More than that, he was a doctor and of course that meant he knew better than anyone who wasn’t. Of course it had to be superstition that Earstripe was worried about, not, say, a screaming berserker in the middle of a nightmare. But you knew so much better, didn’t you?
“Did you kill him?” asked Galen, his voice slurring.
“Door!” gasped Earstripe. “Now!”
“But the traps—”
“Open a door, maybe we die!”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Whatever nightmare Galen was caught in, it wasn’t letting him go. Piper slapped the door switch and lunged through it, praying the next room wasn’t filled with poison gas, hoping that Galen’s slow advance would not reach the door in the thirty seconds until it closed.
For a few long breaths, he thought they would make it. Surely twenty-eight minutes would be enough for Galen to snap out of the rage and all he and Earstripe had to do was figure out where the blade would fall or the spikes would drop and live through it and then they could come out and everything would be normal again and…
Galen filled the doorway. He was not a large man, not compared to most of his brothers, but the air around him seemed to vibrate. His eyes still had that terrible unfocused look, as if he had not yet woken up from the dream.
“Galen,” said Piper, backing away. “Galen, wake up. Please wake up. You’re having a nightmare. It’s us. Piper and Earstripe. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not really there.”
The paladin stepped forward, his head moving back and forth, eyes traveling between human and gnole. Piper could almost see him deciding which one to attack first, not that it would matter one way or the other, because Galen had a sword and all Earstripe had was teeth and claws and all Piper had was a nauseating sense of guilt that wasn’t going to do fuck-all against a yard of steel.
Click. The door closed behind him.
Galen spun around at the sound, smashing the pommel of his sword against the door twice, before he seemed to realize that it was only a door. He turned back toward them, taking another step forward. Piper and Earstripe retreated as one.
Another step forward. Another step back. “Are we halfway?” whispered Piper. “Are we about to set it off?”
“A gnole isn’t taking eyes off a human.”
Galen’s gaze locked with his. Piper took another step back involuntarily. He had no idea what emotion he was seeing in the other man’s eyes. Perhaps it had no name. It was deeper than rage, emptier than hate. It made him feel like prey.
Piper’s nerve broke and he bolted.
Click.
For a moment, Piper thought he was fainting. The ceiling seemed to fall away. Then he realized that the ceiling was in just the same place, and the floor itself was tilting. Fast.
In a matter of seconds, the far side of the room had dropped several yards. Piper caught a glimpse of another yawning pit…a pit that he and Earstripe were now sliding into.
He flung himself flat on his back and tried to slow his descent, feeling his heels skid on the slick ivory surface. Scraping sounds and gnollish obscenities came from his right as Earstripe tried to dig his claws into the infinitesimal grooves in the floor.
He managed to halt himself for a few seconds, arms outflung, feet flat on the tilted floor. For a split second, he felt relief, and then one of his heels slipped and he skidded another few inches down. Am I really going to die because I don’t have better shoes?
Somehow, probably because his palms were so sweaty that they stuck to the floor like suction cups, he managed to push himself upward a few desperate inches. He couldn’t look behind him to see what Galen was doing. That was irony for you. He’d been running away and now he was desperately trying to scramble backward the way he’d come, probably right onto the paladin’s sword. Was it better or worse to die sliced to ribbons in the pit, or be chopped to pieces by a man you were attracted to? Okay, well, possibly the pit is the better choice in that case…
Something went clang. Something else grabbed his hair. Piper yelped. It felt like it was being pulled out by the roots, which it probably was. He watched, barely comprehending, as Galen’s sword slid past him with a long metallic sound like a draw from the scabbard, infinitely prolonged, and then it hit the bottom and tumbled into the pit. He could feel individual hairs tearing loose from his scalp.
Then a hand tangled in his collar, pulling upward, and the ties on his shirt were caught under his chin and he couldn’t breathe and maybe this was how he died, being strangled by a man that he was attracted to, maybe he wasn’t going to get a choice after all. His vision was starting to go gray again. He lifted a hand to his throat to try and stop the pressure, imagining Galen’s face with his unfocused green eyes and that terrible blank expression, hearing himself choke. He didn’t dare lift the other hand but in a second he was going to have to and then he would slide down onto the blades this was it this was how it ended all because he had seen a man in pain and was so goddamn arrogant that he thought he could help or maybe he was still back in the fishing village and he was a fish drowning on dry land and in a minute the vision would fade and everything would be normal maybe this wasn’t actually happening at all maybe he was watching the last seconds of someone else’s life, not his own…
The pressure on his throat eased. Galen’s hand slid under his lifted arm and held hard.
“Hold still,” the paladin said in his ear. He sounded almost eerily calm. “I’ve got you, but if you struggle, we’re both going to fall.”
Oh god, he’s back. He’s back. It’s over. If Piper hadn’t been dangling by his neck over certain death, he’d have cheered. As it was, he couldn’t get enough air to speak coherently. He managed to grunt something that he hoped sounded like agreement.
“Earstripe,” said Galen, still in that calm voice, “I can probably get one foot down near you. If you grab onto it, I think I can hold you both up.”
“Better do something quick,” said Earstripe, sounding strained. “Claws aren’t going to last much longer.”
Piper couldn’t see much, but from what he could work out, the paladin was lying flat at the top of the floor. There must be a lip around the edge, he thought, or maybe a little ledge where the edge of the floor is tilted up. But can he really hold both of us up for…six minutes? However long it is?
“I’m going to move,” Galen told him. “I won’t let go, but our balance is going to shift. Don’t struggle or we’ll both go down.”
“Yeh…” Piper breathed, unable to nod.
The pressure on his neck changed. He swallowed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Galen’s boot slide downward. It seemed impossibly far away from Earstripe. Could the gnole even reach it?
One of Earstripe’s hind legs slipped. Ivory squealed as the gnole’s claws scrabbled along it. Piper heard himself moan in strangled horror.
The gnole lunged upward, grabbing for Galen’s foot—and missed.
Galen cursed. Piper felt the grip on his neck snap bruisingly tight. The paladin’s foot kicked out into empty space.
With an agility that Piper hadn’t known he possessed, Earstripe flung himself upward and sank his teeth into Galen’s boot. Piper heard the other man hiss in pain. He felt Galen’s grip slacken for an instant, felt himself start to slide—and then the arm around him tightened again.
“Now,” said Galen calmly, “I think it would be best if no one moves at all.”
“Yeh,” panted Piper.
“Auungh,” said Earstripe, with a mouth full of foot.
It was the longest six minutes of Piper’s life. It felt like six years. His vision began to go gray around the edges from lack of air, and he fought to stay conscious, because if he went limp, all three of them were going to fall, since he couldn’t trust Galen to do the sensible thing and let go.
But eventually there was a click and a grind and Galen’s body jerked sideways. The paladin rolled into him. Piper had a moment of nauseating terror, but the slope was already decreasing rapidly and
he only slid a few inches before the floor snapped level again. Earstripe released his grip on Galen’s footwear and all three of them lay flat on the floor, gasping for air, grateful to be alive.
Seventeen
“I’m sorry,” said Galen.
“No, it’s my fault.” Piper waved his hands helplessly. “I shouldn’t have—Earstripe told me not to, but I was an idiot—you were yelling and I thought—I’m sorry!”
“No. No. If I wasn’t like this…I’m sorry. It’s been years.” He swallowed. The anguish on his face tore Piper’s heart. “I stopped going into the battle tide when I woke up. I thought that was over. Nobody should touch me, still, but usually I don’t do any worse than accidentally deck someone. It’s been years!” His voice rose on the last word, a child crying against unfairness.
“But I shouldn’t have—”
“Both humans shouldn’t have,” Earstripe broke in, clearly done with their arguing. “Both humans wrong, both humans don’t listen to a gnole, both humans acting like a gnole cub with worms.”
There did not seem to be any way to counter that. Piper dropped his head. “You’re right,” he said. “Wallowing in guilt doesn’t help matters.” At least in public, he added to himself. Performative guilt doesn’t help anyone, and you’d think I’d have learned that, after the first dozen sickrooms.
The silence that followed was horribly awkward, up until Piper noticed the tear in Galen’s surcoat and the dark stain underneath. “You’re bleeding!”
“Probably,” said Galen. “My foot too, I imagine.”
“Gnole can’t apologize for biting, tomato-man, but a gnole wishes a human’s boot had been thicker.” He opened his mouth, showing a broad expanse of tongue. “Also that a human’s boot had been cleaner.”
“Next time we’re in a maze of death traps, I’ll wear better footwear.”
“Shirt off,” said Piper briskly. “And sit down. What happened?”
“When the floor tilted, the edge came up against the wall. Made a pointy little ledge about six inches wide. I had one foot and one hand jammed into it. Got both of them out in time when the floor went back into place, but it caught part of the coat and pinched my mail along my ribs.”
“Do you feel any breaks? Anything stabbing when you breathe?”
“No.”
Piper grimaced. You could never tell with soldier types. Either they wouldn’t complain even if their leg was falling off, or they’d whine over every hangnail. He suspected that Galen was more of the leg-falling-off variety, but there was no telling until you actually had one in front of you. “Let me take a look at it.”
Galen sighed and stripped off his surcoat and the light chain hauberk underneath. The padded shirt under that was stained with blood. “I suspect it’s going to be an impressive bruise, that’s all. What I get for sleeping in chainmail, I suppose.”
“You’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“Yes, well…” He pulled the shirt off over his head, wincing when the fabric stuck to the wound. Earstripe hissed through his teeth sympathetically. The man’s skin was already darkening with a long, ugly bruise, and it looked like the skin had split down the middle. If Galen had less muscle across his ribs, Piper had a horrible feeling he’d be looking at exposed bone.
“Rat’s mercy,” he muttered. “And me without my kit.”
“It’ll be fine. I’ve had a lot worse.”
“Hush and let me take a look. And if I press on anything that feels like it impacts your breathing, tell me.” He ran his fingers across the man’s ribs, trying to focus on possible injuries. Unfortunately, that meant that he was focusing very hard on the feel of sleek muscle over bone and this did not make the job any easier. Oh my… he thought, and then, For the love of god, he’s injured and just had an extremely upsetting episode that was entirely your fault. Don’t be such an ass.
Galen inhaled sharply. “Did I hurt you?” asked Piper.
“No.” The paladin’s voice was clipped.
Right. This might be an excellent time to make conversation. Set the patient at ease. Right. We could talk about…err…there’s no weather down here, so…ah…somehow, “How’s the ancient death trap treating you?” doesn’t seem appropriate…
Piper had started working with dead people because he knew his bedside manner with living ones could use some improvement. He groped for a topic. “So you are prone to extreme sleep disturbances. That’s useful to know.”
Galen said nothing.
“The literature of sleep disturbance is quite fascinating. We have written records of sleepwalkers dating back nearly a thousand years. While it’s more common in children, there are reports across all ages and sexes, and while some theorize that it is caused by stress, particularly in unusual sleep environments, no one really knows the cause.”
Galen said nothing, more loudly. Too late, it occurred to Piper that this might be the single thing on earth that the paladin least wanted to talk about right now. Unfortunately, Piper had already committed to this course and couldn’t seem to stop talking. “The politician Sang Mar reportedly once gave a speech to a large crowd, while deeply asleep, wearing only his socks.” Earstripe made a small noise of either amusement or dismay, Piper wasn’t sure. “At the time, the accepted theory of sleepwalking was a form of nocturnal demonic possession, where the demon shared a body with the human soul but could only take control of it when the soul was asleep. The followers of the Dreaming God tell us that this is inaccurate, however, and that they have never encountered a possessed sleepwalker. Also apparently demons do not sleep as such. Indeed, lack of sleep is part of the trauma caused by demonic possession—oh, hmm, I think this rib might be cracked.”
“Oh, thank god,” said Galen.
“That’s not a good thing.”
“If it stops our tour of sleepwalking through the ages, I’ll take it.”
“Sorry. I get going sometimes…” He sat back. “I’d prescribe rest and immobility, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ll clean the wound and we’ll bind your ribs. Hopefully it’s just a nasty bone bruise.” He pulled off his own shirt and the undershirt beneath it, and tossed that aside, then pulled his shirt back on. “Earstripe, can you tear this into strips? And do you still have your waterskin?”
Earstripe nodded and handed over his waterskin and Piper began sluicing the blood off Galen’s side. The paladin caught his hand. “Wait, don’t do that. We don’t have very much water. Don’t waste it on me.”
“It is not a waste,” said Piper. “And I’m cleaning this off. You got fabric ground into the muscle here and that will make a truly superlative mess if it’s left alone.”
“The Saint of Steel’s chosen heal quickly,” said Galen. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Someone has to.” Piper almost added that the Saint of Steel wasn’t around to do it anymore, but thought that would be a trifle undiplomatic. “Stop squirming.”
“A gnole can go back for more water,” said Earstripe, slicing through fabric with a small knife. “And the lantern, and human packs.”
“What?” Galen stopped trying to fend off Piper’s ministrations. “You’d have to go past the last room again.”
Earstripe shrugged. “Now that a gnole knows how, a gnole isn’t worried. A gnole gets enough space on ledge for claws, a gnole will be fine.”
“Are you sure?” asked Piper.
“A gnole is sure. Besides, could stand to visit the pit again.” He gave them a drop-jawed gnole grin. “In private.”
“Oh well, don’t let us stand in the way of nature’s call,” said Galen. Piper finished cleaning the paladin’s wound and gave the waterskin back to the gnole.
“A gnole will be back,” said Earstripe. He stood, looked down at them both, and shook his head. “Humans try not to maul each other with apologizing before then, hey?”
“No promises,” said Galen. “It’s what we do.”
They watched the gnole enter the door, and even though it didn’t close
behind him, Piper felt himself tense.
“He’ll be all right,” said Galen quietly.
“I know,” said Piper. The gnole had certainly been better prepared than either of the humans. He’d had the presence of mind to grab a knife and waterskin when Galen woke, or he’d been carrying them all along. Perhaps it was simply easier for gnoles to sleep in full kit, with the elaborate cloth wrappings they wore.
Galen was waiting patiently. He shook himself out of his thoughts. “Let me finish wrapping you up.”
Galen lifted his arms as Piper bound strips of torn shirt around his torso. His chest was broader than Piper had realized. The man moved like a dancer and it was easy to miss how much power was lurking behind the grace.
“How’s your neck?” asked Galen, not looking at him.
“Eh?”
“Your neck. Where I nearly strangled you.”
“Oh, that.”
Galen gazed at the ceiling, presumably asking some deity for strength. “Yes. That.”
“The human neck makes a poor handle,” said Piper, “as my anatomy instructor used to say. But you handily avoided crushing my windpipe, for which I am grateful. Don’t ask me to look over my left shoulder for a while, that’s all.” He tried to keep his tone light, because he was certain that there was guilt simmering just below the surface. “And you didn’t drop me into the pit, which is the important thing. I’m sorry about your sword, though. Did it have a name?”
Galen looked blank. “Did what?”
“Your sword.”
“Why would it have a name?”
“Don’t warriors name their swords?”
The paladin stared at him. “Is that a euphemism?”
Piper felt a flush starting. “I didn’t think it was, no. You know, the pointy metal thing?”
“…you know they don’t come when called, right?”
“Neither do cats, but people name those.” His flush was definitely growing.
Paladin’s Hope: Book Three of the Saint of Steel Page 12
