Council of War

by Richard S. Tuttle

  Cautiously he entered his home and stood in shock when he saw that the place had been stripped of anything valuable. The furniture was gone; the paintings were removed. Even his closet was empty. There was nothing left but bare walls. In desperation, he returned to the home of his parents and knocked on the door. His father opened the door guardedly and stuck his head out.

  "What do you want?" asked Kalmar's father.

  "I want to come in and take a bath," sighed Kalmar.

  "You certainly need one," sniffed the father. "Why not take one in the palace you built above your shop?"

  "Must we argue?" sighed Kalmar. "I only want to take a bath."

  "I suppose that might be possible," replied the father. "Perhaps for a fee of thirty gold."

  "Thirty gold?" scowled Kalmar. "I am your son."

  "That must be convenient to say right at the moment," retorted the father. "You certainly weren't my son when I was sick. One would think the father of The Healer would be entitled to a little treatment for the sake of family, but not if you were the son they were talking about. You turned me away like every other person who wasn't rich and famous. I wasn't good enough to grace the floors of your shop."

  "Stop bickering and let him in," shouted Kalmar's mother. "Goodness knows there isn't another place in the city that will have him."

  Kalmar's father stepped aside and let the healer into the house. Kalmar made his way to the wash room and quickly peeled off his grubby clothes. His mother carried buckets of water and started filling the tub. She glanced at the clothes on the floor and crinkled her nose.

  "I will wash those while you bathe," she said. When Kalmar didn't respond, she looked at him. "What happened to you?"

  "I don't know," Kalmar replied softly. "Everything was going just fine and then all of a sudden it all collapsed. I can't understand why no one is even willing to talk to me."

  "That part I can help you with," she replied in a motherly fashion. "You have become quite the obnoxious little brat. The more money you made the more you looked down on everyone else until you ended up looking down on everyone."

  "But everyone liked me," frowned Kalmar.

  "Everyone hated you," replied the mother. "They acted friendly because you were a good healer, and everyone gets sick at one time or another. It is not a wise thing to get a healer mad at you. As soon as people started calling you a fraud, you became like poison. No one wants to be seen near you, and frankly, I don't blame them."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Just who do you think you are to take a family's life savings to treat their illness?" lectured the mother. "Or worse, how can you dare to turn your eyes away from someone who is suffering just because they are not fortunate enough to have a lot of gold? When you were a baby you were deathly ill, and we didn't have the money to pay the healer. He healed you for free because that is what healers do. Had that healer had your attitude, you would not be here today. You would have died a long time ago."

  "Maybe I did charge a little too much," Kalmar conceded.

  "A little too much?" retorted the mother. "You charged a fortune for the smallest thing. What shames me the most about you is your total lack of compassion. You were given a very valuable gift, and you have squandered it in search of fame and fortune. Now you have neither."

  "A gift?" frowned Kalmar. "You are the second person in two days to call it a gift. What do you mean?"

  "We are all born with gifts," stated the mother. "Some are great and some are small, but we all have them. Most people live their lives without ever realizing what their gift is, but you were fortunate. You not only discovered your gift early, you were also given a great gift, a gift of healing people. That is what you have failed to understand. Your gift is to heal people, not to make gold. I really believe that you would have sold your gift to make more gold if you were able to."

  Kalmar pressed his lips together and stared at the bath water. His voice almost croaked as he said, "I have lost the gift, too. All last night I tried to make potions to replenish my shelves. I could not make a single potion, not even a simple one. What am I going to do?"

  Kalmar’s mother stared at her son with motherly concern. "How did you lose your gift?"

  "I don't know. Everything I sold yesterday was bad, but I am sure the potions were made correctly."

  "Well something happened yesterday to make you lose your gift. Think hard about it."

  Kalmar frowned with concentration as he tried to remember the events of the day before. He remembered all of the customers lining up to buy his potions, and then suddenly he remembered the two old men.

  "There was a man yesterday who wished me splendid sales," Kalmar told his mother. "I thought it was a strange comment for the man to make as I had just turned his friend away. I refused to heal him because he had no gold."

  "If the gods still live," declared the mother, "that is reason enough for them to take your gift away. Seek out this man and heal him."

  "But I no longer have the gift," retorted Kalmar.

  "Then find a way to ease his pain that does not involve your gift."

  "Do you think that will restore my gift?"

  "I hope not," said the mother. "You have not used your gift wisely. It should be given to someone else who will nourish it, but I still think you need to atone for your poor behavior. If nothing else, you will feel a little bit better about yourself."

  "But what I am to do with my life?"

  "One step at a time," smiled the mother. "You are a strong young man. There are many things that you can do, but I fear you might be better doing them somewhere where you are not known."

  Chapter 33

  Call to Service

  Kalmar stepped out of his parent's house with his body washed and clothes cleaned. It was already well past high sun as he headed towards the plaza. Passersby stared at him, but when he turned to look at them, they averted their eyes. Not a single person spoke to him or even smiled in his direction. He realized that everything his mother said was true. He was reviled, and he only had himself to blame for it. As he approached his shop, he gazed at the shattered door, but no anger welled up inside him. Somehow it felt as if he was seeing the results of someone else's life, as if it had not been him inside that shop.

  Kalmar reached the corner of the plaza, and his eyes swept over the people within it. He saw the old man who had asked for the potion. The man was sitting on a bench feeding the squirrels. Kalmar stood for several minutes trying to think of what he could say to the man. Finally, he just strode over and sat down alongside the old man.

  "Are you still in pain?" Kalmar asked.

  "A bit," Zynor said as he turned and glanced at the healer. "It is not as bad as yesterday."

  "Do you have a room in the city?" asked Kalmar. "I may not be able to do anything for the pain, but I am willing to try."

  "We are staying at the River's Turn," answered Zynor, "but the pain is not so bad. I will live. Thank you for asking."

  "I want to help you," insisted Kalmar.

  "Why?" asked Zynor.

  "Because it is what I should have done yesterday," answered the healer. "I was wrong in the way I treated you. I have been wrong in the way I treated everyone."

  "There are many people more needy than me," shrugged Zynor. "I just haven't ridden in a long time."

  "Please?" begged Kalmar. "I must try."

  "That won't restore your gift," stated Fakir.

  Kalmar whirled around and saw the other old man standing behind the bench. He stood and faced him.

  "You know about me losing my gift?" questioned Kalmar.

  "The whole city is talking about it," replied Fakir. "Oh, they may not call it your gift, but they say that your potions no longer work. It is the same thing."

  "It is true," Kalmar nodded sadly.

  "Then there is no further reason for you to bother, Zynor."

  "Yes, there is," countered Kalmar. "I need to atone for my behavior, and no one in this city will even speak to me. Beside
s, I do know some other remedies that might ease his pain a bit. They won't be as effective as my potions, but surely something is better than nothing."

  "Atone for you behavior?" echoed Fakir. "Those are strange words from someone like you."

  "They are the words of my mother," admitted Kalmar. "We had a long talk this morning. I think she made me understand the folly of my ways."

  "I suspect that you still believe an act of kindness will restore your gift," challenged Fakir.

  "She thinks not, and I tend to believe her. Besides, I am not sure that I want my gift back. I have handled it poorly."

  "I find that hard to believe," Fakir said skeptically. "The gift was your whole life. You are nothing without it."

  "I was nothing with it," retorted Kalmar. "Oh, I thought I was somebody, but I was fooling myself. It took the loss of my gift to make me see that."

  "What will you do with your life then?" asked Fakir.

  "I do not know," sighed Kalmar. "Whatever I do, it will not be in Herinak. I have made a fool of myself in this city. I need to go somewhere where no one knows me."

  "You can get quite wealthy raising Occans," suggested Fakir. "Perhaps you could work at a ranch out west and save up enough money to start your own ranch?"

  "My goal is not wealth anymore," replied Kalmar. "All my gold did not buy me happiness or friends. My possessions were gone in the blink of an eye. I just want to do something useful with my life."

  "Perhaps I could help you restore your gift?" offered Fakir.

  Kalmar stared at the old man for a long time before shaking his head. "A couple of hours ago I would have jumped at the chance, but now I fear that I would misuse it again. I wish I had never realized my gift."

  "Those are strong words," declared Fakir. "A gift is a wonderful thing, no matter how small it is. From all accounts, your gift was the strongest seen in many years. It would be a shame to throw that away."

  "I suspect the people of Herinak will not miss it," replied Kalmar. "There are other fine healers in the city. My fame overshadowed them, but maybe they will have a chance to shine now. May I try to help you friend?"

  "Go ahead," shrugged Fakir.

  "I cannot do it here," objected Kalmar. "Without my gift, I would need him to undress. I want to apply an ointment that will take the sting out of his pain. It is the best I can do, but it will ease his pain somewhat."

  "You do not even intend to try your gift on him?" frowned Fakir.

  "No," Kalmar shook his head. "I told you that I have lost it. I am merely trying to do something good for once in my life. Please let me try."

  "Only if you try it here first," smiled Fakir. Kalmar opened his mouth to object, but Fakir smiled and held up his hand. "Humor an old man, Kalmar."

  Kalmar sighed and nodded. He instructed Zynor to turn over on his face. With the old man face down, Kalmar placed his hands on Zynor and closed his eyes. The moment Kalmar started focusing on the old man's problem, he knew that his gift had returned. His eyes popped open in wonder, but he continued the treatment. Fakir smiled broadly. In just a few moments, Kalmar removed his hands and stood up. Zynor smiled with relief and sat up.

  "That feels wonderful," exclaimed Zynor, "and I think it has jogged my old memory a bit. I understood exactly what you were doing."

  "You are a mage?" Kalmar asked Zynor.

  "I study plants and animals," Zynor shrugged in reply. "I used to know some healing, but it was long forgotten."

  "Amazing," Kalmar said as he turned his attention to Fakir. "You knew that my gift had returned, didn't you? Just who are you?"

  "You may call me Fakir Aziz," stated the historian. "I suppose your plans are altered now that your gift has returned?"

  "Not really," Kalmar shook his head. "I still must leave Herinak. I guess while I am traveling, I will give some thought to using my gift again, but not in the way I did here. In truth, I think losing my gift was a blessing in disguise. It has made me look at things in a different light."

  "By all accounts," said Fakir, "you were a master in the healing arts. Perhaps you are ready for the next stage."

  "The next stage?" frowned Kalmar. "There is nothing greater than a master."

  "But there is," smiled Fakir. "Few ever attain it, but it exists."

  "What is it?" asked Kalmar.

  "Servant," declared Fakir. "Travel with me, and I will show you how to attain it."

  "Travel where?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I suppose that it doesn't," shrugged Kalmar. "Very well. I am ready to leave when you are."

  * * *

  General Marashef was a tall man, but he did not appear so walking through the streets of Ur alongside K'san. The men did not speak as they walked, but neither did they appear uncomfortable in the presence of each other. They marched up to the gates of the Old Keep, and the Federation soldiers eagerly opened the gates for the general of the occupying army. The two tall men marched through the corridors and entered King Mectin's study without knocking. King Mectin looked up with annoyance at the disturbance.

  "Have my guards outside been dismissed?" scowled the king.

  "Hardly," General Marashef replied without emotion. "Perhaps they could not possibly think you would object to receiving your new Commanding General."

  "New Commanding General?" frowned the king. "I already have one of those."

  "Ah yes," smiled the general. "General Forshire, wasn't it?"

  "Was?" balked the king. "I do not recall replacing him."

  "You haven't," retorted the general, "but the army of Tyronia has been disbanded by your own hand. General Forshire has not yet chosen to enlist in the Federation army."

  "Why should he?" questioned the king. "He is my general, not yours."

  "By our agreement," the general shook his head, "Tyronia is to be defended by the Federation army, and the Tyronian army is to be disbanded. Therefore, he cannot be your general unless he joins the Federation army."

  "Then he will do so," shrugged King Mectin. "That will leave you free to return to Despair."

  "Hardly," the general smiled thinly. "I will speak with Forshire personally, but Federation policy is to have a general from Despair as the Commanding General of all new associate states. It stops the petty favoritism that seems to hinder the progress of our reforms."

  King Mectin turned red with anger, but K'san interrupted before the king could speak.

  "You promised that you would find a location for a temple when you assumed power," stated the priest. "Can you tell me the location of this temple so that my disciples can begin getting it set up for worship?"

  King Mectin rose from his chair, his anger barely concealed. He stormed to the door and threw it open to the surprise of the guards outside.

  "Show the priest to the old temple down by the harbor," he snarled at the guards. "I am going to bed and don't wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day."

  The king stormed off, and one of the guards stepped into the study to escort the priest out. The general waved the guard out of the study and closed the door. General Marashef walked around the desk and sat down. He pulled open the drawers of the desk and rifled through them until he found the file for General Forshire. He read it silently with K'san reading over his shoulder.

  "Impressive," commented the priest. "He has been suspected of favoring the Federation for some time."

  "And he is the one who killed King Myer," nodded the general. "I think we have found what we needed. While you go and establish your new temple, I am going to pay a visit on General Forshire."

  The priest nodded in approval, and the two men left the study. General Marashef found a soldier and ordered him to find General Forshire. The guard led him through the dark corridors of the Old Keep and eventually knocked on a door. The call to enter was prompt, and the soldier held the door open for General Marashef. The Federation general marched into the room, and General Forshire rose from his desk and nodded in greeting.

  "I am General Marashef," stated
the Federation general. "I am now the Commanding General of Tyronia."

  Clint narrowed his eyes at the general. "I have not been informed of my dismissal. Is this order decreed by King Mectin?"

  "Your dismissal came when the Tyronian army was disbanded," declared General Marashef. "You have not opted to join the Federation army. Why?"

  "I serve both the Federation and the new Tyronia," stated Clint. "Did you really expect me to apply for a position with the Federation like every other lowly soldier? I am the one who made your entry into Tyronia possible."

  "Our presence in Tyronia was inevitable," retorted General Marashef. "You overrate your contribution to our success."

  "Hardly," countered Clint. "I could have easily blocked Sebastian Pass with only ten thousand men. Had it not been my keen desire to see Tyronia join the Federation, you would not be standing here today."

  General Marashef smiled and sat down. "You speak the truth, and you shall be rewarded for your service. I am making you a general in the Federation army. I will assign you a squad of twenty men for your personal protection while you travel to Despair."

  "Despair?" balked Clint. "While I hold the Federation in the highest regard, I have no desire to leave Tyronia. This is my homeland. I have worked to bring the Federation here, not abandon it to visit the Federation."

  "Your promotion is an honor," countered General Marashef, "and it is not negotiable. You will be the representative of Tyronia in Despair. Do you understand what that means?"

  "No," admitted Clint.

  "The countries west of the Barrier are too far away to send their monarchs to the meetings held in Despair," explained General Marashef. "In lieu of the kings, we have appointed top generals to take their places in Despair. You will have the power to negotiate on Tyronia's behalf and to present items of interest to Tyronia. You will be like a king."