by Liam Reese
Feathers poked her in the neck and head from the pillow, and the blanket was rough and scratchy. Her leg ached interminably, worse than when the arrow had been in. And that itching! Endless itching along the wound. Khaleen found her fingers roaming towards it to see if she could get a little relief from the torturous sensation.
“No scratching!” Slevward ordered, appearing from nowhere.
How does he do that?
Khaleen turned a sour look at the doctor, who wore a set of dark clothes today. As usual, her eyes sought his almost automatically, bringing the rush of feeling that dribbled through her delightfully.
“It’s driving me insane!” she moaned.
“If it itches, it’s healing,” he said, walking around the bed to her right side. “It means the feeling’s coming back, too. That’s a good thing,” he added with a pointed gaze. “Shall we have a look?”
Slevward started peeling her bandages back, easing the parts that had stuck together with a gentle touch that thrilled Khaleen for some reason she could not understand. He took care and time to make sure her modesty was preserved before the other people that had come in, and she wondered about the man.
He could be abrupt and rude, but as gentle as a butterfly in the next moment. There was an attractive air of confidence about him, but none of the arrogance some older generation Waravalians still had. And those eyes! Khaleen still found herself drawn to his gaze, seeking the deep blue orbs out as he worked.
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, bringing her out of her thoughts. “You heal well, and as a reward for being such an excellent patient, I’ll allow you to stand for a little while,”
Khaleen ignored his sarcastic tone in favor of being upright for the first time in days, and swung her legs out of the bed as fast as she could. Leaning forward, she suddenly realized there was no way she could do this alone.
Even though she had been eating everything they had put before her, she still felt weak, and her right leg remained virtually useless. The general sat back, a mixture of annoyance, fright and despair rolling around in her chest.
Slevward leaned down and grabbed her arm, throwing it over his shoulder and hauling her up slowly. Khaleen grabbed his other arm to steady herself as the world swam around her.
She could feel his strong body pressed against her, warm and vital. Even in his fifties, Slevward was impressively built, muscular and fit. Khaleen felt strangely protected by him, the feeling fleeting as he stepped away from her, slowly unwinding her arm from across his shoulders and letting her stand on her own.
Khaleen concentrated on balancing on her left leg, the right an apparent dead weight, immobile and useless.
“I think something’s wrong,” she said, holding her arms out for balance. “My leg … it’s useless.”
“It’s not,” Slevward said immediately. “It’s all in your mind. Come on, stand!”
“I can’t!” Khaleen shouted back, anger and fear at the failure of her leg mixing to make her lash out.
Her left leg started to ache, having to take the weight her right would not, and she started to wobble, almost falling back on the cot before Slevward caught her, his face a mask of disappointment.
“I’m crippled,” Khaleen said as he helped her back into the bed.
“Nonsense!” Slevward snapped, standing up. “Your problem is up here.” He tapped his head. “I would have thought the Commander General of the Gazluthian army would be mentally stronger than this.”
Slevward grunted and stalked off, leaving Khaleen to stew in her misery. What kind of doctor can’t see my leg’s useless?
The general felt something tickle her cheek as it rolled down her face.
14
Besmir felt the pull of exhaustion; his body ached for so many reasons, and all he wanted was to ride down into Port Vartula and find an inn to sleep in. Unfortunately, there was no time to rest. He had to get to the garrison here and try to make things right with Emmerlin.
He urged the horse forward, but at a walk, as the animal was spent too, having given his all in the mad dash to get here.
“Good lad.” He patted the horse’s neck, watching the stallion’s ears rotate to listen to him. “Get you some rest soon.”
As soon as he was inside the citadel, he would have someone take care of his horse. Feed, water and a good rub down would go a long way to restoring the loyal creature. Besmir ignored the occasional stare as he made his way through the gray streets towards the brooding citadel overlooking the town.
Morning sun warmed his back as he rode in through the main gate. It was eerily quiet for a military outpost, but the king reasoned it was still early. A thunderous crash from behind him made him jump, his horse skittering sideways as the animal tried to turn to see what was going on.
In the gap he had just ridden through, Besmir saw two massive, iron-bound, oak gates had been slammed shut. A frown furrowed his brow.
“Besmir Fringor!” someone shouted. “Dismount and throw down your weapons!”
The king turned to see a small group of men cowering behind shields as they approached him. In the center was the man who had shouted — Commander Ronistar, Besmir recalled. He thought it odd that the image he had formed of the man, from reading his reports, was nothing like the reality that approached him.
“Where’s Emmerlin?” Besmir called back. “I must speak to her.”
“That might be possible,” Ronistar shouted. “When you relinquish your weapons and surrender.”
Besmir knew something was amiss here; Ronistar was not behaving as he should. Even if he felt a loyalty to Emmerlin, he should follow protocol, deferring to Besmir as king. Slowly, Besmir dismounted, keeping an eye on Ronistar for betrayal.
What is going on here?
“Throw your sword and bow away!” the commander repeated.
“There’s no need for all this,” Besmir said. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.”
“Liar!” Ronistar spat. “Murderer!” he added. “Princess Emmerlin told me how you killed the queen in her sleep, cutting her throat so deeply her head was almost severed, Cathantor take her soul!”
Besmir’s heart sank at the man’s words, and the utter belief he had blazing from his eyes. In that moment, Besmir knew Emmerlin was long gone, leaving this trap behind her.
“I never killed the queen,” Besmir shouted to everyone there, hoping to persuade at least one of the soldiers he was telling the truth. “Arteera sits on the throne in Morantine, awaiting my return.”
“More lies!” Ronistar screamed, sycophantic rage fueling his words. “The princess told me how you killed Prince Joranas, using your foul magic to burn him alive in his own house.”
The commander actually seemed to be upset, making Besmir wonder exactly what Emmerlin had done to him. His voice trembled as he continued listing all the fictitious murders Besmir had committed.
“Princess Ranyeen and her children were imprisoned and tortured using methods first designed by the vile Tiernon! How could you?” he asked in horror. “Your own grandchildren!”
“None of these deaths have happened!” Besmir called to the soldiers who were rapidly gathering about him. “My family is safe and well in Morantine. You can send for word of them!”
“Surrender now, or we will take you by force!” Ronistar screamed.
Several things clicked into place inside Besmir’s mind then. Emmerlin must have used the same method he had tried on her to program Ronistar to believe all this.
Even so, it would have taken too long to do the same to everyone here. That she was gone was a given, and Besmir felt an anger tinged with disappointment ripple through him.
Sneaky girl.
Emmerlin also knew he could not fight all these men. Using his power against them and burning innocent men had never been something he was capable of.
Even when he had burned hundreds at Ursley, the guilt and shame had eaten at him for years, and those men had been his enemies. He reasoned he had more chance to escape later than
now, and his best course of action was to surrender.
Wearily, he un-slung his bow and threw it to one side, wincing as the priceless weapon clattered against the cobbles. He drew his sword with his left hand, tossing it aside after the bow with a loud clang that echoed from the walls.
“Kneel!” Ronistar called.
Besmir sighed and knelt, feeling the rush of hands and feet as soldiers dashed forward to be the first to claim the king. He was knocked to the ground, his hands tied, and someone knelt on his back, grinding his chest painfully into the cobblestones.
Eventually, someone wrapped a gag around his mouth and blindfolded him. He was dragged to his feet and marched to somewhere cool. The temperature dropped considerably as he stumbled down a flight of stairs; the sounds of feet echoing from walls sounded close, and he knew he was in some kind of tunnel or corridor.
After what felt like a lifetime of walking, Besmir heard keys clinking together and a lock being opened. Hinges screamed and he was shoved roughly forward, the door slamming behind him as he fell to his knees.
Imprisoned. Again!
Three days of walking brought them to the border of Gazluth, although neither of them knew it, as the land looked exactly the same. Merdon had tried to ride the horses bareback, but it had confused and frightened his mare to the point that she tried to buck him off, and he had to throw himself clear before she hurt herself. So he and Lyeeta had resorted to leading the horses by the small lengths of leather his grandfather had left them.
Anger fueled his footsteps for the first day, thoughts of treason flying around his head as he set a grueling pace. Sorrow tugged at him on the second day. Sorrow at losing his grandfather and potentially never seeing him again. By the end of the third day, he had forgiven Besmir for leaving them, believing his grandfather had done it to protect them.
Lyeeta stumbled, her eyes half closed in the dusk, and Merdon realized she was exhausted.
“Come, we’ll camp over here,” he said, pointing to a grove of willow trees brushing the ground with their branches. Under the canopy of the trees was a surprisingly private area, the thick branches making a cave.
Merdon tied the horses to a nearby tree, where they immediately started to graze, while Lyeeta slowly cleared a section of dirt with her foot, piling dry sticks up for a small fire. She blew life into the twigs and sat back, leaning against one of the willows and staring into the flames.
“Are you sure it’s Port Vartula he was heading for?” she asked in a worn voice.
Merdon nodded, handing her some food from their packs. He sat beside her as they ate, watching the flames dance.
“Yes. Grandfather thought that was where Emmerlin was heading, to where her troops are housed...”
Merdon trailed off as Lyeeta leaned against his chest, snuggling into him automatically. He lifted his arm over her and she moaned softly, asleep already. Merdon looked down, seeing how perfectly she fit in the space beside him, as if she was supposed to be there. It felt right, too, and he let his head rest on the willow at his back.
Sleep claimed the prince easily as the fire burned low, a deep, healing sleep that masked all approach of the creature that stalked them in the darkness.
Arteera grilled the royal guards who came back from Ninse without their king, demanding where he was and why they had let him go alone.
“With all due respect, my queen,” one said. “He’s the king; I’m honor bound to obey him, and he said to come back and deliver this to your hands.” The guard handed her a letter sealed with Besmir’s seal.
She had dismissed them, and read the letter three times before it had sunk in fully. He’s well? No longer taking that...poison?
Tears streamed down her face, some of relief that he had been cured of the drug he had been taking, and some of fear that she would never see him again if he was going after Emmerlin alone.
The days had seemed twice as long as usual with no news from Besmir or Merdon. There seemed little information from Khaleen, either, and Arteera started to become waspish, snapping at Petrena for no reason and chasing the simple woman away. Even the stoic and unflappable Branisi began to find reasons not to be in her presence.
Days turned into weeks, and Arteera was on the brink of madness when she heard a commotion from outside her sitting room. A loud crash and squeal of fright echoed through the corridor outside.
“What has that half-brained simpleton broken this time?” Arteera whispered as she walked across to the door. “Petrena...” she started.
The queen’s voice caught in her throat when she saw what was happening outside. Part of her regretted sending the guards to fight with the army, while the other half was thankful; they might survive, now that they were gone.
Branisi lay on the floor, surrounded by a shattered vase that had been given to Besmir by the Corbondrasi king and queen, a trickle of blood from her head staining the floor. Petrena was in the grasp of a giant whose arm bulged at her throat, cutting off her air and making her face beet-red.
Her panic-filled eyes, bulging and massive, fixed on Arteera’s own as she struggled fruitlessly against him.
Her attention was drawn to the young woman, however, her curly hair longer than she had seen it for a while. Dressed in a simple uniform that had been adapted to fit her slight form, she was almost unrecognizable.
“Hello, Mother,” Emmerlin said conversationally.
“Get out,” Slevward said.
“What?” Khaleen asked, surprised at his silent approach again.
“We’re going to need the bed. You’ll have to go somewhere else.” The doctor folded his arms and stared off into the distance as she squinted up at him.
What’s this now? “Why will you need the beds?” she asked.
“My king has decided to begin attacking the camp,” the doctor said. “So I’m sure this place will be full soon. Up! Up!”
Khaleen stared at him with a mixture of fear and hate. “You know I can’t walk!” she said.
“No, I know you can walk,” he said. “But you’re scared, so your brain’s telling you you can’t. Now get up!”
“What’s going on here?” Vetrulian asked, arriving with Collise.
“This patient is ready to leave but refusing to walk,” Slevward grunted. “I’m going to need the bed soon, so she needs to leave.”
Vetrulian looked at Khaleen, shock and surprise on his face. “I can’t walk, Majesty,” Khaleen said. “My leg’s useless.”
“Rubbish!” Slevward said, reaching down and pinching her toe.
“Ow!” Khaleen squealed.
“See? There’s feeling there! The leg works. It’s in her mind!”
Khaleen felt a lump forming in her throat as the doctor who had saved her now spoke as if she was just one body part to him. Just a leg, a wound to be healed and passed on. She knew she couldn’t walk, even if she could feel her toes. She had tried and failed; that was it.
“Well if she won’t walk, I’ll have to carry her,” Slevward said.
Before any of them could react, he reached down and hauled Khaleen up, dragging her awkwardly outside, the general hopping on her left leg at his side.
“Slevward!” Vetrulian shouted.
“Walk!” the doctor shouted at Khaleen.
“I can’t!” she squealed in fright.
Agony throbbed up from her right thigh, and she clung to his arms for support as he tried to unwind his fingers from her grip.
“You can. Walk, General.”
Fine. I’ll show him I can’t do it! Khaleen toppled, her right leg folding as soon as she shifted. Slevward caught her beneath the arms and stood her up again.
“Pathetic!” he barked into her face. “Walk!”
“Now see here, Slevward...” King Vetrulian started.
“Hush, Vetrulian,” Collise said in a small voice.
Tears of frustration flowed from Khaleen’s eyes as she stared at Slevward. Why was he being like this? Why was she? Crying and carrying on like a child. She was
the leader of the Gazluthian army, and there was no place for this kind of behavior.
Yet there was a part of her that just wanted to hide, to cower away and nurse her useless leg, lick her wounds and wallow in self pity.
The slap was an utter shock when it came. Her head snapped to one side, and her cheek stung. The gasp that came from behind her was nothing compared to the embarrassment and outright rage she felt at being slapped.
Flame exploded in her chest and she stabbed a finger forward at Slevward. “How dare you?” she exploded, her battlefield voice tearing from her throat.
“What are you smiling at?” she demanded the next moment, annoyed by his ridiculous grin.
Slevward said nothing, just made a face, raised his eyebrows and looked down pointedly. Khaleen followed his gaze and felt a wobble of fright when she saw she had taken a step towards him on her right leg. In fact, all her weight was on her right leg.
I can walk!
Clapping from behind her made her turn to see Collise, with tears of delight streaming down her face, and Vetrulian grinning at her. She looked back at Slevward who was beckoning her forwards, taking a step back.
Slowly, awkwardly, Khaleen swung her left leg forward and took a step. Slevward stepped back again.
“Come on,” he said. “That’s it!”
Tears of joy rolled down her face this time as she felt the ground beneath her right foot, the grass poking into the sole and a stone in her heel. She took another step towards the doctor, who stopped and took her in his arms this time.
“I knew it,” he said, stroking her hair and back. “I knew you could do it.”
He pulled back, staring into her eyes. “Now you can go kill people,” he said, letting go and walking back into the hospital.
Khaleen watched him go, turning in a slow circle as he walked away from her. Confusion and sadness vied for attention as she watched him go, the feeling of his arms around her still fresh, his smell in her nose.
