Chapter Five: Spare the Dying
It took them longer than they wanted. Even with Yasha taking point, the street was packed with people. Torchlight gleamed on every twinkling eye, and music spun like a dervish. To the three travelers, it took on a distorted, nightmarish quality. 'Like the circus on rainy days,' Mollymauk thought. When the moist heat pressed on empty bleachers and a veil of rain made those inside feel too close and hot and wedged in. Like a fever dream, where familiar faces became fiends and light and heat became daggers.
Finally they reached the warehouse. It was a dark shape against the otherwise brightly lit shops and awnings. On the street in front of it, a lively folk reel was in progress. Jester was amongst the dancers. Her face was lit up as she fumbled the footwork, smiling at her neighbor with flirty, fluttering lashes. Nearby, Beau and Fjord looked on with flagons in their fists. There was no urgency, no concern in their posture. They lifted their cups. Cheers.
Rage, blistering with heat. Molly got into their faces. "Where's Caleb?"
"Molly?" Chagrin was written all over Fjord's face. He set his tankard down immediately.
Beau held on to hers, jaw set with defiance. It was her natural reaction to guilt. "What's the big deal?"
Yasha and Nott had already rounded the building, but Molly took the time to say, "I swear, if he's dead while you chuckleheads were out here having a great time, it will take the blood in the Gentleman's vials to find what's left of you."
"WHAT?"
Beau's incredulous voice trailed behind him as he disappeared onto the side road, through the gap in the wall, and so into the empty building. Only belatedly he remembered to draw his weapon. His eyes swung around the darkness, which by now had become so intense that even his enhanced senses were dim. "Yasha?"
She lifted her head. "I have the ground floor. Nott's on the exterior. Go up."
He took the stairs, heavy planks warped by passage and time. At the top he found a scuffmark. A stranger had passed here. He set down Frumpkin. He couldn't risk holding the animal if an enemy lurked somewhere. Still, he paused long enough to press the tiny head, and whispered, "I'm here, Caleb," before laying his own foot, his senses trained for the slightest movement.
Instead he found blood. It caked the wood, mixed with dust in gritty runnels. The toe of his boot came up with a tacky, peeling sound – it was old enough to be partially congealed. And the quantity...it looked like someone had slaughtered an animal. He wanted to bellow for the others. Instead, his eyes flew over walls and surfaces. The signs of what happened lit up like beacons, as intelligible to him as letters to a literate man.
Caleb had been settled against a back wall. There was evidence off where he was sitting. The struggle had also started here. The dustcover had been thrashed away. A box had been knocked over, packing hay spilled and stirred. There were signs of dragging. Gouges in the floor as though many knifes had been rained down, but that made no sense. And unless someone had been gutted, it wouldn't account for...for all of this.
That was when he saw the streak of blood, like water threshed with a broom. It was darker in places and wispy in others, like someone had crawled, pausing and starting. It lead to several stacks of crates. There was a crevice between them, too narrow for a fully grown man. Molly probably couldn't get further than his shoulder. But it might, just might, be wide enough for a skinny wizard. As he approached, Molly's footfalls felt loud to him. There was no other sound, not even the mice. He touched the nearest crate, throat thick with conflicting desires. The blood...this wasn't a trail he wanted to find a friend at the end of, but was that worse than finding nothing it all?
He knelt, eyes searching the darkness. It was pitch black, and he cursed. Then he caught sight of a lantern hanging on the wall. He fumbled for flint as he drew it from its peg. It was hard to tell, but it looked as though there was fuel. He tried, and the wick caught. Soft light filled the room, which he surveyed once more, though he was almost certain that whatever threat had been here was gone. The question was, was their friend gone, too?
The crevice beckoned. This time, when he extended the lantern inside, it caught the tail of a sodden tunic, bordering a crescent-shaped stripe of freckled flesh. Mollymauk's breath caught. "Caleb?"
There was a near-human moan from behind him, and he turned to see Frumpkin lying on his side, staring at him with blue, blue eyes.
"Nott!" he screamed at the top of his voice, giving up entirely on stealth. By the time she reached him, he had already tried wedging himself into the hidey-hole, but he could go no further without getting stuck. His efforts to move the crates had also failed. They were too heavy to shift.
A small body thumped against him. He could feel her claws skittering as she tried to shove him out of the way. "What's wrong. Where is he? Is he hurt?"
"There," Molly managed to say. "I can't get closer."
She disappeared before another flicker had passed. Molly pressed the lantern further, listening when his eyes failed him. He knew when Nott reached the end because she burst into tears. "Caleb! Oh, Caleb. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!"
"Don't shake him, Nott," Mollymauk said, shoving against the immoveable crates. He bellowed over his shoulder, "Yasha! I need you! Nott, can you bring him closer?"
She was crying so hard she could barely speak. "I can't. His leg, Molly. If I pull... It's too tight in here. But he's hurt, he's hurt, he's hurt – Caleb!"
"Just hold on," Molly grunted, bracing against the wall and trying to get his foot wedged in. The topmost crate rattled, he froze. He dared not risk a collapse. Then large arms entered his periphery, and Yasha began moving boxes without being told. Molly joined her just as more footsteps crowded the warehouse. He saw Fjord first, his skin reflecting strangely in the low lighting. His eyes tracked the floor, darted to the obvious signs of a struggle, then broadcasted stricken horror.
"Caleb," he said.
"Yes, you bastard," Molly said, flashing his teeth at him even as he tugged at a wooden box which had to be lined with lead it was so heavy. "Where were you?"
Fjord opened his mouth to answer, but Yasha spoke before he could. "Not the time," she said, and Fjord rushed to take the other side of the crate. Part of Molly wanted to refuse his help, but Yasha was right. They needed to reach Caleb and get him proper healing. There would be time for sorting out blame later, once they'd seen to their own.
Finally, they saw Nott's hunched back. She looked over her shoulder, eyes over-bright with tears. "Help."
"Gods," Fjord said, and Molly wholeheartedly agreed. In fact, his own epitaphs were considerably stronger.
What they found with Nott was a huddled figure, folded inward to protect his vulnerable places. The ginger hair, the stubble-scrapped jaw, the shape of his spine and shoulders. They were familiar in every way expect for their stillness. Hair hung down into his face, obscuring it, but still the shadow of bruises stood out. It was clear he'd taken a beating. Worse still, he wasn't responsive.
Molly exhaled. "Is...is..." He couldn't form the words.
A tear molded itself to Nott's nose. "I can hear him breathing, but it sounds bad."
Yasha reached. "Shift out of the way, Nott."
Caleb had never looked so small as he did in Yasha's arms. He'd lost his coat and belt, and his feet were bare. As his head lolled, Molly got a glimpse of slitted eyes, staring at nothing. Behind him, he heard Jester gasp as she got her first look, and Beau said, "Holy shit."
There was no time for shock. Mollymauk's mind was racing. "Bring Frumpkin over here." Frumpkin always grounded Caleb. Maybe if they put them together, it would help. It was Beau who put the animal in his hands, and he leaned toward the huddled wizard. "Yasha, can you uncurl him? I want to put Frumpkin on his chest."
She did, and then...then…
The smell hit him first. Blood-smell. Not the odor of the room or the half-dried mess on the floor. This was thick and metallic, fresh, and copious. Next he saw red. A swath of it, painted across Caleb's stomach. At first, Molly thought he'd been gutted. What else could cause that much bleeding? Then, too slowly by far, his mind assembled the input, and he saw – really saw – what was wrong. Gorge rose so violently in his throat he twisted around, hands clasped over his mouth as his gag reflex kicked in. It took absolutely everything in him not to throw up.
Through ringing ears, he heard Nott wail.
Beau was cursing when he came back to his senses. A long litany of vulgarity, one after another. She was pacing, hands on her forehead. Molly turned back to Caleb, tilted back in Yasha's grasp. His mutilated arms were on full display, laying across his midsection. They'd taken his hands. Oh, gods. Molly came to himself with a gasp, the world solidifying, his horror taking a back seat to what needed to be done. "Jester!"
She was sobbing as she joined him, her hands outstretched. "Oh, oh. I don't know what to do!"
Fjord was beside her. "Assess then assist. Remember, Jester?"
She drew a shaky breath. "Shakäste told me that."
"Yes he did. I was listening. Do it now, and hurry. Not hasty, mind. Just – we can't wait."
The words anchored Jester enough to do her work. She closed her eyes and tapped into whatever senses let her see into an injured body. More than once, her face twisted, but it was only when she placed a hand on his head that her eyes jerked open. Her cheeks were wet. "He's so hurt, guys."
"Heal him," Molly said.
"I don't know if I should. I mean, I could heal the –" she staggered. "But It wouldn't really fix things. Even if I just try to heal the others parts, I'm not sure I could control where my magic goes."
Molly shook his head. No, they couldn't let that happened. It would mean crippling him. "What if we found his hands?" He heard Nott, who had been seemingly paralyzed, jerk back to life. She darted off into the shadows, and he heard her crashing around, feverishly searching. His heart thumped with an awful hope. He'd heard of magic that could restore limbs, even regrow them.
But Jester was shaking her head. "I don't know Regenerate. It's a very advanced spell. If I try, I could mess it up so badly."
"What's wrong with his eyes?" Until now, Caleb's near comatose state had only seemed expected, but Fjord's words put in mind all the things that had felt wrong since finding Frumpkin huddled in an alley. That was when it hit him. Cat. The cat, Caleb's familiar.
"Those bastards," Molly whispered, sick with understanding. "He's still scrying."
And all of a sudden, what happened was all too clear. While he was defenseless, his eyes sealed and his ears closed, an enemy had come upon Caleb and trapped him in his own head. Then they had mutilated him while he remained in a world where only sensation was possible.
Fjord had realized, too, but unlike Molly, he was unable to fight the nausea back. At least he took himself away from their huddle to be sick. The air was already thick with bodily fluids. Anything more, and Molly didn't know if he could've taken it. "Jester, if you can't heal him, we need to get him to someone who can."
Jester was wringing her hands. "But who? Pamell's not very big. There's no temple."
"The tournament," Yasha said. She cradled Caleb, pressing his head to her breast. "It starts tomorrow. They wouldn't dare begin without an experienced cleric on hand."
Molly lifted the orange tabby from the ground and pressed its limp form under Caleb's chin. Neither animal nor man reacted, but it eased something in Molly's mind. If it was true that Caleb's only sense of sight and hearing was through his familiar, it was better they were together.
Beau led the way, knuckles white around her staff. Nott stopped Molly at the top of the stairs, a bundle of cloth in her hands. He lifted a corner, saw the shredded flesh, and had to fight once more not to be sick. He folded the fabric back down and swallowed. "Good, Nott," he said, even as he grieved. "We'll need them."
"Molly," Fjord said hoarsely.
Mollymauk ignored him, heading down the stairs with Nott close behind.
At first, the men at the gate were reluctant to grant them an audience. It was only by pure chance that a more senior guard wandered over to check on the commotion, and, sensing their desperation, sent for the head cleric. The cleric herself was a half-elf, silvering at the temples and clothed in a priest's robes. She took one look at Caleb and ordered the guards to let them in.
There was a small chapel in the manor, and it was there they placed Caleb. Molly sensed Yasha's need to step away, to breathe clean air, and took her place. As he watched, the healer laid a hand on Caleb's head, eyes fluttering shut. When she opened them, her face was grim.
A teeny voice, cracked with anxiety, asked, "Can you help him?" Nott offered her pitiful package, and in her moment of great need, Molly realized she wasn't wearing her mask or any other form of disguise. He braced himself for some sort of backlash.
For a long moment, the cleric didn't speak. Then she took the bloodied fabric from Nott's hands. "I will do all I can. Are you his daughter?"
Nott swallowed. The weight of what was between her and Caleb was too big to explain to a stranger, would likely be misunderstood even if she tried. So she settled. "He's mine."
She nodded as though that did not surprise her. "Then I must recommend you step outside. It will do you harm to watch, and my assistants need space. The rest of you should leave as well."
There was initial resistance, but Fjord put one hand on Jester and the other on Beau. "We'll wait in the courtyard."
"Like hell I'm leaving," Beau snarled. "This lady could do anything."
"Beau," Fjord said, stopping her even as tears began to track down Jester's cheeks. "We're going to do what's best for Caleb."
Molly couldn't help the snort that tore from his mouth, and his friend – if he could still be called a friend – shot him a wounded look. Molly didn't care. Let him be wounded. Nott made no move to go, and when someone reached for her, the growl she loosed wasn't even passably non-goblin. Her eyes were fixed on Caleb, unwilling to be separated but desperate to do what was in his best interest.
Molly caught her eye. "Fear not, friend Nott" he said in soft parody of earlier words. "I won't leave him."
It was enough. She brushed past Fjord into the corridor, leaving Molly alone with the healer, two adepts, and Caleb. Without the chaos of everyone's swirling emotions, the air seemed still. Molly spoke into it, his voice thin as it hung between them. "Can you really help?"
"I can, though I will not lie. I'm not sure how deep the wounding goes or how completely he can be made well. There's been magic worked upon his mind as well as his body. That must be removed first."
"I've never heard of someone being trapped like this."
"It would take a wicked mind to conceive of such a thing," the cleric agreed.
A snarl rose in Molly's throat. "The butcher who did this will pay."
"Let's think of your friend's wellbeing before plotting revenge, shall we?" The cleric's voice was gentle despite the admonition pressed beneath it. To her aides, one of whom was holding Nott's bundle, she said, "Ready yourselves." And to Molly: "Hold him firmly. I don't know how he will react."
Molly obeyed. "Do it."
The cleric evoked her divine gift, tracing slow runes on Caleb's skin. For a moment, there was only radiant light and the smell of cloves, and then, suddenly, all magic affecting Caleb's person was dispelled. He took a deep, greedy breath as though surfacing after a long time underwater, and Frumpkin came alive, springing up with ungodly yowl and darting away to skulk in a corner. There the animal stood, a bristling mass of fur, hissing like a kettle. In Molly's arms, a noise worked its way out of Caleb's throat, guttural and barely human. Caleb keened.
The healers were a flurry of motion, and belatedly Molly realized there was a fresh glut of blood. Had some magic kept him stabilized until now? 'They wanted us to find him,' Mollymauk realized. 'Whoever it was, they didn't want us to find a corpse. They wanted us to be with him while he was dying.'
The other assistant was chanting rapidly under his breath, deft fingers and celestial words urging bone and tendon together. Molly had to look away. He ended up staring at the half-elf cleric, whose forehead was beaded with sweat. At one point she pulled away, breathing heavily, but before Molly could become afraid, her hand was back. It was a tense, near-invisible fight with death. Molly pressed Caleb's forehead under his chin and whispered half-understood words in all the languages he knew: common, carnie, even infernal. He hummed a Zemnian drinking song. Mostly, though, he held on, hoping that by doing so he could anchor Caleb long enough for these strangers to knit together the worst rifts and keep his spirit in the same plane as the rest of them.
