Lay of Hands
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The animals had become sick. The reason was unknown, some said it was will of the God-Emperor, others blamed Xeno influence. A few even claimed, controversially, that one of the underground laser defense batteries had fallen into ruin, leaking poisonous chemicals into the waterways, those people were taken away by red-robed members of the Mechanicus, never to be seen again. In the deep hills shuttles were seen coming and going for months.
The taurine, big hairy six-legged cattle particular to the world, suffered greatly. A year passed, then two. Only when the tithe began to fall did the authority respond to the hills' call for aid. They sent administrators to catalogue and inventory, enforcers to take away the best of the living specimens, and finally priests to bless the poor, remaining herds.
The hills became a blighted place, shunned by all who knew better.
The village of Hor sat on the slope of the great hills. Once a thriving cattle town, now the village was a degraded collection of shambles.
A man stood in the center of the town, turning slowly, looking at the building and homes. There was no one about; the only sound was the wind nudging a rusty, swinging sign. His eyes fell onto the village tavern. Hitching his shoulder bag higher he limped towards the decayed building.
It was gloomy inside, gloomy and dirty. Half a dozen men sat at tables, nursing beers and staring morosely at the walls. The tavernkeep sat on a stool, head on the bar, cushioned by his arms.
The man dropped his bag aside the bar and sat, quietly.
The tavernkeep slowly looked around at him, raised an eyebrow, "Eh?"
The man nodded pleasantly.
The keeper frowned, "What do you want, man?"
"May I have a beer, please," the man said quietly.
The keeper sneered, and slunk off his stool in a bothered manner. He huffed and fussed as he filled a pint glass of yellow beer. He thunked it down hard in front of the man.
"Two pieces, eh"
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins, took two and placed them on the bar. The keeper swept them up and shoved them into his pocket.
"You're not from around here," the sour-faced tavernkeep said, statement not question.
"No, I am not. I'm looking for work."
The keeper frowned even more and leaned forward, putting his hands heavily on the bartop, "You havin' a laugh?"
The man looked confused, "No. I am not. I wish to work. I understand you are in need of help here. In the hills."
"Man," the keeper said, "you have no idea what sort of help we need."
"I do, indeed."
"Oh?"
"Yes, you are sick. You need healing."
It took time, but the man, he announced himself as Paeon, managed to convince the local herders he indeed could heal the taurine. The only local herder with any money left was a man named Faldo. Paeon contracted with Faldo for a years' work, if he could actually heal the cattle, they would pay him in money and shares.
Paeon rode into the hills on a horse borrowed from Faldo, a feisty young black filly named Inda. The herder sent three of his men with the foreigner.
Paeon found his first taurine by a small creek bed. The poor best was withered and rotten. The horses shied away from the dying beast, affronted by its smell. Paeon spoke softly into Inda big ears and she calmed down, trusting Paeon.
The man dismounted and walked quietly and calmly to the dying taurine. The beast was emaciated thin, Paeon counted its ribs and followed the outline of its organs. Its great shaggy head swung slowly. Its eyes were orbs of pain.
Paeon stepped towards it, hands held out. The beast tried to back away.
"Shsssh, easy girl," Paeon said, placing his hands on her thin neck. As his flesh touched her's he hissed in pain. He could feel the poisons burning through her body.
It took time, but he convinced her to come out of the nest of roots and weeds. She breast heaved with breathe. The creature was very near death.
Paeon led her a dozen meters from the creek and had her lay down on soft patch of grass. He set to work.
As the day turned to night and sun set, the air turned cold. The taurine shivered and gasped. Without asking, Inda laid down next to the sick taurin, warming her with her body heat. Paeon cried at Inda's compassion.
Faldo's men, however, were cruel. They spoke of nothing but beer and women, and how they could never get enough of either and if they managed to find some, they ruined the opportunity far too quickly to enjoy it.
When they came to understand that Paeon would not join in with their conversations, they ignored him – except on the occasion when they riffled through his bags.
They did not stay long. After three cold nights sitting along sit a quiet intense man, a moody black horse, and a sick, stinking taurine, they left without saying a word or even a backwards glance.
Now that they had left, Paeon began his true work.
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One year, then two. Five years turned into ten, Paeon worked the hills, healing the cattle, the birds, the rivers, the trees, the insects, the very air itself. He had been a young man when he'd arrived at Hor, young and strong, now, he looked a hundred years old. His face was haggard and hung slack, his frame thinned and burdened by years of hard labor and overtaxing his gifts.
The hills had been cleaned, the taurine were healthy and reproducing. The rivers ran clear, clean. The air no longer smelled of rotten eggs.
Paeon limped into the tavern, now more filled with customers than ever. He saw Faldo, drinking with his men. Paeon limped over to him. The herder looked up, eyeing him carefully, he'd never liked the man.
"Yes?"
"My time here is done. I wish my reimbursement."
"Of course, of course. Come to my office tomorrow and we'll discuss your payment."
"No, Mr Faldo. Our contact is up and I wish my payment now. I will depart before the sun sets."
"I said," Faldo growled, "come to my office tomorrow."
Paeon stood up to full height and glared at Faldo. He turned and left. Standing outside the tavern he mounted Inda, now as old as he was, and rode into the hills.
He laid awake that night, talking to Inda and watched the stars. They moved, shifted, showing him a path he must take. It was hard path, one he did not want to take.
The following morning Paeon rode into town, to Faldo's office. He was tired. He failed to see the heavy, dark, ground cars parked around the village centre.
"Mr Faldo …" Paeon began, pushing open his office door. The herder sat behind his desk, smug. Two men in dark armor, with helmets and tinted face-visors, and weapons flanked him.
Paeon looked at the big men, saw the same stars for the night before dancing on their visors. He sighed.
One of the men in dark armor stepped forward, the golden Aquila on his chest plate glittered. He held his hand out, palm forward, "Psyker, come with me. Cause no trouble, and you'll receive none."
From behind the desk Faldo smirked like a cat and said, "Paeon, you are under arrest for stealing my horse."
The healer looked at the herder, sadly, pityingly.
He could not have been more wrong.
Faldo continued, "Like you said yesterday, our contract is terminated. When you left town yesterday with my horse I was forced to call the enforcers. Once I explained your … gift … to them, they sent this man, a Marshall of the Adeptus Arbites."
With a glance from the man with the golden double-headed eagle on the chest plate, the other arbiter grabbed Faldo round the neck, putting him in a crippling choke hold, and hauled him roughly out of his seat. The herder squawked, "What are you doing?! Get off me!"
The arbiter did not respond, except to drag him out of the office, kicking and screaming.
The marshall lifted his visor and looked at Paeon. Eye to eye. Paeon returned the look. Eye to eye.
The arbiter nodded to the door. Paeon turned and walked out of the building.
A dozen more black armored arbiters waited for them outside Faldo's office. Grim, dark figures, like death. Faldo waited by the building wall, nervous and wringing his hands.
The arbite marshal spoke, "Faldo, for failure to report a rogue pskyer you are to be punished." The man waved his hand and the dozen officers stepped into a line. They pumped their shotguns and with a short shout from one, they fired in unison.
By instinct Paeon looked at Faldo's shattered remains; even he could not help him.
"Pysker, come," the marshal said softly, leading Paeon into the one of the ground cars, "The Blackships await you."
Before he climbed aboard he looked back at Inda. His old mare looked back at him, he would miss her greatly. He clicked his tongue and tipped his head south, the old horse whined once and turned, trotting softly into the purified hills.