Esselles also noted that this person was used to giving orders as well, perhaps even more so than the female. Combined with the way he listed Esselles injuries, Esselles assumed him to be an officer in the military.
“Well, we had best get you to a temple,” said the female voice, as she stood up. “Kyell, bring the big mare and let us see if we can get our friend on a horse. Do you have a name?” she asked Esselles.
“Yes. Yes, I do. Esselles,” he answered. “Esselles Hawkblood.” Still unable to shake that feeling that he was talking to a person in authority he decided to add, “Of the Ostarian Imperial Guard.”
“Well,” said the deep male voice. “I am Landir Falconer, Captain of the Twenty-Third Company of the First Imperial Legion. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister Hawkblood.”
Esselles was caught off guard. Almost everyone in the guard knew who Landir Falconer was – one of the heroes from the Wars for Freedom. As a young man he had fought at Bracconius’ side in the Battle of Arator. Numerous tales were told in the barracks of his wartime feats. Esselles’ first instinct was to salute.
“Don’t bother trying to salute, son. You’re going to need all the strength you’ve got to make it back to Ostar. A grishmagi is one of the toughest creatures in the woods and certainly not a beast I would want to wrestle armed only with a hunting knife.”
He half finished his salute and let out a little chuckle at himself. Unfortunately, the quick movement of his laugh aggravated the pain in his ribs. He clenched his teeth against it. For some reason, he was reminded of his mount, left back by the stream.
“My horse! I left her back a couple miles near a clearing.”
“Don’t worry, son. We will pick her up on the way back. Do you think you are ready to try to ride?” Landir asked. “We will lift you up on a horse if you are.”
“Yes,” Esselles answered, knowing it would be a painful ride, but also realizing that he would get no better lying here on the edge of the woods. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he added.
“Hopefully the clerics of the temple will be able to dispute that,” the captain quipped before giving orders to his men to bring the horse around. Carefully lifting him from all sides they placed him into the saddle and put his feet in the stirrups. The movement caused pain in his back and shoulder but nowhere near as bad as it had been when they put his shoulder back in place. They carefully placed his right arm on the saddle horn, his left arm suspended in a sling they had made. When he had full control of his balance, someone took the reins and began to lead the horse out of the clearing.
Esselles gave them directions back to where he had left his horse. The ride through the woods proved difficult at times, but they managed well enough. His body was covered with sweat and occasionally his forehead and chest would be wiped by a cool, wet cloth. After remaining awake long enough to reach the horse, Esselles began to give in to his body’s demand for sleep. It was not long before Esselles slumped into a feverish slumber. His years of training and Sorenthian instincts made it second nature for his body to remain upright in the saddle, even while he slept.
Visions of dark, winged drakes flew through the fevered ranting of his mind. They would swoop down toward him and spew forth fire. But each time the flames were about to envelope his body they were beaten back by a pearlescent white radiance. Grishmagi assaulted him in his dreams as well, attacking him with blasts of ice. But they too never reached him, as the ice was unable to gain purchase on his body, coated in its strange pearlescence.
In the distance, beyond the grishmagi and drakes, a small dark figure appeared on the horizon. Although much too far away to make out its form, Esselles was instantly struck with foreboding. The figure grew rapidly into that of a man as he approached faster than seemed possible. His feet measured out the distance in steady, flowing strides, yet seemed to glide much farther and faster than the strides should have been taking him. He was dressed in tattered black and gray robes, each robe lighter and flimsier than the robe that showed beneath it. The outer wrappings were of the lightest gossamer and almost seemed to dissolve into the air. His cowl was pulled low and flowed back in the wind. His face was totally hidden by the shadows of the hood, but two points of red light gleamed out from under the hood. From the sleeves of the robes, two bony white hands gripped a scythe of gleaming black iron. As he approached, the drakes scattered and the grishmagi shriveled and died. Still, he came on. Soon the pearlescent radiance gleamed ominously off of the sharp edge of his mighty scythe.
“Esselles,” came a voice as dry as the wind. “Esselles Hawkblood,” it repeated. “You have done well.” Though the figure spoke, there appeared no movement beneath its hood, no evident mouth. Just two gleaming red eyes and the slow flapping of the robes in the breeze.
The figure turned to go, but before fully turning away, he gripped the scythe by the handle just below the blade and swung it in a mighty arc over Esselles’ head. As the blade ripped through the air, it left a path of white as if the firmament had been torn asunder. The white slowly expanded until it totally encompassed Esselles’ vision. With a start he realized he was awake and staring into the sun through his bandages.
“We’re almost to Rapido,” said the female as she wiped his brow. “You’ve been tossing in fevered sleep almost the entire way. How do you feel?”
“Thirsty for one,” Esselles said, realizing his throat ached for water. One of the other riders rode up alongside and handed a water skin to the woman riding beside him. She stopped their horses and held the water skin for him to drink. After slaking his thirst, Esselles realized he still did not know this woman’s name, so he asked her.
“My name is Rashel,” she said in response to his question. “I’m sorry I didn’t introduce myself earlier.”
“Don’t worry,” Esselles said. “With the way my mind was functioning when I first came to, I probably wouldn’t have realized if you had.”
“Well you seem to be doing better now. Although it would be best if you conserved your strength and did not talk. It would probably be a good idea if you could fall back to sleep.”
“I’ll try.” Esselles relaxed in the saddle again. With his thirst abated and his forehead cooled, slipping back into his fevered dreams was an easy task. Slowly the dreams began to fade as he fell into a deeper level of sleep.
Esselles realized for the first time that he was cold. He reached out to cover himself but found no blankets, only a thin sheet of some kind. He also realized he was naked and lying on his back. His attention was caught by voices he heard in the distance. Abruptly, the voices stopped and he heard footsteps heading towards him.
“It’s good to see you are finally coming to,” someone said in a soft voice just off to Esselles’ right. “How do your eyes feel?”
Esselles realized that the pain in his eyes was absent, as were most of his other pains. Only his shoulder still ached. “Much better,” he finally answered.
“Then I think we can remove the bandages.” Hands reached down to the sides of Esselles’ face and slowly began to peel away the cotton wrappings. “Now, once the wrappings are off I am going to remove the bandages over your eyes, but do not try to open them right away. I need to spread a salve on them first.”
Esselles nodded his understanding.
“There,” the person said after applying a thin oily salve to Esselles’ eyelids. “You can try to open them now, but do so slowly. And if it hurts, by all means, close them again.”
The salve tingled slightly as it did its work. The rawness of his skin seemed to ease and the slight tension at the corners of his eyes began to relax. Very cautiously he tried to open his eyes. His vision was washed with brightness. He quickly shut his eyes again but he still saw red. He squinted like someone who had just walked from complete darkness into the light of day. The squinting made him realize just how sore and tight the skin on his face really was. He tried to relax his eyes but the light seeping in through his eyelids was still monumentally bright.
&n
bsp; “It will fade after a minute or so. When you were first brought in we applied a cream that deadened the eyes to promote their healing. Then we bandaged them up, so they are not used to reacting to light.”
“How long have I been out?” he asked.
“About twelve hours since you were brought in.”
“That long? Where am I?”
“You are in the Temple of the Moon. Now lie back down and try to hold your eyes open. Don’t be alarmed if your vision isn’t clear yet, there is still some of the original medicine on your eyeballs.”
Esselles lay back down on the bed and opened his eyes again. Now the white, while still bright, was at least bearable. He heard the tinkling of glassware off to his right and could make out the fuzzy shape of someone leaning over him.
“Hold still,” the person said as he dropped a few drops of cold liquid into each eye. “Now blink your eyes a few times.”
Esselles did so and his vision began to clear up. His eyes teared heavily, washing away the filmy residue.
“You are a lucky man. Had your eyes been exposed to much more cold there might not have been anything we could have done. Unless of course you happen to have a mocca root handy.”
“No, not on me,” Esselles replied with a chuckle, fully aware of the rarity of the magical root. Looking about the room he noted that a lot of the reason for his original vision of white had to do with the decor of the room itself. The walls were whitewashed stone and there was very little in the room to break the whiteness. Even the bed and table were covered with white linens. Only the small, dark window and the dim hallway intruded upon the white background. It was at that point that Esselles realized there was no light source in the room. The light just seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. He looked about the room, searching for a source.
“You won’t find one,” the person next to him said, having noted his search. He was an elderly man dressed in long, white robes and wore a small white skullcap on the remains of a full head of graying locks. His face was well tanned and heavily creased. He was rinsing his hands in a small bowl on the table. “The light is given off by the walls themselves. One of the magical talents of a few of our priests. We find it is a lot healthier for our patients than smoky torch or lamp light.”
“Can I sit up?” Esselles asked. Upon getting the cleric’s consent, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His left arm was still in a sling, although not the same one from the forest. He also had a tight wrapping about his rib cage. Esselles examined his various wrappings as the cleric explained much of what was done.
The temple’s ministrations had been rather extensive – everything from herbal poultices to magical spells to speed up the body’s natural healing process. When the cleric’s explanations were complete, Esselles looked towards the door in obvious anticipation of leaving.
“Before you go jumping out of bed, let us get some clothes on you, young man. It wouldn’t do to have you running naked down our hallways.” The elderly man turned and left the room, asking someone just around the corner to bring a medium sized robe. He returned with the robe in hands. “Here, put these on. Someone will be in to see you shortly.”
“Thank you…”
“Traiborn,” the cleric supplied.
“Thank you, Traiborn.”
“You’re welcome,” Traiborn said, then bowed and left the room.
Esselles put on the loose fitting robe. He had a little trouble tying the belt with one hand but managed well enough, although before doing anything strenuous, he would have to ask someone to tie it better. He was adjusting the robe over his sling when he heard a knock at the door. He looked up to see someone in a military uniform enter the room.
“Esselles?” the soldier asked as he held out his hand in greeting. He was just less than six feet tall, of wiry build, with long blonde hair pulled back off his forehead where his hairline was just beginning to recede. Though he had an older appearance to him, his eyes sparkled with youth. “I’m Walket.”
Esselles shook his hand. Walket’s hand was heavily callused and his grip was strong and measured. The pommel of the sword strapped to his waist showed signs of much use, as did his Imperial Legionnaire uniform, though devoid of any sign of rank.
“Captain Falconer assigned me to wait for you,” he explained to Esselles’ look of Do I know you? “The captain and the lady waited for you but eventually had to leave.”
As Walket continued talking he led Esselles out of the room and down the hallway. There were only a few people up and about and they moved through the temple in silence. Most of the rooms were completely dark and most of the hall lights had been extinguished.
“They wanted to meet you. We were all quite impressed by your combat with the grishmagi. They’re tough critters, and to face one alone, with naught but a dagger, is quite a feat.”
“I had a little help from a crossbow bolt,” Esselles interrupted.
“True. Very true, my friend, but by that point you had already wounded it. Cut it clean through the forearm. And in the darkness no less,” Walket said as he slapped Esselles on the back in congratulations. At Esselles’ wince of pain he instantly regretted it. “Sorry about that,” he apologized.
“I’ll live. By the way, what time is it?”
“By now? It’s got to be halfway to dawn,” Walket answered. “Anyway, I’m supposed to take you over to the barracks for the rest of the night. Your horse and gear are stored there. Captain Falconer assigned you a bunk, and you are to sleep there until you’re fully rested. Unless of course you got some place you have to be.”
“No, nowhere special. I just rent a room over at the Undertow.”
“Is that the sailor bar over by the docks?” Walket asked.
“One of them anyway.”
“True,” Walket said, grinning. “I imagine there are quite a lot of sailor bars in this town. Don’t usually get over to that side of town myself. Or at least not when I’m off duty. I usually hang out over on Ringwall West. There’re a couple of great bars down Blindman’s Alley. A bunch of us from the barracks always go to this one place, Blindman’s Bluff, on Sapinday. We like to play drinking games based on the history lessons we learn in training.”
By now Esselles and Walket had made their way out of the temple and onto the street. Esselles looked back over his shoulder at the Temple of the Moon, its slender spire reaching up into the star-speckled sky. A dim light shone from the bell tower, but other than that, it could have passed for vacant. The street was not much more populated. Far in the distance, Esselles could spot a couple standing where the street intersected East Avenue. Esselles and Walket were headed in the other direction, north, towards the imposing castle wall at the end of the street.
Esselles allowed Walket’s conversation to drift into the background and he gazed off at the temples they passed as they neared the north end of Pike Street. The Temple of Nekros, the Temple of the Sun, and finally, the dominating Temple of Uran. Its three-spired bell tower reached high into the night sky, taller than even the lighthouse far to the east. Only the castle’s Dawn Tower reached higher.
Beyond the last temple lay the open grounds that were the sight of many a temple festival. They were also the parade grounds for the Imperial Legion whose barracks nestled against the castle wall at the end of the street.
Walket was still talking as they crossed the plaza and up the ramp to the large entrance to the barracks grounds. “…probably be stationed with our group while you heal, assuming you want to stay with the Legion. You do want to stay?”
“Sure,” Esselles responded, realizing he was being asked a question. He hoped he had not just volunteered for something he did not want to do, but did not have the heart to ask Walket to repeat what he had just asked.
Walket called out his name and position in the Legion to the guards who flanked the entrance. They nodded recognition and he and Esselles continued through. Once through the front entrance, the roadway split in three directions. To the left, Es
selles could smell and hear horses. To the right, the road curved out of sight. Directly ahead, the road ran right up to the large doors of an immense building that had no other visible doors or windows. Walket led Esselles along the center road.
When they reached the doors, Walket knocked twice and a small window in the doors opened up. “Walket, of C Platoon of the Twenty-Third,” he told the person on the other side. “I bring with me Esselles of the Imperial Guard, whom Captain Falconer has temporarily assigned to these barracks.”
“Okay,” the guard said as he closed the window. The door swung open. “Be sure to sign the log. Both of you please.”
Walket led Esselles over to a small table that had a large scroll upon it, rolled open to somewhere in the middle. They dipped the quill in ink and added their names to the list already there. Walket then led Esselles down a long hallway.
“Why all the security?” Esselles whispered.
“Standard operating procedures. I believe it goes back to the days of the war. Bracconius always felt that lack of discipline breeds complacency. Rather than get caught with our pants down, we always keep them pulled up. Or at least that’s how the sergeant explains it. Don’t you have as tight security in the Imperial Guard?”
“But we’re guarding the city or the castle. I can understand why someone might try to break into the castle, but into the barracks?”
“True. But also keep in mind, our barracks adjoin the castle wall, and in the time of warfare, we will need to be on guard against any subversive attack, such as poisoning or infiltration of spies. And while we are not currently at war, you never know when one might strike. It isn’t that we are warmongers, but why train and practice for the combat of war without also learning the discipline of war? What good are well trained soldiers if they aren’t used to keeping guard on their own barracks, or maintaining security within their own ranks?”
Esselles nodded his agreement. “True. I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“And it is carried quite extensively. You know everyone in your platoon. I mean everyone. By name, by face, by voice. And you generally know most of the people in the other platoons you work with. It would be very difficult for a spy to infiltrate our ranks.”
Demonified (Hawkblood Chronicles Book 1) Page 4
