
He gathered up his things and walked briskly over to the toad. His short legs ached and he was grateful he decided to bring Bulge-Eye along. A hike back to the village was not a welcome prospect.
“Wish I had left you behind, you great warty beast! More than likely you will make me crush this plant with all your lurching hops.”
He grit his teeth and pulled himself up onto the saddle, all the while cradling the vervain to his chest with his free hand. They would not be able to cut through the woods. The toad’s bulbous body made navigating between the trees too tedious, so Deglan urged his mount back across the low fens where his long, powerful hops could eat the miles away. After a while, he settled into the cascading rhythm of the ride and let the wind cool the sweat on his neck and around his ears. The sun was bright and the sky clear, for now, but Deglan took note of the grey clouds looming in the west. He had been lucky to find the vervain when he did, but his brow refused to relax. Retrieving the herb, while a happy step in the right direction, did not end his task. He still had a good deal of work ahead of him. The type of work he did not relish.
They left the fens behind within an hour and came to the lush, rolling, boulder- strewn fields that hugged the River Trough. Deglan came to one of the stone walls the humans built to denote the boundaries of their fields and keep their sheep contained. Had he been afoot, the wall would have been almost as tall as he was and a nuisance to climb. Bulge-Eye leapt effortlessly over, allowing toad and rider to continue on their way unimpeded. Many of the enclosed fields were vacant this far from the village proper, but Deglan saw a small flock of sheep in the distance and directly in his path. He swore softly to himself but did not halt Bulge-Eye. There was no time to go around.
They closed the distance swiftly and jumped the wall into the occupied field, scattering the sheep as the giant toad’s heavy body landed beside them with a soft thud. Within seconds the dog was upon them, placing itself firmly between flock and toad, barking fiercely. Bulge-Eye regarded the growling creature with as much interest as he did most things and sat back on his hind legs, waiting for Deglan to direct him. The herdsman followed swiftly, his long tunic flapping at his legs, staff firmly in hand. He skidded to a halt at the sight of Bulge-Eye. Deglan snorted quietly. Time was, humans never would have balked at the presence of a riding toad, but that was long ago. These later generations never did get used to seeing Bulge-Eye, who was twice the size of their sheep.
“Call that damn animal off, Laoire, before I have Bulge-Eye eat him!” Deglan yelled at the herdsman.
The man snapped out of his stupor and calmed the dog down with a few simple commands and it ran off to gather the fleeing sheep. “My apologies, Faery Doctor!” Laoire stammered. “I did not know it was you!”
Deglan had to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He loathed that name. “Peace, Laoire. The fault was mine, but you must excuse me, I need…”
“Is that the herb?” Laoire cut in. “You have found it! Will it make him whole?” The herdsman face was slack with hopeful wonder.
“Not stood here it won’t!” And with that, Deglan kicked the toad into motion, leaping the man in a bound. They struck the muddy herd road soon after and Deglan punched the sides of his feet into Bulge-Eye’s flanks, urging him to greater speed as the road climbed a small hill. The conical roofs of the round, wicker-work and stone houses of the human farmers came into view over the rise. Above-ground dwellings still seemed strange and impractical to Deglan, even after centuries of living among them.
“Never do keep all the rain out.”
Bulge-Eye flew over the crest of the hill and down into the center of the village, his feet barely touching the road before he was in the air once more. The few women and children in the square saw him coming and made way hastily, knowing the urgency of his errand. They shot past the mill and made for the opposite side of town. Movement caught Deglan’s eye as they passed the alehouse and his mouth twitched downward at the sight of the laden mule tied in front of the building, but he did not slow Bulge-Eye’s pace. On the village outskirts, Deglan nudged Bulge-Eye away from the river and set off down a narrow goat track where the land turned hilly once more.
Faabar’s hut came into view and Deglan was relieved to see smoke coming from the chimney. Forgetting his cramping legs, he hopped down from the saddle and pushed through the door. It was gloomy inside and hotter than a forge, which only intensified the stink.
“I told you to keep it warm in here,” Deglan said, going to the fireplace and kicking the turf apart. “Smells like you’re trying to cook yourself!”
He grabbed a stool and dragged it under the window. Mounting it quickly he reached up and threw the skins aside, allowing light and fresh air into the hut. He set the vervain carefully on the sill, before it wilted in the stifling heat, then stepped down and turned to face the room.
Faabar’s massive bulk lay propped up on his pallet, his feet facing the fire--exactly the way Deglan had left him. He shook his head.
“Girl did not show up to tend the fire,” Deglan declared with certainty. “I knew it! Foolish child! I will have a word with her father. If she thinks…”
“Do not.” Faabar’s voice quavered deeply. “Please. Do not. She is afraid. It is cruel to make her come here.”
“Nonsense,” Deglan said, approaching the pallet. “She has known you her whole life. No need to be afraid now. Someone should simply tell her that all fomori are so gruesomely hideous. In fact, you are one of the comelier ones.”
Faabar attempted a chuckle, but managed only a weak grunt. “It is the leg. Uglier than me. Children should not have to see such things.”
Deglan sighed and looked into Faabar’s face. “You sent her away.” Faabar’s eyes were cloudy and feverish, but they did not look away. “How am I going to get you up on your feet if you keep mollycoddling the help?”
He pulled the linen roll from his satchel and tore off a long strip with his teeth. He soaked the strip with a pour from the water skin and placed it on Faabar’s brow. An almost useless gesture in the grand scope of healing, but Deglan learned long ago that mending bodies had a great deal to do with the mind. A wet cloth is comforting and calming; a pleasant distraction from the true, more stressful methods of healing still to come.
The fever was causing Faabar’s horns to soften and split. He would need a salve of yarrow root and lard, but that could wait. Deglan took his gibne from the satchel and placed the wide end on Faabar’s chest, cupping his hands tightly around it to create a strong seal. He bent his head and inserted the narrow end of the instrument in his own ear. Faabar’s heart pumped strongly.
“Well, let’s take a look at the cause of the dear child’s distress then.” Deglan said as he removed the gibne. He fixed Faabar with an exasperated stare. “We would not want to upset her any further now would we?”
Deglan moved down the pallet to Faabar’s right leg. The wrapping plaster of wood anemone had yellowed considerably since Deglan last changed it, causing his frown to deepen. Faabar’s eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling as they always did when Deglan tended him. Women will most always look at what is wrong, men rarely, and warriors never. He broke the plaster free from the leg with practiced squeezes of his fingers. Deglan let the used plaster drop to the floor.
“Damn.” he muttered and bent to retrieve it, using the motion to get a good sniff of the woun
d. The sour odor of long damp flesh drifted up from the wrinkled edges of the wide, ragged wound in Faabar’s thigh. No reek of rot. Not yet.
Deglan squinted at the split flesh, hoping to see some change for the better. More of a rend then a cut, the plow blade had done some vicious work, to the muscles most of all. They were not only torn and slashed, but pulled mercilessly out of place. It had taken the farmers too long to stop the spooked ox and Faabar had been drug over several fields. Deglan had arrived quickly thanks to Bulge-Eye. He had the blood stopped and the wound bound within moments. It had taken six of the strongest men to lift Faabar, but they managed him into an ox cart and transported him to his hut within an hour where Deglan began cleaning the manure-filled soil out of the cavity. He had done everything he knew to do and more, using all the knowledge of his craft, learned over centuries of study and practice. It should have been enough. But the plow blade had been iron. Deglan wanted to spit.
The wound refused to close, despite all his efforts. It remained gaping, taunting him like some horrible smile with skin for lips, muscles for gums and bones for teeth. Had Faabar been pure Fae, he would have died in the field, but the fomori were mortal once before receiving Magic’s blessing and that kept him alive. Alive and suffering. Blessing, indeed. This was not the deserved fate of a warrior, of one who had seen Summer. Humans and their iron. Their soft minds and hard metals.
“That dwarf is back in the village,” Deglan said casually, returning his mind to his work. Faabar continued staring at the ceiling, but Deglan felt his body tense.
“With the mule?”
Deglan snorted. “No, with a herd of field mice! Yes, with the mule!”
“And my sword?”
“Well, we were having a dozen pints of ale and I planned on asking him. But then… I don’t know if it was the drink that got to me or the injury I had to look in on….” He shook his head in mock bewilderment then threw up his arms. “Something made me forget to ask him!”
“Ask him. When you see him, ask him. I would like to see it.”
“Toad shit! Ask him yourself.” Deglan threw the discarded plaster into the fire.
“You cannot…,” Faabar began.
“Listen to me!” Deglan whirled on him. “I will take no death bed requests from you! Not today! Not tomorrow! You are under my care and under that care you will recover! No one tells me my business! Especially not simple-minded fomori, who care more for swords and the tears of little girls then they do about their own lives! And if you cannot find the will to get well on your own, then find the strength in the knowledge that this village needs you! The very people whose foolish labors saw you hurt are now defenseless because you had to play at farming!” He stopped. The last was too hard and he knew it. Thankfully, Faabar had stopped listening after--
“Defenseless?” he managed to pull himself up to a sitting position.
Deglan went over to the window and stepped up on the stool again to retrieve the vervain. This was as good a distraction as any, intended or not.
“Kederic’s warriors…,” He said, pulling the vervain apart carefully into two equal halves, “…rode out this morning. I saw Acwellen and his bunch headed back to the fort while I was in the forest, looking for this.” He held up the split plant, then proceeded to the hearth and retrieved the bronze kettle. Thankfully, the girl must have seen it was filled before Faabar absolved her of her duties.
“Does Brogan know?” Faabar asked, some of the old force returning to his voice.
Deglan put half of the herb in the kettle and hung it over the fire. “It was barely dawn when I saw them and I was already miles from here. Must have skulked out in the wee hours.” He began gently plucking the blooms off the remaining half of the vervain. “That early, I doubt anyone saw them. Maybe Slouch Hat did, I cannot say. He surely would have told. At any rate, I am sure Brogan knows now.” He walked over to the head of the pallet and retrieved his satchel from the floor. He removed his bowl and muddler, then turned his back to Faabar as he went back to the stool by the window. He sat down, and placing the vervain blooms in the bowl, began grinding them down.
“He will want to go and speak with Kederic,” Faabar said. “And I cannot go with him.”
“Brogan would do well to stay far and gone from that man. They have said enough to one another. For all the good it’s done.” Deglan finished the grinding and hopped off the stool. He walked over to his satchel and pulled forth a sizable clay jar sealed with a thin piece of linen tied around the mouth. This he set on the pallet next to Faabar’s leg. “Now hold still.” Deglan scooped a portion of the ground petals out of the bowl and began massaging them into Faabar’s wound. The fomori’s powerful hand gripped at the bedclothes, but he did not make a sound of protest. Deglan repeated the application until the bowl was empty, paying particular attention to the exposed bone. Faabar let out a shuddering breath when Deglan removed his fingers for the final time.
“Tell me about this sword,” he said lightly as he reached for the clay jar.
“You have no care for that,” Faabar said.
“If I am to ask the dwarf about it, I should know of what I speak.” Deglan untied the linen from around the mouth of the jar. “Go on now. Tell me of it.”
“I requested it to be fashioned in the old style. A great two-hander. ‘Twil be almost three times the height of you, Deglan Loamtoes!”
“Fearsome,” Deglan said and peered carefully into the clay jar. “You traded dearly for it, I know. Will it be ornate?” He reached slowly into the jar.
“Nay!” Faabar snorted. “It will be made for war. Simple and well balanced. With a grip of tough leather.”
Deglan pulled a large, blue-black beetle from the jar. Holding it gently by its bloated body, the insect filled Deglan’s palm. It kicked at the air, its long pincers biting at nothing. Slowly, Deglan lowered the beetle onto Faabar’s leg so that it straddled the open wound. “Anything else?”
“It will be steel,” Faabar said reverently. “Dwarf-forged, it will hold an edge like no bronze blade can.”
Deglan forced the beetles head down and it bit deep into Faabar’s flesh on either side of the gash, causing a hiss to escape from between Faabar’s clenched teeth. The powerful pincers came together, pulling the skin closed. With a quick jerk, Deglan twisted the beetle’s body from its head, leaving the pincers embedded in the flesh, closed tightly in death. Deglan quickly reached into the jar and produced another beetle. “And what shall you do with this grand weapon?”
Faabar snarled. “Damn you, you leeching gnome! Enough of this prattle. Do it and have done!”
Deglan nodded and proceeded. The heads of six beetles lay embedded in Faabar’s flesh before the wound was sufficiently closed. “I’m sorry, friend,” he said when he was done at last.
“Will it work?” Faabar asked between breaths.
“I need to stitch it closed now, to be sure.” Deglan produced a large, slightly hooked needle from his satchel and a roll of gut string. He began stitching the spaces between the beetles’ heads. “Leeching gnome?” he asked, casting a sideling glance up at his patient.
“I ask your pardon,” Faabar replied. “It was an unworthy thing to say.”
Deglan laughed. “I have heard much worse. Mostly from delivering mothers.” He finished another stitch. “And anything is better than Faery Doctor.”
“You will always be something of a wonder to them, my friend.”
“As are you,” Deglan said, “when you are actually walking.”
Faabar pushed a long breath at the ceiling. “We know them from children. And just as they become accustomed to our…gifts, they are gone and we start over with the children of yesterday’s children. I have heard there are human settlements where Fae-folk are no longer welcomed.”
Deglan gave a gurgle of contempt. “That is the dwarf talking. Gossip is all he is good for.”
“This business has gone on too long,” Faabar muttered to the ceiling after a few minutes.
&n
bsp; “Sewing up your tough hide is hard on the fingers,” Deglan said without looking up. “And stubborn patients heal slower.”
“No,” Faabar said. “Between Brogan and Kederic.”
Deglan continued his work. “That business was never any of ours. Bunch of moon brained nonsense as ever there was. Freemen. Bondsmen. Human stupidity, always have said. Never live long enough to learn from their mistakes. Memories are too short.”
“It was simpler when the gnomes lived here,” Faabar grunted.
Deglan expelled an airy chuckle. “Oh yes, because we never stirred the pot!” He shook his head at the wound. “Ah well. Let folk live where they may.”
“Even goblins?”
Deglan stopped his sewing, his head jerking up to see Faabar staring at him with his stupid bestial face, laid up and helpless, challenging Deglan on a question he did not have the sense to answer for himself. He held the stare for a long moment and felt his pull on the needle tighten. He had half a mind to leave, let the brutish bastard lay there and die.
The kettle sang out shrilly in the fireplace. Deglan blinked hard, looking back down at the injured leg. He finished the sutures, knotted them and bit through the excess string. He went over to the hearth and plucked the kettle from the flames. He grabbed one of Faabar’s enormous tin cups from the shelf and filled it with the boiling tea, the strong smell of vervain escaping in the steam. He marched across and handed the cup over.
“Drink this down,” he ordered, then fetched his tools, stuffing them into his satchel. “I will return tonight.” He stalked out the door without a backward glance.
He struck off down the goat track on foot and heard Bulge-Eye fall in behind him, his slow pace forcing the toad to adopt the lumbering waddle he used when hopping was unnecessary. Deglan cut a path cross-country, wishing to avoid the village entirely. He was in no mood for questions regarding Faabar’s condition from slack jawed humans, and if he saw that dwarf peddler, he was of a mind to poison him.
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 3
