Scourge

by Gail Z. Martin

  He dragged himself to the workshop door and pounded with his fist, hoping Rigan and Kell were close enough to hear him. To Corran’s relief, the door opened, and he saw Rigan framed in the lantern light.

  I think I’m dying. Corran thought, and managed a weak groan before falling flat on his face.

  “What in the name of the Eternal Ones have you been doing?” Rigan said, demanded, leaning down to haul Corran inside even as he nearly gagged on the stench. Kell came pounding down the stairs a few steps behind him.

  “Just leave me alone,” Corran groaned. “It’s been a bad night.”

  “Kell, go upstairs,” Rigan ordered. “There’s bound to be plague in this filth.”

  Kell made a rude gesture. “If I haven’t died yet from carting corpses around the city, I won’t drop over now. Besides, I have as much right to know what he’s up to as you do.”

  “Have you been swimming in the sewer?” Rigan tried to catch his breath through the gagging. Corran attempted to answer, but all he could manage was a harsh, hacking cough that brought up blood.

  “Shit. That’s not good,” Rigan said, looking at the bright red flecks on Corran’s lips with alarm. Corran’s grip on consciousness was slipping, but he was aware enough to know his brother was close to panic.

  “We’ll take him out back, sluice him off with water, scrub him down with lye soap,” Kell said.

  Corran groaned, as close as he could manage to an answer. His vision blurred but he could make out enough to see Rigan run his hands through his hair in desperation.

  “This is bad, Kell. Really bad,” Rigan said, beginning to pace. “Men die in the sewers. It’s why they use convicts to go down to fix things when there’s a problem. The water, the air—they’re poison. Gods, he’s coughing blood.”

  “We can help him, Rigan,” Kell said.

  “I can’t fix this with some tea and a poultice. The poison’s in him. Look at his skin, his eyes. He’s already sweating with fever. This is more than we can take care of ourselves.”

  “Then I’ll run for Mamme Solan—”

  “No!” Rigan grabbed for Kell’s arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. “It’s past curfew. You can’t go out there. Why in the name of the gods was Corran out this late—and how did he end up in the sewer?”

  “Easy, stupid. He’s been fighting monsters. Haven’t you, Corran?” Kell snapped.

  Rigan wheeled on Corran, as fear spiked to anger. “I knew it! There were no Guild meetings, and those men in the gibbets were hunters, just like you.”

  Corran groaned, but the expression on his face gave Rigan all the answer he needed.

  “Damn,” Rigan swore. “Did the guards follow you?”

  “Only until I jumped into the sewer.” It hurt to talk; breathing made his chest ache.

  “Go up and make tea,” Rigan said to Kell, “and come back with some poultices, too.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know what I said! I’m going to get help. But it will take me a bit to get there and back. At least a candlemark, maybe more.”

  “No,” Corran wheezed. “Dangerous—”

  “Screw that. We don’t have a choice.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Corran knew it for a lie, but sick as he was, he could not allow Rigan to risk himself.

  “No, you won’t, Corran. You won’t be all right. You’ll die if I don’t get you help.” He snatched down his cloak from the peg near the door.

  “Kell—try not to touch him,” Rigan instructed, plunging his own hands into a bucket of water and scrubbing them with the harsh soap. “All the filth and the bad air—it’ll make him sick like corpse fever. Gods, his lungs—” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “Give him tea,” he continued. “Spread the poultices on his skin with a trowel to draw out the poison. Use the leather gloves and cut him out of his clothing. We’ll have to burn everything he has on. Put it in the alley for now. If you can drag his sorry ass out of the door, throw water on him, but don’t let the filth splash you or you’ll be sick, too.”

  “Where are you going, Rigan?” Kell said, fear in his voice.

  Rigan took a breath to calm himself. “I know a man. A friend. He’s… good at curing people.”

  “A witch?”

  “Dammit! Why does it matter? If anyone can heal Corran, he can.” Rigan grabbed Kell by the shoulders. “If I don’t get help, Corran’s going to die, Kell. It’s in his lungs, down his throat. I’ll be right back.”

  “What if the guards—”

  “They won’t.”

  “You don’t know that!” Kell sounded terrified.

  “Kell, you’ve got to trust me. Trust me to do this, or we might as well start digging Corran’s grave,” Rigan said, past the point of being gentle. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Damn you, Rigan!” Kell shouted as the door slammed. Kell grabbed the nearest tool at hand and hurled it at the door. The knife stuck fast in the wood.

  “He’s right,” Corran whispered. “I knew… when I jumped in. But I couldn’t let the guards—”

  “We are not doing this! You are not dying. I forbid you! You can’t leave us. You can’t.” Kell’s rage turned into shuddering sobs.

  “Kell. Tea. Do what… Rigan said.”

  Kell dragged his sleeve across his eyes and wiped his nose on his cuff. He looked young and scared. “All right. Just… don’t die.”

  “Not dying… yet.” Speaking hurt, but Corran knew Kell needed to hear him.

  Kell ran up the steps to get what he needed for the tea and poultice.

  Corran hoped he could keep his word. The air in his lungs felt like scalding water. A slow trickle of blood dripped from his nose, which had nearly swollen shut from inside. His throat remained open enough to draw in rasping breaths, but Corran feared it too would close off, irritated by the foul liquid he had swallowed as the sewer’s torrent slammed him against walls and debris.

  I don’t want to leave them. They’re not ready to be on their own. Corran clung to consciousness, afraid that if he yielded to sleep he would not wake. Before long, Kell returned, bearing a kettle, a cup, a bowl and bags of herbs.

  “I’ll mix this up down here,” Kell said.

  Corran wondered if his younger brother sensed the nearness of death, afraid to leave him on his own too long.

  Corran managed a nod and fought to keep his eyes open. The eyelids scraped and burned across his eyes; he wondered whether he would regain his vision if he lived. Another cough doubled him over, and hot blood splattered the floor beneath him.

  “Dammit, Rigan! Where are you?” Kell muttered as he mixed up the powders in the bowl and readied the tea. The water on the brazier seemed to take forever to boil.

  “You smell worse than a two day-old corpse in the sun,” Kell fussed. Corran took it for what it was; a way to keep his mind off other things. “So let’s fix that. We’ll burn your clothes. I’ll get you something to wear, and a bucket of water to scrub up in with some lye soap.” He shuddered. “But you’re sleeping down here tonight.”

  With a glare toward the kettle, Kell grabbed a pair of leather gloves and opened the alley door. For good measure, he slipped on a long-sleeved work shirt and wrapped a length of muslin over his nose and mouth. “Come on,” he said, gripping Corran under his arms and hauling him to the door. Corran tried to push with his feet, but the fever made him weak.

  “You’re sweating like a whore,” Kell said. “Got to wash you down.”

  Kell tried to be gentle, but he could barely move Corran. Kell left him sprawled just outside the door and went back for a bucket of water and a sharp knife. The water could not have been colder than room temperature, but it felt icy as it hit Corran with a splash, forcing out his breath in a gasp and making him shudder.

  “Sorry,” Kell murmured. He disappeared for a moment down the alley to scoop more water from the horse trough, and came back to douse Corran twice more, making certain to get his hair and face. Corran’s skin had turned bright red
from the poisons in the sewer water, and was exquisitely sensitive: the feel of his shirt and the weight of the water were excruciating.

  “Got to get you out of those clothes,” Kell said, talking to himself to fill the silence. Corran could only grunt in response, lying flat on his back because he lacked the strength to sit up.

  “Modesty be damned,” he said with a nervous smile that did not reach his eyes. “Don’t move, and I’ll try not to cut you.” Without being told, Kell seemed to realize that breaks in the skin would make things worse.

  Kell slid the knife beneath Corran’s sodden shirt and carefully cut the fabric free. Next, Kell cut off his pants and removed his boots. His cloak had been lost in the water.

  “Damn,” Kell swore under his breath, taking in the mottled bruises where the swift current had pummeled Corran. “Those cuts are going to go sour,” he said, eying where sharper trash had slashed or punctured. Corran heard Kell draw in a ragged breath, and knew his little brother had reached his limit. Then Kell lifted his head and squared his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice did not shake.

  “All right. More water. Then I’ll scrub you. We’ll get you back inside once I’ve rinsed down the floor, so you don’t sit back down in your own filth.” He spoke with an authoritative tone Corran remembered from his father’s voice, and it brought a weak smile to his lips.

  “Be right here,” Corran whispered, as if he could do otherwise.

  Kell doused him again and again with water, until Corran shivered violently enough to give new cause for concern. “Damn,” Kell swore under his breath. “Don’t you die, Corran! I’m going as fast as I can!”

  Kell retuned with a scrub brush and the harsh soap they used to clean up after the dead bodies and lessen the risk of corpse fever. Corran braced himself, but the scratch of the rough bristles and the sting of lye soap on his raw skin made his whole body jerk and tense. He bit back a scream, knowing that too would hurt, given his savaged throat.

  “I’m sorry, Corran.” Kell’s muffled voice and the way he kept his head down, face averted, told Corran that Kell was crying. “I’m so sorry to hurt you.”

  “Necessary,” Corran managed.

  Kell murmured apologies as he worked, but despite the guilt he scrubbed his brother thoroughly, even daubing into Corran’s ears with a piece of tightly-wrapped gauze to get out the foul water. Corran kept his eyes closed, afraid to look. His skin felt boiled, and he feared that the boar’s hair brush might have left him a bloody mess.

  “I’ve been as careful as I can be,” Kell whispered. “Scratches would be bad, let the poison in.”

  The kettle whistled.

  “I’m going to roll you onto clean shrouds and pull you inside on them,” Kell told him once the scrub down finished. “The water’s hot, so I can mix up the tea and poultice. That should help you feel better, make your throat hurt less. Rigan’ll be back soon. Hang on.”

  Kell gentled him onto clean muslin and dragged him back into the workshop as Corran tried not to scream; every jolt was agony. He moved away for a few minutes, and returned with the wide, dull blade they used to mix pigments and a bowl that smelled of herbs.

  “If it were normal cuts, I’d clean them with whiskey, but I don’t think you’d like that,” Kell said, managing a sickly smile. Corran groaned at the thought. “Yeah. So the calendula, sage, and John’s wort will help keep the wounds from going bad. There’s chamomile, ginger, and licorice in the tea to take down the swelling in your throat. We might put a drop or two up your nose and in your ears, too.”

  I don’t know how much longer I can hold on, Corran thought. Rigan better get back soon, or I won’t get to say goodbye.

  Kell spread the herbal mixture carefully over Corran’s shoulders and chest, then used a wad of gauze to daub the mixture onto his face. Even the lightest touch hurt badly enough that he fought to remain conscious, but the poultice slowly started doing its work, deadening the pain, cooling the burn.

  Corran managed a nod to encourage Kell to continue. “Better,” he croaked.

  Kell swallowed hard and kept going until he had coated all of Corran’s body with the mixture. Then he crossed to where the tea was steeping and poured a cup. By now, the water had cooled so that Corran could drink without fear of further damaging his swollen throat. He sipped carefully, unwilling to accidently make himself retch. The strange-tasting mixture tingled in his mouth, but felt like balm to the inflamed membranes. “Good,” he managed, aware that Kell was teetering on the brink of complete panic.

  “You can have more whenever you want. It’ll be better cold,” Kell offered, as if he were afraid for silence to fall between them. He eyed Corran’s hair.

  “I’m going to coat your hair with poultice. Maybe we won’t have to shave you bald,” he said. The leather gloves made touch awkward, but even with that impediment, the healing ointment cooled the skin of his scalp. Kell worked with utmost gentleness, as if afraid Corran would shatter at his touch.

  They both flinched as the door swung open. “Corran!” Rigan said, fear lacing his voice. A stranger accompanied him; a man with brown eyes and dark blond hair who stood a little shorter than Rigan.

  “Gods. You didn’t exaggerate,” the stranger said, rushing to Corran’s side.

  “This is Aiden. He’s a friend.”

  “Is he a witch?” Kell asked bluntly. “Because that’s what we need.”

  Aiden looked up at Kell. “Yes. I am.” He turned his attention back to Corran. “Everything you’ve done is good. It’s why he’s still alive. But he’ll need more to survive.”

  He looked up at Rigan. “Lay down a line of salt at the doors and windows. Put something made of iron on the sills as well. It’ll keep the witch finders from sensing my magic. Go!”

  Kell and Rigan hurried to their tasks. “Draw this symbol on the shutters and doors,” Aiden said when they had finished, marking a sigil on the floor with water. “It’ll strengthen the magic.” Kell grabbed chalk and hurried to do as Aiden bid him.

  “Do you want to live?” Aiden stared at Corran as if he could see into his soul.

  “Yes.” For Rigan and Kell. They need me.

  “Listen closely.” Aiden bent close to Corran, showing no fear of contagion. “Don’t be afraid. Despite what they say, I’m not going to steal your soul. But I will work magic to heal you, and it will feel… strange.”

  Corran, his strength waning, nodded his head, just barely, but enough. Aiden smiled. “Good. You’ll feel warmth. It might hurt—a lot. The poison is strong and it’s gone deep. You’re only a few steps from the grave; I think you know that.”

  Again, a nod in reply.

  “Don’t fight me. It will take all my power to expel the poison. If you struggle, it weakens me. If you want to live, you must let me do this, despite the pain.” Aiden looked at him, and seemed to find the answer he required. “You will feel the poison leaving your body. It will pull at you like a thousand needles. You must let it go. I will cast it out.”

  He fell silent for a moment. “I can keep you from dying, remove the poison. But I cannot guarantee that this will not leave you changed. It is the best I can offer.”

  “Do… it.”

  “Prepare yourself.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. Then Corran felt a strange warmth envelop him. In the space of a few breaths, the warmth grew hot, pushing through his skin, into muscle and sinew and bone, as if his body burned from the inside, not with fever but with fire. Corran bit back a cry of pain as the burning sensation shattered like embers in the wind, and suddenly he knew what Aiden meant about a thousand needles.

  This time, Corran could not stop himself from crying out. Rigan knelt beside him, gripping his left hand through a fresh pair of leather gloves. Kell hung back against the far wall, arms wrapped around himself, watching.

  Aiden chanted under his breath. Corran did not recognize the words. As the healer chanted, Corran felt hot needles in his blood, piercing his organs, stabbing his throat, poking th
rough his eardrums. Despite Rigan’s hold, his body bucked against the pain.

  “Keep him still,” Aiden said. “Don’t let him fight me. The poison is deep.”

  Corran was certain the magic would rip him apart from inside. He could feel it perforating his flesh, his eyes, and the fragile membranes inside his nose and mouth, making every breath, every heartbeat agonizing.

  In his mind’s eye, Corran saw the needles stabbing through his skin, and then from the pin-prick wounds, yellow ichor—the sewer’s poison—bubbling up. He envisioned the ichor running down his skin, pooling beneath him like strange blood.

  Aiden’s voice grew hoarse, but he kept on chanting. Drop after vile drop of the ichor fell, pulled from every fiber of Corran’s body by Aiden’s forbidden magic. Aiden drew the poison from his muscles and organs, and Corran felt as if he might be turned inside out. Pain drove him from consciousness and forced him awake again. Tremors shook his body, making his teeth clack together. His form went rigid as he tried to keep from bucking and twisting to get away from a pain that came from the core of his being.

  Sick as he had been, nothing compared to this new agony. Corran groaned, squeezing Rigan’s hand so hard he thought bones might break. He wondered how long it would take for the poison to kill him, and whether the treatment would destroy him first.

  “What are you doing to him?” Rigan demanded. “You’re killing him!”

  Aiden ignored him and continued to chant. Corran’s eyes squeezed tightly closed, then he arched and his head fell back. His screams echoed in the workroom, along with Rigan’s frightened curses. Aiden’s voice grew louder, drowning them out, and the draw of his magic became unbearable. Just when Corran thought it might rip away his soul, Aiden finished with a triumphant shout.

  Corran slumped back, completely spent. He felt Aiden press fingers against his throat, feeling for a pulse.