The Creed

by Perla Giannotti

  There it is, the Council was right. I have become a perfect assassin.

  Something screamed that he should stand up and run, but he was so horrified by what surrounded him, by what had just occurred, that he couldn't do it.

  Marrhit, in great pain, dragged himself down to Selot. The hurt of his wounds and the burn on his chest had returned after the state of grace the spirit of Baìah had given him. He reached his brother, and sat at the base of the tree next to him.

  “Get your strength back, Selot. Do it quickly. You killed, or you would have been killed. You did not bring about death disloyally. Do not hate yourself.”

  Selot, however, was only thinking about all the pain he'd experienced and that which awaited him. He thought of the pain he had just inflicted, which would never ever abandon him. He thought of his destiny, and his desire to be a doctor which all seemed so very futile and grotesque right now. Marrhit made an audacious effort and stood on his feet. Selot looked on, stunned.

  “I can walk,” he said in between the hurt. “I know how to hide myself and I have found myself in difficult situations before now. It's your turn to run to Var. I will see you there.” Selot got up again. It was very clear what Marrhit was telling him. He couldn't frustrate the efforts they'd faced together so far.

  “No, you can't,” Marrhit voiced, agreeing with him. Selot neared him by half a step. He nodded, then turned and started running faster than the wind.

  XIX

  Ucal had hidden himself skillfully. He'd transformed himself into a shadow, just like a good thief did. And what's more, it wasn't even hard, seeing that the Praetorians were on the trail of Selot and Marrhit and did not expect to find a third man. He saw the two Vetems get caught. They had hit them with poisoned darts to render them unconscious. He had waited in his hiding place until they had taken them away. There was absolutely no way he could have helped them; he would have had no chance. When the group of men had dragged them away, he went over to the encampment to observe all that happened. He lost sight of them for a couple of hours. Then he saw them, unconscious, hands and feet chained in stocks, in the middle of an open space in the center of the general headquarters. He stifled all the curses he could think of. They had stripped them. He was undecided whether he should run to Var to warn him immediately of the outcome of the disastrous mission, or whether to try and learn what would happen to the two boys. From a distance, he made out a figure standing in front of them, when they'd just come out of their unconscious state. He watched as they nailed Marrhit's feet into the wooden base on which he was kneeling. Despite the distance, he heard the echos of pain. He closed his eyes. He could not wait any longer. He had to go back to the base of Atiarav and inform Var.

  Var listened to Ucal's report. He took a few hours to think it through. From one of the core groups further up in the valley, one of his captains had let him know that the first two hundred warriors from the south had reached them, just as Selot had predicted. He trembled for the fate of the two Vetems. Their capture was the worst news he could receive. He should never have allowed them to get so close to the military base. He swore. Selot was too important, he was the key to the Cumbal and just like a fool, Var had sent him on a mission, exposing him to high risk, whereas he should have limited him to the task of gathering information for the counteroffensive. How could he have been so idiotic? At the same time, it made him realize he was in the path of a very frightening enemy. The two Vetems wouldn't have fallen prey to just any general. It had to be an exceptional being of great cunning. This could also justify the fact that they hadn't seen any other reinforcements. The general considered his own tactical skills sufficient to attack and defeat Atiarav. Or perhaps, the absence of reinforcements was a trap, an illusion? Despite the precious information gathered by Ucal, he was not in the right state of mind to make any decisions.

  Even considering his military strategy, he couldn't hide from himself that Selot in the hands of the enemy made him shudder. The terrible news of the torture inflicted on Marrhit tore at his heart. If two Vetems like those could be checkmated that way, everything could just as easily be lost. They could either be dead, or be facing the most terrible of trials. He also had the impression that, under the pressure of immense suffering, they might also reveal where and how the people of Atiarav were organized. He breathed in deeply to banish the thought. He shouldn't think about it. And then, he said to himself bitterly, the only thing left to do for the two brothers was not to doubt them. He owed them that at least. He felt the strong and discreet presence of Ucal nearby. Though he was filled with doubts. He felt overwhelmed by desperation. He distanced himself from the camp. He searched for a flat rock, knelt down in the direction of Mount Kisov, and started praying. Before the light of the next morning, he would have to decide what to do.

  The sun had set hours ago and a sliver of moon shone its silver light on the rocky mass of the Stone King. Var was still kneeling on the rock that he'd chosen to contemplate his thoughts, when he heard a horse approach. He turned to see who it was. It couldn't be anyone returning from patrol. He lifted his head from prayer and saw Selot. He watched as he got down from his horse, exhausted. He was completely covered in blood and his face was transformed into a mask of anguish. It wasn't possible. He was still in a state of meditation from the prayer. Might this be a vision? That blood and that anguished face could be a reprimand from the heavens. He only realized it was real when he saw him crash into Ucal's arms, who had more practically, run to him in order to help.

  “Heavens above, Selot...” his warrior friend exclaimed, “but this morning you were chained up in the middle of the royal army. How the devil did you...”

  “How is this possible?” Var articulated, incredulous.

  Selot refused any cure or attention whatsoever. He refused the water Clen offered him after being summoned by Var. He asked for permission to sit on the rock where the marquis had been praying. He sat cross-legged and recounted just the bare essentials for Var, omitting every single thing that was not necessary. He illustrated the strategy outlined by Marrhit without forgetting a single word.

  “Victory is in our hand, if we attack in the next three days. We must be swift in organizing it,” he concluded.

  Delivering the goods, he finally let out a relieved sigh. Var's brain whirred madly. He pictured it all. He called for his captains to organize the attack. Selot got up. Var turned towards him. He gave him a thorough look to see if he were in any condition to go into battle right away.

  “I am ready, my lord,” Selot succinctly reassured him. The marquis gave him a smile.

  He summoned an immediate war council. Selot joined the reunited men and stayed on his feet, ten paces from Var, to his left. His hands were well in sight on the hilt of his biggest sword, and his hood was pulled down over his face so as not to unsettle anyone with his stare. His figure, entirely drenched in blood and the stories that were already circulating around the camp like wildfire, amid fear and astonishment simultaneously. The council was very fast. Var gave precise instructions to each one and gave the go ahead for preparations. Excitement ran over the somber faces. It was no longer the moment to suffer. For the first time in a long time, it was the moment to attack.

  “Var,” Selot called him at the end, interrupting the feverish preparations of war for just one moment. Var stopped immediately. If Selot called for him by name, it had to be something of maximum importance.

  “My brother...he couldn't escape with his wounds. I must find him and bring him to safety. I will reunite with you as soon as possible, but I mus...I cannot leave him to his destiny. He's losing blood...I saw many traces of wolves...my lord, allow me these few hours for my brother's sake. I'll be much faster than you, I will not rest, I will be back at your service before you know it...a few hours...” the anguish pinched his throat. The marquis went to him and held his arm tight.

  “It is the first thing I thought. We will find him together. We will leave before the others. Drink, eat, clean that bloo
d off you and we will leave. I have had three horses readied for us. We will find him, we'll give him a horse and God will guide him here to be healed.”

  Selot looked at him in wonder. Marrhit would not be able to fight, so, from a strategic point of view, it would be a waste of time and an error to rescue him.

  “Don't look at me that way, Selot. What sort of man do you think I am?” Var did not go on. If God one day conceded peace to his people, there were many things he would have to say to that boy. Though now wasn't the time.

  Selot gulped down his food, downed a bowl of water and put his head and his hands in a vase of water to get rid of the blood that matted his eyelashes, covered his eyelids, his skin, his hair. He took his medical sack, two flasks of water and some food. Clen brought him some clean bandages. After a few minutes, Var and Selot ran along paths that descended towards the valley, pushing their horses along the mule trails. When the terrain opened up, they galloped like mad, inciting their horses. Selot could think of nothing except his brother at that moment. As the wind and the sound of hooves filled his ears, he felt his Zav gem pulsate at the nape of his neck. That was one thing he had completely forgotten about over the last few days. The Uicic Council. Perhaps they had started looking for them, the date of their presumed return had come and gone. He pushed the thought from his mind as there was no time for it. First, he had to find Marrhit. They galloped towards a a woody strip that opened up to the east, in the direction of the royal military camp. They saw a figure advance on foot. It moved strangely...unnaturally. They slowed down their horses. The figure seemed to halt, to scrutinize them. Then it came forward, staggering somewhat. Selot knew straight away, and rode his horse hard, immediately followed by Var. Selot reached the figure. It was clear soon enough that the figure walked with the help of two crutches fashioned out of tree branches. He stopped his horse and jumped down in one swift movement. He took hold of Marrhit and eased him onto the ground, freeing him from the burden of his weapons.

  “How did you get so far?” Selot asked him, without hiding his relief.

  “Do you think I'm a weakling like you?” retorted Marrhit with his voice hoarse. He was exhausted. His eyes were red, his head throbbed with suffering, and his movements were slow and unsteady. His signs of dehydration were worrying. He had not yet regained his strength from the encounter with Yellow Eye. He held him under his arms and helped him onto the grass, as Var sustained him from behind. He knelt beside him. He looked at the state of him with worry. Marrhit had made bandages out of some torn parts of his clothes and had bandaged the lesser wounds on his feet. He couldn't wear his boots, which meant the dirt from the ground mixed in with the coagulated blood and the fresh blood that still flowed.

  “Drink,” Selot said. He opened the water bottle and handed it to him. “Small sips,” he warned. Marrhit's lips looked like the empty shell of a molted snake skin and they trembled as they came in contact with the wet part of the water bottle. He drank a few drops, letting the liquid wet his mouth. Then, slowly, slowly, he downed half the bottle. He set it down, knowing he should not give satisfaction to his thirst. Selot tried to remove the makeshift bandages, but they were caked in blood and mud. He picked up one of the two flasks and wet the two unidentifiable bundles that were Marrhit's feet. He then managed to remove the fabric. He had to rip off the ones that were directly on the wounds. He carefully washed every part, until the wounds that went through from the bottom of his foot to the top were perfectly visible in all their savagery. Var gasped at the sight. He had already seen the heavy sign of the leather strip on his neck, which had almost suffocated him, the extensive burn on his chest, his broken nose, and the injury sustained by the arrow in his thigh. How on earth could that boy have survived, escaped and walked?

  Selot had work to do. He dried Marrhit's feet well. He covered them with a thin gauze Clen had given him, to protect the wounds from the air and insects. He started preparing an ointment. He started working energetically with herbs and ingredients taken from his sack. As he worked, he intercepted his brother's pain to help him control it. Marrhit relaxed visibly after a few minutes. Var felt him lean against him with his back, arms abandoning his weight. He took another few sips of water, which his body greedily absorbed. Selot sometimes interrupted what he was doing to chase away the spasms made by the injuries, and the burn to his chest. The preparation of the ointment was lengthy. Selot sensed the greatest pain came from the horrifying burn. He had to work quickly. He finished the first treatment. He was about to spread it over the wounds, when he saw Marrhit's drift into unconsciousness. His eyes were glassy for at least a minute, which was exaggeratedly longer than any other period before. It was not a good sign. As he medicated the wounds, he constantly looked into his eyes praying he would come back from that mysterious place of oblivion. When his eyes reanimated, Selot felt great relief. Marrhit looked at him as he slowly came back to the present. He read the preoccupation in his brother's mind and saw the long minute he'd been absent. Selot was leaning over his wounds and kept on working, with his delicate, but sure and knowing touch. He transmitted the feeling of safety.

  “Selot...”

  “Yes?”

  “I can no longer tolerate the burn,” he said in a voice that was broken by suffering.

  “Yes, I know...just a few more minutes. I am here,” and he meant to say that he wouldn't leave him alone in his pain, that he would grasp onto him.

  Marrhit then had another episode of his illness immediately afterwards, longer this time. “Damn it,” pleaded Selot in desperation that made his throat salivate. “Come back here, come back,” he said in a high voice as he kept on working.

  The absence lasted about two minutes.

  Selot had finished spreading the ointment over the wounds on his feet. He placed a clean bandage on them delicately, letting the mixture do its work. He began on a second treatment, completely different to the first, for the extensive and worrying burn. He worked rapidly, but there were certain times to respect to make sure the products would amalgamate in the right way. When Marrhit drifted away, Selot couldn't hold onto him and lost any control he might have that would be helpful to him, to keep his pain under control. When he returned from his absence, Marrhit was struck down by terrible pain. When he returned the second time, he tipped his head back and screamed with all the breath he had, and could not hold back the tears. Var held him tightly by the shoulders. Selot dived in to grab at the sensations, and he shuddered as he felt only a shadow of the pain that ran through his body. He clenched his teeth, bending forward until his forehead touched the ground. Var watched them, winded, moved and admiring at the same time. Selot groaned and took control so he could continue medicating the burn. He applied it to the parts that needed it, which was almost all of his chest. Marrhit felt no relief, as the pain had penetrated too far down. The ointment would react very slowly and would have to be applied many times. Selot made him drink once more. Marrhit gulped it down as soon as it touched his lips. The water spilled from his lips which were no longer controlled by his brain. A third episode of his illness stuck.