Orb and arrow, p.2
Orb and Arrow, page 2
“Drop the sword or die there.” Her voice was steady, steadier than she felt. No bandits on the road? So much for that advice.
“Wot, a lass?” He raised the sword in threat and took another step, his last before he fell forward, her arrow lodged in his chest.
Another arrow was in her bow at once. “Your choice, Trog. Stand and let me see you.” The big man rose slowly, wary of her bow.
“Drop the rope and knife.” He did so. “Better drop the belt as well, just to be sure.” She gestured slightly with the bow.
“If I drops me belt, me pants will fall,” he whined. Although he had some size to him, he sounded like a child.
“Then they’ll fall. Or do you care to join your friend?” Now there was steel in Brillar’s voice. “One death here should be enough.”
Trog untied his belt slowly. His hide pants, which were indeed tied up by the belt around his shirt, slid to the ground leaving him in his long shirt.
“Now put out your hands, step to the log and kneel.”
Trog did as he was told and she moved to his belt. It was well-worn with no buckle, just leather straps to tie it around the waist.
Brillar slung her bow and slid out her knife quickly, warning, “Mind you, my knife is as fast as my bow,” as she knelt to examine the belt. He nodded warily.
She noted that her fingers were trembling as she reached for the belt and took a deep, calming breath.
Two years on the trail? Have I changed so much? Whose lessons do I follow now? She shook her head to clear it and reached for Trog’s belt pouch.
The pouches held a few coins and some trail rations. Evidently, the knife was his only weapon and she tucked it into her belt then kicked the belt over to him and threw him his pants, keeping the purse.
“We can’t have you standing there in such an undignified state. Tie up your pants, then sit down.” He did as he was told and she could smell the acrid scent of fear from him.
Am I still a healer? She dismissed the thought. The man had threatened her life twice; there had been no time to wound and heal, not with a second threat in Trog. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. No healer ever meant to instill fear.
Brillar untied the cwel from her belt and tossed it toward the edge of the fire. No sense being encumbered. She moved to the dead man. He was better dressed than Trog, a true belt with buckle, a belt knife, solid brown boots, and his clothes were made of good cloth, not homespun.
“My friend, he was,” said Trog. “Named Pilik.” He didn’t move from his place, only watched her with round eyes.
She nodded, keeping one eye on Trog and one on the dead man. She rolled him over, removed the broken part of her arrow with its distinctive fletching and threw it on the fire. She tugged his belt from him.
“A heavy purse, this,” she said, looking at Trog, who hung his head. “So he was your friend, but all you have is coppers while he has,” she dumped the contents on the ground next to her, “silver and, yes, some gold in with his coppers. Perhaps he was not the best of friends?”
Trog shook his head and seemed on the edge of tears. “Good enough.”
Brillar picked up the gold coins and some of the silver and set them aside, the rest she put back into Trog’s purse and tossed it to him. Pilik’s cloak, she threw to one side of the fire; the sword and Pilik’s knife were tossed into the woods. Wary eyes stared at the now heavy purse and Trog licked his lips.
“Take the purse,” she told him, bent to pick it up, keeping his eyes on her as she stood. “You’ll need a story. You were out gathering firewood. You heard your friend yell for help, but when you got closer, you saw three men and knew your friend was already dead. There were too many so you didn’t go any farther. You waited until the men rode off, then you searched the camp, but you were afraid the men would be back. You carried the body to the open ground—that is what you are going to do—and buried him with that broken shovel. You will do that too. It will be too dark to go on, so you will go to sleep in the open. In the morning, you will stumble toward Denwis. Do they know you in Denwis?”
“I’ve a cousin there.” He was fingering the heavy purse. He had never had silvers.
“Then that will give you good reason. So, do you understand what you’re to do?”
She had Trog repeat it, although she had her suspicions that with Pilik dead and silver in his pouch, Trog would say little to anyone. As he was told, he picked up Pilik’s body and a broken handled shovel the men had been using to soften the ground for sleeping and headed toward the fields.
Most likely, she thought, he will stop several times. All should go well. Then she remembered the hoarse warning and turned toward the cart.
What she found, made her wish she hadn’t been so lenient with Trog. There was a man, cut, bruised, half-clothed, and half-starved, tied to a post on the cart. The odor said he hadn’t seen water in some time. Flies settled on him, were twitched off and returned. Even in the dim light, she could see the worst of it, a dimlock collar partly sunk in his flesh.
She stood back, shuddering; there had been lessons on dimlock lore when she was a student. A dimlock collar, made in mocking imitation of a great chain of office, was used to keep a mage from casting a spell or reaching out for mana. Its medallions were raised disks connected by short links, each disk active with a dark spell. With its sinister power, it made the wearer separate from mana and the world around him. A dimlock was used to bind, to punish, to transport a mage whose deeds were so horrible that only execution awaited him. Still, standing there, reaching out with all her power, Brillar found none of the evil that was said to radiate from such a mage, even when trapped by a dimlock. Nothing came from the man but anguish, grief, pain, and behind it… Behind it, Light? Dim, diffused, a weak shadow only, but Light. She made her decision.
First things first. The rough cart was two-wheeled, a style used by ordinary traders. Moving forward, Brillar cut through the leather thongs that held the man, grabbing at him with her other arm as he slumped toward the ground. Lowering him gently, she took out her flask and held it to his lips, tipping his head up so he could drink. He gulped gratefully.
“Thank… thank…” The voice was parched, weary, frightened.
“I should thank you, mage, for your warning. It must have cost you some strength.”
From under dirty, matted hair, quizzical brown eyes met hers. “The dimlock collar has only one use. I can try to remove it, but there are risks. Pilik had no key.” He nodded slowly and reached feebly for the flask.
“Yes, drink first. I hear a spring nearby and there’s a jug on the cart. I’ll get enough water to clean some of these wounds.”
Better to use water for cleaning and save her strength for whatever was to come. If the dimlock had been used justly, she might have to strike quickly to avoid being overcome. What did she know of the dimlock besides its use? A key needed to unlock it. She had some skill with locks and smiled, remembering how easy it had become to sneak into locked doors and cabinets at the farm. Unlocking this thing, she thought, might be easy, but removing it? Each of the medallions was sunk into his flesh and they would have to be removed one by one. The spells on them would resist their removal if the lock was opened without the key. She wondered how long he had been secured.
Brillar propped him against the wheel and took the jug for water. When she returned, she found he had emptied the flask and refilled it from the jug. Checking in the cart, she found a cup, took it to the fire and filled it with water. “I need more light. Can you lean on me as far as the fire?”
A nod was the only answer.
The fire was only a few paces away, but Brillar almost lost her grip on him twice, he was so slippery with blood and fluids.
“Rest a moment while I prepare.” Again, a short nod as she settled him gently on Pilik’s cloak, folding its edges over him.
Brillar moved out of the man’s view and pressed her fingers to the lock on her foldbox. Her mother, under the guidance of an Item Grand Master, had made it with all her skill and, although it looked common enough, it was far from ordinary. As it responded to her touch, the box opened, and opened again, folding outward with a faint glow. Brillar took several types of herbs and powders, cloth, a lock pick, and a small knife, plus other things she thought she needed.
What else do I know about the dimlock? She bit her lip in concentration, looking from the contents of the foldbox to the man at the fire. If the lore I’ve studied was correct, no part of the dimlock can touch human skin. His and mine must be protected. She pulled out a pair of gloves and looked to the cwel skinned bundle, nodding thoughtfully. She was ready. Responding to her gestures, the box refolded and became ordinary again.
Moving to the fire, she unwrapped the meat from the cwel skin and laid it on stones near the fire to cook slowly. The skin, she cut into two pieces. She hoped the cwel skin would serve to protect him long enough for what she needed to do.
At the fire, the man had closed his eyes. She could see he wasn’t sleeping, could feel him gathering his strength for what she had to do. She sat beside him and wiped his face with a damp cloth.
“Are you ready?” Again, a nod. “I have to turn you…” But he was already rolling onto his left shoulder, exposing the lock on the collar. Like the collar itself, the lock was a dull grey.
“We begin,” she murmured. She sprinkled a bit of powder on the lock and he stiffened.
“Yenwar, heneth,” she whispered and inserted the pick into the lock, easing it in, turning it gently, twisting, until the lock opened. The simplest task was done and the lock was nestled on part of the cwel skin.
“The lock is open, but the collar has embedded itself. Each medallion holds a spell that the key would have released and each will have to be dealt with. Are you strong enough to continue?” She saw him take a deep breath and exhale. “Then we go on.”
The thin blade was now in one gloved hand while the other held a cwel skin to the collar, knowing it would burn if she touched it and renew his pain if it touched him. She dusted the dimlock with powdered herbs then inserted the blade at the edge of the first medallion and began to push it slowly under the metal. He stiffened at once, his eyes tightly shut, and a tremor passed through his body.
“Be steady.” She put a hand on his shoulder briefly. She pushed the knife farther and the first medallion came free, dangling from the link that held it to the lock. Link and medallion were tucked in with the lock. “Not as deep as I feared,” she murmured, “a good sign.”
One by one, Brillar loosened the progressively larger medallions of the dimlock collar, cutting and tearing flesh as she did so. There were only two near the lock, but each time one was removed, the man shuddered, the tremor each time slightly more violent. Blood seeped from each wound. When she reached his shoulder, Brillar rolled the mage onto his back and stopped. She cast a light spell, then a stronger one to deal with his pain, but they didn’t seem to be effective.
“The dimlock again. Spells will not be much use.” She gave him more water, drank some herself, and rinsed the blood from her gloves.
“Rest a moment,” she told him, but he opened his eyes warily. “Resting eyes are closed,” she said sternly, and felt an echo of humor as he shut them again. Remembering the tubers she still carried, she shoved them into the ashes of the fire, adjusted the spit and the meat Pilik had roasting, and then added more wood. The smell of roasting meat distracted her only a moment.
Brillar took up her delicate work again. Around them, the forest had darkened, but sight and firelight were enough. Link by link, the chain came free and medallions rested on the cwel skin. With each removal, the man’s tremors grew stronger.
“I’m at the center pendant.” She made sure the medallions were well rolled up and tied in the cwel skin. “Rest a while, then I’ll need to roll you to your right side.” A sweaty hand grabbed her wrist. “I need rest as well. This is not an archer’s skill.” His hold relaxed and she took a moment to cut some meat from the roast, eating hurriedly. A somewhat underdone tuber completed a hasty meal.
“Ready?” In answer, he rolled to his right. “Very well then.” She sprinkled more herbs on the links, the medallions, and slid the knife under the first, as always, feeling his tremor as she removed it and slid it onto another part of the cwel skin. Again, she rolled him to his back as she reached the shoulder, then continued her bloody work. She took a moment to wash the flesh as she removed these medallions, sickened by the damage they had done, and dusted them with powdered herbs. Herbs, at least, would ease the pain where spells could not. She set a cup of water to heat near the fire.
As she removed the remainder of the medallions, his breathing became light and fast, the tremors longer. It was well into the night when she reached the pendent, the last and most powerful part of the dimlock. The rest were well secured.
Brillar stopped. Taking some herbs from their pouch, she crushed them between her palms. The air around them seemed to freshen, the fire to brighten. She dropped the herbs in the cup at the fire. As she had hoped, they swirled and turned orange in the warm water. She picked the cup up gingerly. Turning, she saw his eyes were open and staring.
“You’ll need to drink this,” she said, but his hand was already reaching for the cup. “No, you may spill it.” She held the cup to his lips and he drank deeply then lay back down.
“The pendant will be the worst. You know that. Take a minute for the herbs to do their work.”
“Yes,” came his hoarse words, “you’ve done well thus far.” The words were almost condescending even though, once the collar had been locked, he could not have removed it or even touched it with a hand.
“Many thanks,” she muttered to herself, a bit vexed, “perhaps this knife should slip. Ready?” she said aloud. She could see him steel himself for what would come, his body tightened, then he nodded. She had to admire the courage behind the simple nod.
Letting the cwel skins and their deadly contents hang well-wrapped on his chest, Brillar scattered more herbs on the pendant. His body shuddered as her knife slid under the pendant, and he gasped in pain, the first sound he had made as she cut away the dimlock. Her highest spell against pain, cast quickly as he gasped, seemed to make no difference to him.
This time, the blade needed to go deep and deeper still. With each new cut, his shuddering grew worse and she had to wait for it to subside before she could go on. Fresh blood reddened the area around the medallion, running across thin ribs. She slid the blade to the left, cutting around the edge of the pendant. His breath came in short gasps. She cut through the last of the flesh and prized the pendant out, cradling it on a hastily snatched piece of the cwel skin before it could touch him again.
Her patient seized, back arched in agony as the last of the dimlock came free, a reaction to his release from its dark spells. He thrashed arms and legs violently, nearly throwing himself into the fire. Brillar threw herself on his legs, holding them until the seizure eased. As suddenly as it had come, the fit left him. His body relaxed, sagged, all its strength drained.
Brillar moved to check his heart and saw his pulse beating weakly in his neck.
“Not dead then,” she said aloud, exhaling sharply. She took out more herbs, added them to fresh water and began to wash her patient, cleaning away the blood and wiping away accumulated dirt from his imprisonment. Exhausted, she drew in mana and cast spells against her own exhaustion. Spells for healing him would have to wait. A full healing on someone as wasted as her patient was, would take time. She moved away and opened the foldbox. The entire dimlock, she wrapped more tightly in the cwel skin, retying it with more strips of leather from the box, and stowing it safely away. Now she removed her cloak, blankets and some herbs for the morning. Looking to her patient, she found him still quiet and covered him with a blanket. She stopped to eat some more of the cwel and a fully cooked, pale tuber. Trog had piled branches nearby and she added wood to the fire.
A nicker from one of the horses caught her attention, and she went to where they were tethered.
“I see I’m to draw water for you as well,” she told them and took their empty buckets to the spring. “Too dark for more, friends,” she told them and went back to the fire.
Now, kneeling by him near the fire, she took time to inspect her patient. He was haggard, his face grey with exhaustion and lined with pain. A ragged beard covered half his face and his hair was lank and dirty.
Certainly a Master and not young. That is to be expected. No one skilled enough to warrant a dimlock could be young. Still, he seems strong and must have been healthy. A good face and he’s un-greyed. Brillar’s thoughts began to wander. What she had done, the hours it had taken, had been more tiring than a dozen archery competitions. Recognizing her own fatigue, she wrapped herself in the cloak, leaned against a log, and drifted into a light sleep.
*** 2 ***
Birds were singing, and she woke with a start, quickly realizing she must have slept well into the day. The fire had burned to ashes and her patient still slept. Standing, she stretched to relieve cramped muscles and went to check on him, finding that his pulse was stronger. Taking a stick, she stirred the fire and was rewarded with live coals. She added more small branches and watched them come alight. The rest of the previous day’s kill was well-cooked, and she sliced some from it to eat as she worked. With daylight, she was able to search the cart and found some men’s clothing, a kettle, cups, a bit of food and some pots, under rough sacking. The post with his blood on it, she wrenched off and threw in the fire. Then she filled the deep kettle and set it to boil, adding the rest of the meat. Still ravenous from the night’s work, she dug a warm tuber from the ashes and ate it, following it with gulps of spring water. She put water, herbs, and cwel meat into the kettle to cook. Near the spring’s pool, she refreshed herself, then washed and returned to the fire.
“Good morning,” she greeted her patient when she saw his eyes open on her return. “Turn down that blanket and let’s see what needs be done.”
