Chapter 13: The Harveys—Part 1
"I never thought it could look worse than Baron, but I guess I was wrong."
The Captain of Cecil's flagship takes his helmet off as he surveys the terrible ruins of Fabul. Not a single building was left without its stone façade molested. The castle itself was practically torn in two, baring large chunks of its foundation to the sun.
"What do we do now my liege?"
Cecil leans heavily on the ships banister, his mind toiling in anger and dismay. How could we let this happen? He thinks to himself. We fought so hard, and yet…
(and yet you let your guard down and got caught napping!)
"My lord?"
"We head north. Depending on when the battle ended, the survivors may already be at Cardigan."
"Cardigan?"
"The fall back point. It's an empty little village that was built for just this situation. King Folster thought of it years ago." Cecil looks to the north at Mount Saragan, where the village of Cardigan lies at its base.
"How do we know anyone survived at all?" The Captains voice is droll and pessimistic.
Cecil points to the west end of Fabul, where a pair of large, wooden crosses stands pronounced.
"I think that's proof enough."
Now Cecil's thoughts trail to Yang and his family. Throughout the years, Cecil has tried to keep in contact with his old friends from the war. But with his duties as King he's been unable to see them as much as he'd like. It's been quite a while since he's seen Yang, and Cecil hopes that he isn't one of those casualties that are buried under those awful looking crosses.
"Turn us north toward Mt. Saragan," orders the Captain to his helmsman. "And the rest of you stay at your positions. An attack can come at any time, so be alert."
Cecil stares blankly as the ship makes its turn north. His mind is full of questions once again. His inability to find any answers to them is tearing him apart. For the first time in a long time, he feels like he's walking through this whole ordeal blindly and aimlessly.
Where are these attacks originating? He asks himself. If they can assault two kingdoms on both sides of the world with this much force, they can do the same anywhere else. Who's next? Who hasn't been hit yet? Eblana, Toroia? More importantly—who's behind all this? Who's strong enough to be able to control all those dragons the way they do?
As the airship leaves the ravaged remains of Fabul behind, Cecil looks out across the horizon, feeling as if his title as King means absolutely nothing now; that he is nothing more than a bit player in a grand and elaborate war that will see the entire world crumble before him.
"What do you mean she no longer lives here?" Rosa's voice trembles slightly, as her only hope for finding her children fades away.
Upon reaching Toroia, Rosa belted out of her airship and headed for the sage's shop in the middle of town. Unfortunately the shop was closed down with the windows and doors boarded up. She desperately looked around for anyone, to ask if they knew where she lived. That's when she came upon an old man who was turning the corner of the shop.
"The Madam Declerq moved away from Toroia about a year ago to help raise her grandchildren," the lanky, old geezer adjusts the thick spectacles on the bridge of his bony nose while giving Rosa the bad news. "I'm sorry if you had business to do with her, but she was never really all there in the head if you ask me. People pay Madam Declerq to hear her tell them some far-fetched baloney life story of theirs…I tell you Miss, you'd be better off staying away from that loony old woman."
"Do you know where she moved to?" She asks, paying no mind to the old man's little rant on Madam Declerq.
"Well, if I heard correctly, which is a problem nowadays since my hearing ain't what it used to be. I got so much hair in my ears that it'd take a hedge cutter to clear it away. Damn old age I tell you! Got this arthritis too…makes it hard for me to even hold onto my cane. Can't even eat soup without spilling some on me, and I have to eat soup because my teeth can't chew well, you see?" He opens his mouth to show Rosa a handful of rotted, crooked teeth. "What's a pretty lady like you want with that hag anyways?" The short, wooden cane in his hand shakes steadily.
"Do you know where I can find her or not?" Rosa's patience is quickly wearing thin, and the urge to grab the old man and shake the spectacles off of him washes over her.
"I believe her grandchildren live in Damcyan. At least that's what I heard, but my hearing ain't so good. Did I tell you about my hearing? Damn old age, I tell you…"
Rosa bolts towards her airship, leaving the old man to continue his story alone. If his eyes were as good as his ears were, then he probably wouldn't notice she was gone.
Halfway through town, Rosa comes to a halt. She looks left and right, down the busy streets and walkways. An eerie feeling comes over her, like someone's watching her.
(can you see me?)
She looks behind her—just the old man still standing there, talking to no one in particular.
(peek-a-boo, I see you my dear.)
An unnatural heat caresses her body, flowing over her like a hot breeze, as if someone was breathing all over her.
"What is that?" she whispers to herself. A sense of death and dread comes over her, as if someone or something is piercing her heart with an intense, and overwhelming gaze—a gaze of hatred and madness, of blood and sinew.
Unable to discern any immediate danger, Rosa continues onward to her airship and to the town of Damycan where she hopes she will find the answer to the whereabouts of her three missing children.
"Ow! That hurts Sylia!"
"I told you to stay still Jero! I swear, you listen to mom and dad all the time, why don't you listen to me?"
"I'm your brother, I'm not supposed to."
Jero lies flat on his back while his sister continues to heal his wounded legs. It's been hours since their extreme tumble down the jagged slope, and the two Harvey children find themselves extensively battered.
Sylia was the first to awaken and she immediately felt an intense pain coursing through her chest and legs. Jero was still unconscious, lying on his side just a few feet away with his back to her. She took out a few pieces of kinger root from one of the leather pouches attached to her belt, and in an instant she was feeling a little better. The magical properties of the root allows minor wounds to be healed quickly, but for the more pressing injuries she would need to use her white magic abilities.
There was no doubt in Sylia's mind that her internal wounds were far greater than the external ones—bruised or fractured ribs, sprained ankles, and perhaps a couple of torn muscles. She could see that Jero was still breathing regularly, so she took the time to heal her own wounds first.
Her mother had taught her many a magic spell since she was eight years old, and Rosa had told Sylia that she could now be considered a tried and true white magician. Sylia has spent many days in Baron's hospital wing, tending to wounded soldiers and the like. Broken bones and torn ligaments were no problem for the oldest Harvey child, and those skills would come in to play right here, right now.
It took a lot of energy and patience to heal her wounds, and by the time she completed her final task, Jero was slowly awakening.
"Sylia!" He shouted, not knowing she was lying right behind him. His voice is filled with pain. A few agonizing sobs escaped his mouth as he tried to reach for his legs.
"I'm right here Jero."
"I think my legs are broken…I…I can't move my feet Syl!"
"Jero, just relax and bear with the pain," Sylia slowly sat upright; her muscles were stiff and tight. "I'll be there in a second to heal you."
"Hurry up, it really hurts!"
Sylia started to crawl toward her brother, all the while feeling small twitches and spikes of pain from her just healed wounds. It would be a while before she and Jero could walk straight without limping.
"Sit still Jero while I prepare my spells," Her hands hovered over Jero's right leg. "The faster I do this, the faster we can get out of here."
Now, with almost all of Jero's wounds healed, Sylia starts to feel weak and tired. Never has she had to do so much spell casting in such a short amount of time. The fluorescent glow around her hands is diminishing with the lack of strength in her weary body.
"Do you think we'll find shelter before the sun sets Syl?" Jero asks as he chews on a kinger root. "I mean, the only light we're gonna have around here is the moon, and we don't know what the hell is gonna come out into the open at night."
"I don't know Jero. As soon as we can start walking, we'll find out." Sylia tries to concentrate as hard as she can, hoping she can finish what she started.
Jero arches his neck downward and scans over his once battered body. The bloody cuts to his arms and legs are nothing more than soft, red blotches on his skin, while the searing pains in his legs and back are practically gone. He then turns his attention to Sylia, watching her with her eyes shut, focused and intent on healing him.
"Syl?"
"Yes Jero?" She mutters back.
"I know we don't treat each other in the best ways, but…I'm glad you're my sister."
Sylia opens her eyes and looks down at her brother; the glow around her hands dissipates.
"Same to you Jero."
They share a rare sibling smile.
"You can continue healing my leg at anytime you know."
"Oh, sorry about that."
Sylia restarts her healing spell and Jero continues to chew down on his kinger root, as the sun continues its descent toward the horizon.