by Dorian Hart
Dranko’s blood, his red blood, ran cold at Crayna’s words. His grandfather would have done the same thing to him, had said so right to his face when he was growing up. “Melen, better you’d never been born,” he’d say anytime Dranko did anything wrong, though his grandmother would tell him to never mind that, grandpa was just drunk and didn’t mean it.
He looked Crayna in the eye. “I have never raised a weapon against another person. My religion forbids it.”
She looked down at his belt. “You got a knife.”
“It’s ceremonial. If I ever injured someone with it, Delioch would withdraw the blessing that lets me heal the wounded.”
“Then why haven’t you healed your leg?”
Dranko almost laughed in spite of himself. “Put yourself in my boots. You’re surrounded by armed people you’ve never met who want to kill you on sight. What would you expect to happen if you started performing holy magic?”
“Then heal yourself now. I give you permission. No one’ll stop you.”
He was already reaching for the crossbow bolt when Crayna glanced back at the woman who’d asked about her husband’s leg. That stopped him. With a flash of clarity, he understood how this whole thing was likely to go.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Then you admit you’re lying?”
“No. Look. Healers of Delioch aren’t supposed to heal themselves. But if I do heal myself, and you see how it works, you’ll ask me to fix up that woman’s husband, right? That’ll be your price for promising not to kill me. Except that if I heal myself first, it’ll take too much out of me. I might not be able to do it again for a week. But you won’t believe me, and you’ll think I healed myself but am withholding my abilities from your friend. So you’ll kill me after all.”
The slight widening of Crayna’s eyes told him he wasn’t far off the mark.
“So here’s what’s gonna happen instead,” he continued. “First I’m gonna patch myself up as best I can without my god’s intervention. It’s gonna hurt like a bitch, but I’ll survive. Then you’ll take me to your patient, and I’ll heal him up good as new. How does that sound?”
Crayna again looked at the woman in the crowd, who had pushed her way forward to hear the exchange. “Before I agree to that, I want to know what brought you and your friends to Culud in the first place.”
Dranko had been hoping she wouldn’t ask that, but he hadn’t been able to think of a convincing cover story. “We need to get to the jungle on the other side of the mountains.”
She shook her head. “You’re too late in the year. Both passes are snowed under.”
Please don’t kill me. “We heard a rumor that there are some tunnels that go through the mountains. We were hoping to use those.”
Crayna took a quick, loud intake of breath, so Dranko kept going before she could voice any misguided conclusions. “I know, I know. Here I am, someone who looks like a, what do you call them, a greenblood, and I tell you we need to get into the goblin tunnels. But ask Certain Step. We hate goblins. If there were another way to get to the jungle, we’d take it in a heartbeat.”
“He’s lying!” someone shouted from the mob. “They’re part of some goblin plot to invade the town!”
The crowd broke into an angry muttering. Crayna held up her hand for silence.
“All the goblin tunnels are collapsed,” she said. “We caved in the last one twenty years ago, and even if you healed every injured person in Culud, we wouldn’t clear one for you.”
“And we wouldn’t ask you to,” said Dranko quickly. “If the tunnels are closed, we’ll try to think of another way. But I want you to understand that we’re friendly, so my offer to heal your man still stands. All I ask is that you let us stay here a few days so I can recover. After I channel Delioch’s blessing, it might be a week before I can walk again. Especially since I’ll also be recovering from an unfortunate accident where I seem to have fallen on a crossbow bolt.”
Thankfully, the others let him do all the talking. He had mixed truth and lies into a concoction easily soured if someone said the wrong thing.
Crayna didn’t speak for a good ten seconds after that, but she was obviously thinking hard. She let out a long sigh.
“We got a guesthouse you can stay in. The haulers from Gurund City who use it only come once a month, and right now it’s empty. We’re going to keep it guarded; you don’t go in or out without permission. Tell us what you need to heal your leg; we’ll bring it. When you’re ready, we’ll send for you, and you can use your divine healing on Pelyk. His leg’s smashed up real bad. You can stay until you’re able to travel, and then I want you and your friends gone. And all that’s dependent on me talking Mayor Maron around to the deal. Agreed?”
That sounded a lot like an arrangement wherein he wasn’t summarily executed.
“Agreed.”
* * *
Dranko looked up at the ceiling. Words could not express how much he was not looking forward to this. “You understand everything?”
“Painkiller first,” said Aravia.
Ernie held up a box of clotting agent. “After Aravia’s done, smear this on the holes to stop the bleeding.”
“And then I use mine to stop infection.” Morningstar gripped a pot of unguent.
“You’ve got it.” Dranko swallowed and wiped sweat from his temples. “I need you to be clear on this now because when Kibi draws out the bolt, I’m going to pass out from the pain.” Fortunately that hadn’t happened on the walk to the guesthouse. Kibi and Tor had carried him as carefully as they could, but every little jostle had sent pain like flame through his leg.
At least the bolt was straight and had no fletching. It should come straight out the back of his leg without trouble. But there was no way to know how much havoc it had wreaked on the muscle and veins and nerves inside. If it had nicked his femur, that would be even worse, but he was in Delioch’s hands now.
The cuts on Ernie’s shoulder and Morningstar’s head had been superficial; mending them had been easy. Morningstar hadn’t needed any stitches. Ernie probably hadn’t either, but Step had tied three in just to be sure. If only his own wound could be so easily mended.
“One last thing.” Dranko placed a strip of leather into his mouth. No point biting off his tongue on top of everything else. He looked at Kibi and nodded.
Kibi put one hand on his thigh as gently as he could, gripped the pointed head of the bolt, and pulled swiftly. The sensation of wood sliding through his leg sickened him, but it paled before the exploding pain he endured before everything went black.
Time passed; how much, he wasn’t sure. Dranko’s next few memories were quick and fuzzy: someone putting a cup of water to his lips; loud quarreling nearby; gentle hands changing the bandage around his throbbing leg. In between he imagined he floated in a sea of troubled stars. For some reason his left eye ached.
It was dark outside when he finally came fully awake. By his bed, Morningstar stirred a cup of tea. Gods, but his leg hurt.
“Your turn, eh?”
Morningstar passed him the cup. He sat up gingerly and accepted it.
“Drink this,” she said. “Their herbalist says it will help with the pain.”
“Maybe their herbalist wants to poison a greenblood.”
“Grey Wolf thought of that. He made the herbalist drink some himself first.”
Dranko sniffed the tea. “Smart.” He drank. It tasted bitter, which probably meant it was good for him. “What’s the mood out there in Culud?”
“Wary.” Morningstar gazed out the window of the room. “But I don’t think anyone is going to try killing you. Step and Tor have most of the townsfolk convinced you’re a miracle worker.”
“Which is true.”
“They’re growing impatient, though. How are you feeling? Do you think you’ll be able to channel tomorrow morning?”
The pain in his leg burned deep and hot, but that shouldn’t matter. And the sooner he took care of Pelyk, the sooner
they could move on. Speaking of which…
“Remember when I told Crayna we wouldn’t ask her to clear out one of their collapsed tunnels? That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t plan on finding one ourselves.”
“Yes, we figured that out. Kibi has been talking with the citizens of Culud. He’s finding he has a lot to talk about, being from a mining town himself. He’s confident he’ll be able to learn where one of the collapsed tunnels is.”
“He knows not to show off his skills, right?”
“Kibi is much smarter than you give him credit for. He knows what he’s doing.”
Dranko held his nose and downed the rest of his tea in one gulp. “Yeah, I should be ready to channel tomorrow. You’ve all managed to not get yourselves badly hurt for a couple of weeks, so I might not even pass out afterward.”
His stomach rumbled. Morningstar handed him a huge slab of bread and a bowl filled mostly with leaves.
“What’s this?”
“Dinner. You’ve gone more than a whole day without eating.”
“Salad?”
“There’s not a lot of grazing land in the valley. Most of the Culudians are vegetarians.”
Dranko picked through the leaves looking for something more substantial. “No wonder they’re so angry.”
He ate his salad without enthusiasm, but the bread was fantastic. Morningstar watched him without comment.
“Do we each get our own room this time?” he asked.
“Yes. This house is quite large.”
“Good. Hand me my pack, will you?” He dug out a cigar and lit it. Not many remained, but this felt like a good time to burn one. “Ahh, better.”
Morningstar stood. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. If I were you, I’d get one more night of good sleep and eat a good breakfast tomorrow.”
Dranko did get a good night’s sleep, and the next morning he scarfed down a four-egg omelet speckled with chopped greens, but he still needed help getting out of bed. The pain from his puncture wound was a deep ache, and his leg wouldn’t support much weight.
“I want to wear my robe for this. The priests always said Delioch likes it when his channelers dress the part. It should fit over my clothes.”
Ernie and Kibi stood him up and held him still while Tor pulled the robe down around his head and body. Once he was properly dressed, they hoisted him up. Morningstar handed him a cane.
“It’s a five-minute walk to the house where Culud’s healer lives,” she told him. “That’s where your patient currently resides. Think you can make it?”
He winced in pain with each step. “I can make it.”
Outside the guesthouse an armed escort awaited. Half a dozen men, each holding a crossbow, stood in a loose cluster. Another six carried cudgels or pitchforks. Crayna waited in their midst.
“I have a deal for you,” Dranko told them. “You don’t shoot me again or beat me with your clubs, and I won’t wave my cane in the air and fall over on you. What do you say?”
None of them laughed. None of them even smiled.
“We haven’t had a goblin attack for over twenty years,” said Crayna. “Now that I’ve had a chance to sleep on it, I don’t think you’re a true greenblood, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take risks with you. Follow me.”
It was slow going hobbling along with the cane, and just because it let him walk didn’t mean it made walking enjoyable. Every shaky step was a knife-twist in his thigh. The morning was cool, but Dranko was perspiring profusely by the time they reached the healer’s house. Inside their patient lay on a bed in a room that reeked of herbs, infection, and fever sweat. The wife hovered nearby, along with a little old man and a tall, stern-looking woman. Two of Dranko’s honor guard also came in with their crossbows, while the others denied entrance to the rest of the company. The tall woman gave him that bird-just-pooped-in-my-hair look he had grown used to. “By Svetla, you do look like a greenblood.”
“So they tell me,” he answered. “But I’ll try not to let your opinions distract me from healing this man.”
She looked at the men with the crossbows, who shrugged. “I am Maron, mayor of Culud. I want to bear witness to what happens here. If for one moment I think you plot betrayal, your life is forfeit.”
Dranko looked down at the patient, Pelyk. He was a barrel-chested man with long legs, one of them oddly misshapen and wrapped up in mottled bandages. He slept with arms at his sides, his breath fluttery and uneven. Dranko reached for his forehead and felt the rising heat even before contact.
“What happened to him?”
“Mineshaft collapse,” said the little old man. “Crushed his leg. It’s broken in many places. Kneecap is shattered. There’s internal bleeding, which I have been managing with a distillation of yarrow root, but there’s too much infection to excise. In another day or two the only option will be to remove the leg.
“But you can heal him,” said the woman. “You can heal my husband.”
Her eyes were set above enormous dark circles.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Aopa.”
“Aopa, do you think I deserve death because of the size of my teeth?”
She looked worriedly at her husband. “N…no.”
“Would you change your answer if I wasn’t about to save your husband’s life?”
This time she looked over at Maron. “I…”
“You don’t have to answer.” He pulled out his hand-pendant, his talisman of Delioch. “But I do want you to promise me something.”
She looked at him and bit her lip.
“Saving your husband’s life is going to take a lot out of me. I may black out. It’s possible that your mayor here will decide the man who resembles a greenblood has finished being useful, and she will have me executed. I want you to promise that you’ll try your best to talk her out of it.”
Aopa cast one more quick glance at Maron before looking intently down at her husband’s pallid face. She nodded and whispered, “I promise.”
“Thank you.” Dranko rolled up his sleeves, grasped his pendant with one hand, and placed the other gently on Pelyk’s leg. “Lord Delioch, I pray for healing, that this man be made sound and whole.”
Yellow light poured from his hand, spilling over the injured man, turning him into a recumbent golden statue, smooth and opaque. Beneath his hand Dranko felt bones reconnecting, lumpy bruises smoothing themselves out. The heat of the man’s fever rose away from his body like an evil spirit driven out.
Pelyk’s eyes snapped open, and he let out a surprised gasp. Instinctively he flexed his leg, bringing up his knee. Aopa grasped his hand, let out a great sob of joy, and dropped her head to his chest. She wept into his shirt.
Already weakened by his own injury, Dranko couldn’t hold on to consciousness. “No charge,” he slurred. His leg screamed as he fell, but not even the pain could keep away the darkness.
* * *
For a time Dranko swam in dark currents, surfacing long enough for breaths of awareness before sinking back into the cold. Each time he came awake, things were different: the people in his room, the smells in the air, the light from the window. He recalled Certain Step changing the bandages on his leg, Morningstar spooning hot soup into his mouth, Grey Wolf arguing with someone out near the front door. The only constant was the pain from his wound.
Eventually he woke for good, feeling rested and relatively alert. The pain pounded in his leg in time with his heartbeat. A single lantern lit his room, its pale light dancing on the far wall. Outside the night was filled with a chorus of insects.
“You’re awake.” Ernie sat close at hand, leaning back in a chair.
“How long have I been out this time?”
“Two and a half days. We had dinner an hour ago. I’ll bring you some.”
Ernie returned after five minutes with a plate heaped with greens, but also strips of cooked lamb and a warm slice of buttered bread. Dranko’s mouth watered at the smell of it, but something in his gut rebelled at
the thought of food.
“I baked the bread myself,” said Ernie. “Do you think after you eat you’ll be able to get up? We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Tell the others I’ll be out once I’m done.”
Ernie pointed to the wall next to his bed. “There’s your cane. Holler if you need anything.”
Dranko’s stomach might be balking, but his brain knew he wouldn’t recover without food. He forced himself to eat every bit of meat, every leaf, every last crumb of bread, even though he was sure the whole time that he’d heave it all back up. Afterward, he grabbed the cane and used it to lever himself to his feet. It felt as though a burning rope were threaded through his thigh. He hiked up his robe and dropped his pants far enough to see that the wounds didn’t look infected; that was the most important thing. Satisfied, he stumped out to join the others in the dining room of the guest house.
Grey Wolf looked up as he entered. “Dranko, good. How are you feeling?”
“Like someone shot me,” he answered.
“Do you think you’ll be able to travel tonight? Uphill?”
It was not a pleasant notion. “Maybe. Why not wait until morning?”
“The good citizens of Culud may be plotting something,” said Aravia.
“Don’t tell me they still want to kill me after I channeled for them.”
Aravia shook her head. “No, quite the opposite. Pewter has been out eavesdropping, and there’s a growing sentiment in town that you should be detained and made to heal more. One popular notion is that you were a gift sent by the gods to atone for all the past depredations of goblins upon Culud.”
No good deed goes unpunished. “I suppose that’s a step up from them trying to murder me. And it’s seeming more and more likely that Lapis had nothing to do with the lovely reception we’ve received.”
“But we can’t afford the delay,” said Grey Wolf.
“I’ve heard again from Abernathy through Eddings and Previa,” said Morningstar. “The archmagi are holding steady but grow ever more concerned about Aktallian’s harassment of their dreams. Blocking him is increasingly drawing them away from keeping the portal to Volpos closed. He urges us to hurry.”
