Disclaimer: I
don't any of Lodoss or the established characters thereof. I just own Healer Veris and what's left of
Vesper. Enjoy! ^-^
Chapter
Twelve: Visitor From the Past
The day dawned
grey and shabby, as if it had been stained with the black smoke that even now
still drifted up from the smoldering fires burning in the heart of the little
town.
Ashuram's sword
was covered with gore, and exhaustion weighed his limbs as he picked his way
through what remained of Vesper. He
looked around him with a slight, detached sense of amazement. The town was in ruins. Many of villagers were dead. Most of the raiders had also died, a
countless number by his own hand.
The smell of
violence, of fire and blood, was heavy in the air. He felt drained by it, and wanted to be in the fresh air
again. The battle was over, and he
needed rest.
He spied the
Healer bent over the body of one of the villagers not far down the road,
obviously tending to the man's wounds.
The villager held the Healer's hand tightly, and he could see the faint
blue glow that he associated with
Healing magic. He approached her
slowly, the sword in his hand almost dragging the ground, it felt so heavy.
She looked up at
his approach and he could only stare at her, shocked. Gone was the calm, detached mask that had been firmly in place
during the battle. Her thin face was
streaked with soot and dirt, her eyes childlike in their width. The look in them was anything but childlike,
however. Her eyes were nearly grey with
fatigue, half moons of exhaustion
making faintly purple shadows under them.
Tears made clean, crooked stripes down her cheeks; she seemed not to
notice them, for she made no attempt to wipe them away. Her skin was grey under the grime. She looked weary, and so very, very
disconsolate.
He recognized
the color of her skin meant she was nearing magic exhaustion as well. If she used her Healing magic much more, she
would soon make herself collapse.
Nevertheless, the blue glow came steadily from her hands as she held
them over the villager's body. The man
coughed, and Ashuram could see the wound she was trying to heal would have
killed him already had it not been for the Healer keeping him alive.
"Healer," he
said, surprised at the gentleness in his voice. "Healer, you're going to collapse very soon. You're close to magic exhaustion." He'd seen Wagnard with it maybe twice
before, and both times the mage had almost gone into a catatonic stupor.
The Healer shook
her head stubbornly.
"There are too
many," she said, her voice rough and flat with fatigue. "I can't stop now or they'll die." More tears streaked down her face, as if
they were nothing.
Pirotess would
not have cried at the end of a battle, he found himself thinking. Especially not one they had won. He looked around thoughtfully. Perhaps the village of Vesper hadn't exactly
won, at that – there were so many casualties.
He'd won; he was still breathing, and he felt no sorrow.
Yet there was
the Healer, grey as her robes, as capable a fighter as Pirotess had been, and
she mourned for the dead. How long, he
wondered, had it been since he felt remorse like this? Pirotess had not been human, which perhaps
accounted for her disassociation; Elves did not feel things the way humans did,
and they certainly did not waste tears over loss of human life.
Weakness. Or was it?
She certainly did not seem ashamed by it.
He had not cried
when Pirotess had died, although he had wanted to. It seemed as though he had forgotten how, that his sorrow for her
loss was beyond tears.
He heard the man
coughing suddenly, and Ashuram looked over to see that the villager had been
Healed. His wound was still bloody but
it no longer bled profusely. His
internal organs had been made whole again; he would live.
The Healer stood
up unsteadily, her normal half-Elven grace gone as she spread her hands to help
herself balance. She took a few
faltering steps and suddenly began to sink slowly towards the ground, her legs
collapsed from beneath her.
He caught her
before she fell, taking hold of her arms just below the shoulders and shaking
her gently.
"Healer," he
said. "Healer Veris." Her eyes were unfocused, her limbs
sagging. Suddenly she took a breath and
took her own weight, regaining control of her consciousness.
"I'm alright,"
she said, stepping away from him quickly.
"I don't need help."
Did that refrain
sound familiar? A smile of irony made a
brief appearance at the corners of his lips before quickly disappearing. He did not try to support her again.
She stumbled
over to another villager lying on the ground and knelt by the prone body. He could see the blow glow faintly rise in
her hands, and the woman she was healing twitched and groaned softly.
"Shh," he heard
the Healer say comfortingly. "You're
going to be fine, Goodwoman." He
watched the woman's body slowly, slowly repair itself under the Healer's hands,
and then the blue glow stopped.
The Healer
collapsed where she was sitting, lying in the dust next to the woman she had
just Healed, completely unconscious.
Ashuram
sighed. He walked over to her and
looked down, wondering what to do with her.
"She's certainly
tough, for such a small Healer," a somber voice said beside him, and Ashuram
looked over to see the blacksmith standing there, his dark face haggard and
grimy. Ashuram shrugged fluidly in
reply. Of course she was tough; otherwise,
she'd be dead. It went without
saying.
"At any rate, we
owe you our gratitude," the man said after a moment when it was obvious that
was all the answer he was going to get.
"Not much of Vesper is left, I'm afraid, but there'd be much less left
if it weren't for you." Ashuram bowed
his head quickly.
"I did what I
could," he said merely, which was the truth.
He offered the hilt of his borrowed sword back to the man. "It's a bit worse for wear, I'm afraid," he
said, "but I thank you for the use of it.
It's a well-made sword."
"Keep it," the
man said, unbuckling the empty sheath and handing it over. "You've certainly earned it, and I can
always make another." The man glanced
over at the ruins of his house, where Ashuram supposed the forge had once
stood.
"Well,
someday, anyway," the man amended.
"I thank you,"
Ashuram said again, and accepted the sword.
He buckled it around his waist.
Despite his exhaustion, the weight of the sword felt natural at his hip. It would do until he found Soul Crusher, he
supposed.
"Poor Healer,"
the blacksmith said, looking down at the half-Elf. "There's too many too badly hurt for her to Heal them all, I'm
afraid." He bent and with a fluid
motion scooped the Healer up as though she were little more than a child. In his thickly muscled arms, she looked
quite small indeed.
"She needs to
rest," the blacksmith said, and made as though he would hand her limp form over
to him. "Here. You take her, and I'll find the Healer's
horse. She's done all she can, and she
should be taken back to her house, if it still stands." Ashuram looked at the blacksmith for a
moment. Was he handing over the Healer
to his care? How trusting.
"Very well,"
Ashuram said, and took the unconscious half-Elf's form, her head lolling
against his shoulder. She was small,
but heavier than she looked; solid, as though most of her mass was muscle.
The blacksmith
returned a few moments later, leading the Healer's horse by its reins. It came reluctantly, but could not fight
against the blacksmith's powerful grip.
Ashuram jumped up on the horse's back and the blacksmith handed the
Healer's body up to him once more.
Without the saddle, he was forced to hold her against him to keep her
from sliding off the horse on either side.
"Tell Veris she
needs rest," the blacksmith said firmly up to Ashuram. "Rest.
She's done all she can for now.
We'll need her help later."
Ashuram could only nod, feeling slightly entertained that the blacksmith
trusted him so implicitly.
Almost falling
asleep himself, Ashuram urged the mare forward. The horse was more than happy to get away from the stench of
smoldering houses and Orcs, and hardly fought him at all on the way back to the
Healer's home.
He looked
down at the Healer. She was blood
spattered and dusty from lying on the ground, but her face was relaxed and in
the ingenuousness of sleep she looked hardly old enough to have taken her
Healer's robes. Her head bumped against
his shoulder with the motion of the horse.
His tired arms were aching with supporting her weight before they
reached her home.
The Healer's
house was still standing, he saw, as he rode up, although the door was standing
wide open. The barn had been
ransacked. All the chickens were gone,
the grain spilt and ruined under Orc feet, the garden completely trampled and
ravaged.
Well, it wasn't
his responsibility. He put the mare out
in the field, and carried the Healer into her house.
The house had
been turned upside down; the Healer's things were scattered everywhere. The infirmary was the worst, he realized as
he walked into it. Jars were broken
everywhere, herbs ripped down and half nibbled before being discarded. The pungent smell of salves and medicine
filled the air and glass crunched under his booted feet.
The beds,
however, were clear of debris. Unsure
what else to do, he laid the Healer on one of them, with a little more
gentleness than entirely necessary.
The other bed was too inviting, and he laid down on
it, his weary body sinking into the minimal softness of the infirmary cot with
a sigh.
Before he knew
it, he was fast asleep.
* * * * * * *
Veris woke to
find the sun streaming into the infirmary with the melting mellow warmth of
late afternoon. Weariness pulled at her
body but she had slept as much as she could.
What had
happened, exactly? She remembered
Healing the Goodwoman…and then there was nothing. How had she gotten back to the infirmary? Veris sat up and looked around, feeling
disoriented.
She was
horrified to see the state of the infirmary around her. It was completely wrecked, all of her herbal
medicines broken against the floor, all running together in one pungent
mixture. She blinked, unbelieving. The raiders had certainly been
thorough. Rage bubbled up in her
stomach, although it was mostly impotent.
She sighed and stood up, wondering where Ash was. She carefully picked her way out of the
infirmary, stepping over glass and spilt medicines.
Veris walked
into the kitchen to find that no part of the house had been left
untouched. The kitchen was a mess,
everything edible had been ferreted out and eaten by the raiders.
Ash sat at the
table in the kitchen, looking as if he were dozing as he rested there, his chin
on his fist and his long eyes closed.
As she approached, he opened his eyes and straightened, nodding to
her.
"Ash," she
said. "What happened? How did I get here?"
"Magic
exhaustion," he said succinctly. "You
collapsed. The blacksmith asked me to
take you home. Here you are."
"The
blacksmith," Veris said, "oh Goddess.
Vesper. I have to go back and
help them." Ash shrugged.
"You may do as
you like," he said, "although I have been asked to tell you that you need
rest. Your services will become
necessary again, later."
Veris sat down
at the other end of the table, resting her head in her hands.
"I thank you,"
she said to him. He had pulled his hair
back, exposing the white skin of his corded throat and the smears of grime he
had not yet washed away. He nodded.
"What will you
do now, Healer?" He asked curiously. He
gestured around them to the ruins of the house they sat in. "There isn't much left of Vesper."
"I suppose not,"
Veris agreed sadly. "I will, of course,
do everything I can for the villagers.
Then, perhaps," she looked around at the ruins of her house, "I'll move
on. I've been thinking of moving on for
some time now anyway."
"Where will you
go?" He asked her. It was her turn to
shrug.
"I don't
know. Perhaps I'll go back to Valis,
try to find Orson and Shiriss again.
I'm not much of a merc," fleeting smile, "but I'm sure they'd be happy
to have a Healer around again." She
frowned thoughtfully, and there was a long pause.
"Tomorrow,
then," Ash said after a moment, "our ways part. I thank you for what you've done for me, Healer. I think I've repaid my debt in full." She looked at him for a moment, and then
slowly nodded.
"Yes," she said,
"you have. Vesper – and I – we all owe
you a great deal." Ash nodded, and
Veris could almost find it within herself to laugh. He certainly wasn't one for modesty, was this ex-general from
Marmo. Veris supposed if she had his
skills with the sword, she might be arrogant as well. She'd never seen anyone move as fast as he had. It was like watching a predator do what
instinct drove it to do – centuries of evolution involved in the graceful
movement of the kill, nature following its course. He was as much a predator, she thought, as any hunting cat, and
it was obvious he'd been a general because he'd been good at it.
Today, she could
be grateful for his skills – without them, many more villagers would have
died. Veris sighed to herself.
"Tomorrow we'll
see if we can't salvage some supplies for you," Veris added. Ash shook his head.
"Kind, but
impossible," he said. "There's not much
left to salvage, and you will undoubtedly need whatever you can find. I prefer to travel lightly, at any rate."
A slight sound
interrupted him, and suddenly a voice said sardonically:
"How very noble,
my lord."
Both the Healer and Ash startled, whipping their
heads around to find the source of the voice.
A man's frame
filled the Healer's front door, waning sunlight giving the figure a purplish
aura. He was tall, although not as tall
nor as wide-shouldered as Ash, and he wore a long dark cloak, much as Ash had
when he had stumbled into the village.
Dark, shaggy hair brushed his shoulders, giving him something of an
effeminate look. The man had a thin,
weasel face, and the eyes above the wide, beak-like nose were half-closed and
seemed to hold a dim violet light. Most
curiously, an ornate gold circlet sat on his brow, with two hollows set deeply
within it that looked strangely like eyes.
Veris found her gaze pulled to that circlet and she could hardly look
away. It was odd to see a man wear
something so beautiful, although it did not look out of place.
Ash had risen
half way out of his chair, she realized suddenly, and she looked over at
him. His face was pale, his eyes very
dark and troubled like a night storm at sea.
His mouth was set in a thin grim line and she could read shock in every
line of his body.
"You-!" He
choked out, locking gazes with the cloaked man.
* * * * * * *
The Grey Witch:
the circlet said it all. He recognized
the thief's body she inhabited and found it odd she should be in a man's body -
but there was no mistaking the sardonic, lazy expression on the thief's face
nor the gleaming golden circlet around his forehead.
Karla.
What could she possibly want with him now? He felt rage build to a steady flame in his
veins as he stood there, almost frozen in shock.
Next
to him, the Healer Veris stood up.
"I'm
sorry," she said to Karla, looking slightly bewildered, "but did you need
something? Are you lost?"
The Witch chuckled dryly.
"Ah,
the gracious Healer, ever-helpful," she said, the voice coming out of the
thief's mouth curiously asexual. "She
is quite beautiful, do you not think so, my lord? You are very beautiful, you know," she told the Healer, who
looked flustered and murmured some kind of thanks.
"What
do you want?" Ashuram bit out gruffly.
"You
have always been someone who will not mince words," the Witch replied. "Quite refreshing." She came into the room further, closing
the front door behind her.
"Although
I really did not think to find you playing house with our good Healer in the
middle of nowhere. Could it be you have
decided to give up the sword, my lord?"
She came in and looked around the room with a critical eye. She had the curious way of talking that he
remembered, slightly formal and old-fashioned, reminiscent of times long
past. It was another indication of her
great age.
"Quit
bantering and answer me," Ashuram growled fiercely.
"You have
traversed quite a distance," the Witch observed to him, "yet your eminence has
certainly dispersed, my lord. No one
would mistake you for a mighty general now."
Her voice was cool and distant, the words scathing. He supposed they stung because they were
true.
"What
is going on here?" The Healer asked impatiently all at once, obviously sick of
feeling bewildered. "Who are you that
just barges into my house as if you own the world? And what do you mean, 'my lord'?" She looked between Ashuram and the Witch expectantly, thin gold eyebrows
raised over sparkling green eyes.
The
Witch laughed at this, the thief's head going back and a strangely feminine
laugh spilling from the man's throat.
"Do
you mean to tell me after all this time you have not favored her with your
identity?" she asked Ashuram with mirth.
"Modesty, perhaps? Or
cowardice?"
"Karla,
you go too far," Ashuram said in a low voice.
"Not
possible," the Witch replied, turning to the Healer. "My dear little half-Elf, you have been happily oblivious to the
fact you are harboring the infamous Lord Ashuram, Black Knight of Marmo and
Bearer of the Demon sword."
The Healer's
face went pale as the moon, her eyes huge.
She regarded Ashuram gravely, her eyes unreadable.
"The Lord
Ashuram?" She asked in a low voice.
"Not the Black Knight, Lord Beld's general?"
"The very same,"
the Witch replied in her coolly amused voice.
"Goddess," the
Healer gasped. "You never said a word."
"I did tell you
I was a general from Marmo," Ashuram reminded her harshly, too distracted to care
about being gentle. "You told me that
it didn't matter if I were Lord Beld himself, remember?"
"You're supposed
to be dead!" The Healer grated out in disbelief, shaking her head. "Everyone knows Lord Ashuram is dead."
He snorted.
"I assure you I
am very much alive," he observed wryly.
"Although I was much closer to the Forever Dreaming when you found me
that day."
"By all rights,
you shouldn't be alive," she murmured, nodding to herself, evidently
recollecting.
"Oh but he
should indeed," the Witch put in. "He
must be alive. Without him, the balance
is thrown off. Both swords must have
Bearers."
"So I've been
told," Ashuram muttered.
The Witch chuckled.
"Demon sword?"
The Healer repeated. "Not…Soul
Crusher?"
"The same,"
Ashuram replied absently. The Healer
blanched again, hands gripping the edge of the table with white-knuckled
force.
"Goddess," she
breathed again. "This is crazy."
"Evil exists,"
the Witch said to the Healer in a cool tone,
"because Good does. They are of
equal importance. Without one, the
other cannot be. Therefore, the balance
must be maintained."
"Stop playing,"
Ashuram interrupted. "What are you here
for, Witch?"
The thief's
weasel face smiled a small, sly smile.
"Very simple,"
she said, "I shall come with you to find the Demon sword."
There was a
brief, tense pause.
"How do you know
I intend to do that?" Ashuram asked in a low, dangerous voice, as if he were on
the verge of breaking into violence.
"Logical," the Witch said. "For all your stubborn adherence to your
ridiculous human values, you have never been stupid, Lord Ashuram. That I shall give you credit for." She paused.
"Furthermore, who do you think sent you the dream of Soul Crusher?"
Ashuram recalled the whispery, scratchy
voice out of his dream and his jaw clenched hard. So that was why the voice was familiar. She had been manipulating him even in his
dreams.
"You put the
geas on me?" He demanded, still in that soft, deadly tone.
"Did you ever
doubt it?" The Witch asked, looking mildly astonished. "Who do you think raised you out of the
crumbling pit of Marmo?"
Ashuram felt
himself go pale, and shook his head.
"No," he denied
her, "The Demon sword did that." So
Pirotess told me.
"The Demon sword
did call to you," she said in the thief's voice, "but even it could not have
kept you from dying suspended over Hell as you were. I did that."
"No," Ashuram
repeated stubbornly, shaking his head once more. "I was told the Demon sword brought me back, will bring me back
from death until a new Bearer is found."
"And so it
shall," the Witch replied. "Yet under
Marmo, so close to Khardis' jealous pull, you were too far gone even for Soul
Crusher to reach you. I had to impart
something to make you get up. I
certainly would not have desired you to jump to your death right after I had
gone to the trouble of reviving you."
Ashuram went very still, looking at the Witch with
disbelief.
"You…brought me
back?" he said incredulously.
"Indeed
yes."
"It cannot be…"
Ashuram said with a frown. "Pirotess
said…."
The thief smiled
that sly, conniving grin again, long mouth curving upwards at the corners
cannily.
"As to that,"
she declared, and then, in a perfect imitation of the Dark Elf's husky voice,
continued: " 'Wake, my lord. Wake, and
remember me.'" The Witch looked at
Ashuram appraisingly, one eyebrow arched in quiet cynicism.
"Did I do that passably? She did have such a beautiful voice."
* * *
