Ok:
Standard Disclaimer Applies. I don't
own any of 'em except Veris and the Vesper townsfolk.
At any
rate, this is getting to be pretty long!
Yikes! If you've stuck with it
this far, thanks! More to come! ^-~
Chapter Eight: The
Devil's Own Luck
She dreamt of an autumn night long ago in Kanon.
She dreamt the
long night lit up by fire, the thunder of horses and the shrill battle cry of
Orcs piercing the clear air. She saw
her father silhouetted by fire, the Elven blade glinting brightly as he raised
it to defend his family.
She dreamt the
desperate rush of her mother's robes and the sweet smell of her hands as she
half pulled, half carried Veris to the barn.
The floorboards were pulled up, and Veris climbed down into the small, dark
space under them. She remembered her
mother's face, pale and heavily lined with fear, telling her to hide in the
barn as long as she could, and that she would be back for her very soon. The floorboards came down between them, dim
light seeping through the cracks. Veris
sat, wrapping her legs around her knees, and waited.
The smell of hay
and horses floated down to her.
Safety. She could not think of a
better hiding place. Beyond the barn,
she could hear screaming and the roar of flames.
She dreamt the
waiting in the darkness, palms clammy and heart racing. There was a heavy footfall on the
floorboards above her, and almost she sprung up, hoping it was her mother. The footfall came again, too heavy to be her
mother, and Orc scent drifted down to her.
She dreamt cowering in the dark, pulling herself into as small a crouch
as she could manage.
She dreamt
looking up through the cracks in the floor to see the dark shape of the Orc
above her, ugliness illuminated by a flickering torch. The mouth was filled with tusk-like teeth
that curled out from under its lip, the nose porcine. She could see the armor, dimly, and the Marmo sigil on the breastplate stood out to her as if it made
its own dirty light.
She dreamt the
Orc casually tossing the torch into the hay stored along the wide aisle, and
the pungent smell of burning dried grass soon filled her nose, setting her to
muffle her coughing against her sleeve desperately.
She dreamt the
barn burning above her, the Orc grinning down at her as he stood between her
and freedom, keeping the floorboards down with his weight-
* * * * * * *
Thud.
Veris awoke with
a start in the darkness, heart thumping hard against her breastbone, bathed in
a film of cold sweat. Dreams,
again. Ugh. She wiped her brow disgustedly against the arm of her nightgown.
Yet, something
had awoken her, and she sat up in bed, listening. Suddenly she remembered the man in the infirmary, and got to her
feet. She slipped a robe on over her
gown, tying it loosely, and buckled on the Elven sword with a practiced, swift
deftness. Veris padded quietly down the
stairs, her eyes adapting to the gloom
rapidly.
There was Ash,
leaning against the doorframe of her open front door, dark hair lit from behind
by moonlight and the diffuse predawn
grayness of morning, his face catching the weak flickering of the fire still
burning in the small kitchen. His pale
chest glistened with sweat, the whip wounds ugly in the dimness. His hair hung by his face, arm up against
the frame to support himself, his body frozen in mid-step. His back was straight despite his obvious
struggle to remain standing.
"Ash?" She asked
quietly, approaching. She could hear
him breathing heavily.
"Healer," he
acknowledged, albeit faintly.
"Are you
alright?" She asked, with professional concern in her voice. He nodded faintly.
"Stood up too
fast." The voice was clipped,
unemotional.
"What are you
doing?" Veris asked after a moment when he did not offer an explanation. He looked at her over his shoulder, dark
eyes thin and inscrutable.
"Resting. Not falling." Veris wondered briefly if perhaps he was joking, but there was no
humor in his face. His sharp-angled
face did not seem as though it were inclined to laughter. There was too much stiffness around his thin
lips and a coldness in his eyes that did not bode well for humor.
"Ah," she said,
"but where are you going?"
"The privy, when
I find it," he said matter-of-factly.
For a moment Veris almost laughed, a grin pulling up the corners of her
mouth, but she saw that he still looked quite serious, face unreadable to
her. Quelling her mirth, Veris nodded,
attempting to look as grave as he did.
"Of course," she
said, "I should have showed you earlier, I had not thought. Lean on me," she said, offering her
shoulder.
"Not necessary,"
he said distantly. Veris shrugged
easily; he could suit himself. He
looked unwilling for a moment to let go of the door frame, but as she turned to
wait for him, he stumbled forward after her.
Veris instinctively put a hand under his elbow to steady him. She knew she was much stronger than she
looked, and took his weight easily. He
did not thank her, but neither did he pull away. Walking beside him in case he should stumble again, Veris led him
around to the back of the house where the privy stood.
Walking side by
side, Veris realized for the first time how tall the man really was.
He towered above her; she did not even reach his shoulder.
He also, she
realized, smelled. It was the rank
smell of old sweat, unwashed hair and new exertion, and Veris' nose wrinkled
despite herself. Yech. Ah well, she had smelled worse – much worse
– on the battlefield, and she could certainly endure this. She made a mental note to draw a bath for
him the next day.
"I think from
here you can manage," Veris told him when they reached the privy house. She gave him a blithely wry smile in the
face of the look he shot her – hell, if he was going to wake her up in the
early morning hours, he could suffer through her banter.
On the way back,
Veris put a hand under his elbow and took his weight on her shoulder without
asking, and he did not resist but allowed her to keep him from stumbling. She suspected it was pride that had made him
refuse earlier. She also had the
suspicion that whoever this man was, pride was something he had in great
quantity. Perhaps that was why he
seemed to have no sense of humor – there was no room for it.
"Well, Ash," she
said to break the silence, "where are you from?" She asked it lightly, but her green eyes were intense in the
darkness. He gave her a brief,
inscrutable look.
"I was born in
Kanon," he told her. Veris nodded. She somehow felt that wasn't the whole
story, but she also felt relief that he had not said he was from Marmo.
"It must be why
you recognized my accent," she said.
"Yes." The attempt at conversation fizzled, and
there was silence as Veris helped him back into the infirmary.
Ash sat on the bed
and sighed softly, unkempt hair hanging in dusty snarls past his bare
shoulders. Veris stuck a match and lit
one of the hurricane lanterns she kept in the infirmary. Bringing it over to the man's bedside, she
said:
"Well, since I'm
up, I might as well have a look at those wounds." She set the lantern down.
Obligingly, Ash laid back on the bed, and kept still and quiet while she
washed and dressed the whip lashes.
Veris was tempted to ask how he came by the angry, bloody welts, but
prudence kept her tongue still.
Normally, people volunteered information about their wounds; she
scarcely had to ask before people were telling her exactly what had
happened. Not this one, though. He was about as talkative as a brick wall,
and she thought his manners were in about the same category.
"Where did you
take your training, Healer?" Ash asked, as she was gently daubing soothing
salve onto one of the welts. His voice
was surprisingly deep, she thought.
Even though he spoke quietly, his voice vibrated compellingly in the
silence.
"In Valis," she
said, glancing up at him. She couldn't
tell if he was merely being polite or if he was actually curious. His eyes were on her face, studying her
impassively. Do you ever blink?,
she found herself wondering, looking back down at her work. "I moved to Valis after Marmo began to
invade Kanon."
"Ah," he
answered merely. There was a
pause. After awhile, he asked: "How did
you come to be in Alania?" Aren't I
the one who should be asking questions?, Veris thought. Bemusedly, she answered:
"Probably about
the same way you did: I simply arrived.
I was a Healer for the Valisian army during the war, and when it was
over…well, I had no where to go, so I packed all of my belongings on my mare
and rode away from Valis. I decided to
stop the first place I found that I liked, and it happened to be Vesper." She finished treating the wounds and closed
the jar of salve. She put it away on
the shelf and went to go wash her hands in the basin.
"You learned to
fight in the war?" Ash's low, resonant voice floated to her as she washed
up. Veris gave him a measuring look
over her shoulder. One warbird
recognizes another, she thought grimly.
"No," she said
quietly. She dried her hands on a
nearby towel. "I'm going to make some
tea. Do you want some?" It was obviously a change of topic.
"Yes." He nodded.
"Very well; I'll
be back shortly," she said, and left.
Who IS this
guy?, Veris found herself thinking as she went into the kitchen and stoked
up the wood–burning oven so she could boil water on it.
He carried
himself like a fighter. Perhaps like a
soldier would. Yet he spoke with
authority, did not ask for things, nor
did he thank her. Hmph. Here was someone, she guessed, used to giving
orders and having them obeyed promptly.
More like a knight or a general would act.
That he had
fought in the war, she had no doubt.
But for which side? Kanon had
been occupied by Marmo long before the war with Valis had begun – many of the
Kanonites had fought for Marmo. It
shouldn't matter, Ver, the war is over, she told herself. War's over, Marmo lost. Besides, Healers don't see that sort of
thing, remember? Don't be hypocritical.
Yet at the same
time, she couldn't help feeling as though she had seen the man before,
somewhere…perhaps even on the battlefield.
She smiled to herself, unable to dredge it up. They say memory is the first to go…
When the tea was
made, Veris cut up a loaf of apple bread and put it on the tray with the tea cups. She carried it back into the infirmary,
half-expecting her charge to be asleep.
Instead, lantern light reflected in his flat black eyes, which were wide
open.
"You should
expect some visitors tomorrow," she told him with the hint of a smile, her good
nature restored, as she put a mug of tea into his hands carefully. He lifted his eyebrows slightly in a silent
question.
"Vesper will be
very curious about you," she explained.
"They'll want to see the stranger that collapsed in front of the general
store." He grimaced, and Veris wondered
if it were because he did not want visitors or because she had reminded him of
the circumstances behind his coming to her clinic.
"Very well," he
said, and sipped his tea. What a
cool customer this man is.
"Help yourself
to apple bread," she told him with a grin.
"I have more than I could ever eat."
He did so. It was obvious he was
extraordinarily hungry, but he ate politely – almost daintily, as if he were at
a formal dinner instead of lying in a bed, plate balanced on his knees. Curious.
"How long do you
think it will take before I am back to full strength?" He asked quietly after a
moment. Veris shrugged.
"I healed most
of the damage of the dark spell," she said casually, "but I don't know how long
you had been traveling without food or water while dealing with such tremendous
spell-damage." She was watching for a
reaction, but she was disappointed. He
simply nodded.
"However, you should be feeling better –stronger-
with the next few days," Veris continued, and added scrupulously: "Although, I don't mind telling you that, by
all rights, you should be dead."
"Well I know
it," he replied, with a trace of bitterness.
There was no explanation forthcoming.
Veris shook her head, confounded.
"You've got the
devil's own luck, man, whoever you are," she said. For the first time Ash smiled, a grim bearing of white teeth that
had little, if anything, to do with humor.
"In a manner of
speaking," he agreed.
* * * * * * *
Ashuram was
watching the Healer watch him.
Her wide, sharp
eyes were the cool, ancient color of a mossy pond, and twice as
unfathomable. There was no fear in her
eyes when she looked at him. She was
completely unafraid and seemingly unaffected by the coldness in him that put
others on edge so quickly. What
appeared to be a permanent sardonic smile made the corners of her full mouth
twitch upward, both when she spoke and when her face was at rest, as it was
now.
Not even
Pirotess' cat-like golden eyes had been completely fearless when she had looked
at him. The thought came to him
without warning, and he stopped himself before he reached up to touch the
pendant around his neck. Yet this
petite half-Elven Healer who wore a sword at her hip and was strong enough not
to falter under his considerable weight – her deep, green eyes were unafraid.
Perhaps its
because you're hardly even a match for an Orc right now, he thought to
himself rather grimly. He drank his tea
to avoid looking as though he were staring.
"How long have
you been a Healer?" He asked after a moment.
He did not know what made him want to ask her so many questions - possibly to forestall her asking him. He had already dodged the few personal
questions she had asked. He could feel
her curiosity when she tended his wounds, and knew that sooner or later they
would have to be explained. There was
no escape from the sharp eyes of this half-Elf. Perhaps he could be on his way before it came to that.
The
Healer blinked and seemed to chuckle to herself.
"I've always
been a Healer," she said. "I was that
before I was… Before, and during the time I learned to use this." She banged
the Elven sword with her elbow.
"It seems ironic
that a Healer should carry a sword," he said quite evenly. Anger flared in her eyes immediately, but to
his surprise, it died away and was replaced by a look of uncertainty. The darkness of old self-doubts made her
lower her gaze for merely the briefest of seconds, but it was enough: he had
seen. Ah ha, he thought. That's exploitable.
"Learning to fight was secondary," she was saying
now, as if the odd moment had never happened.
"I grew up with a mercenary's daughter and a berserker in Valis. They taught me." Her gaze seemed to turn inward, as though she were remembering
something almost fondly.
"Ah," he
said. A mercenary's daughter and a
berserker…. Also interesting.
"We were all
orphans together," she continued, "before I finished my training and the two of
them teamed up to hire themselves out as mercs."
"Ah," he said
again. That … could it be?
Ashuram closed
his eyes, the wide-shouldered body of the berserker and the flaming red hair of
the mercenary woman that was his partner flitting through his memory. He suddenly remembered the dragon's lair,
where he had seen them last. Recalled
the heat, the stench of dragon-musk and sulfurous breath. The three dark-haired men that held the
dragon lances: one young and foolish, one a cunning desert-king, one a fierce
berserker with strangely soft, sad eyes.
Orson. The fiercely loud
mercenary he protected: Shiriss.
And of course, thinking of the dragon, he could not
help but think of her. Pirotess…. He opened his eyes again.
"How… What
did you say?" The Healer was asking him, and he saw her green eyes had
sharpened on his face. The contours of
her face had tightened with intensity, her mouth a serious line. Had he spoken their names aloud?
"I was merely
remembering something," he said only, and let his eyelids drift closed again. He hardly had to feign exhaustion. "I am very tired."
The world was
certainly a small place, and Lodoss smaller still; could it be they knew the
same berserker, the same mercenary's daughter?
Who was this Healer, hidden away in such a small little town? What strange kind of fate had directed their
paths to cross? Ashuram realized his
weariness was making his thoughts abstract, obscure.
"We will talk
more later today," the Healer said, and it did not sound like a
suggestion.
"I shall look forward to it,"
Ashuram replied, and almost smiled wryly as the Healer shot him a considering
look.
* * *
Stay tuned
for more blatant name dropping in the chapters to come. ^_~
