Healer's Ruin (2 page)

With a pained expression he let the tent flap fall back into place and turned to face the long muddy trail that ran between the two lines of tents. The rudimentary road was chopped up with divots and led to the tarn beneath Hulker's Crag.

A sherdling was standing in the road. Chalos waved to the little creature. One of the many dreg-races the southern Kingdom had assimilated since the Unification of the Plains, sherdlings knew their place in the war effort. With a sycophantic smile the spindly little man jogged over and saluted. Utensils and leather pouches bounced on his loose belt as he moved.

'Bearer of the Vital Gourd!' the sherdling said, 'You are the slinger from Yusadan? The mage, Latharn?'

Chalos ground his teeth. It was customary for his comrades to ignore his maternal lineage-name and use only that of his father's line, but their ignorance still annoyed him. Nevertheless, he nodded with as much politeness as he could muster.

'That's me.'

'The Duke wants to see you, slinger. As soon as you can make it.' The sherdling's elastically expressive face folded into a contrite wince. 'By which I fear he means
now.
'

'Lead the way,' said Chalos, whipping cloak around his aching bones.

Even as day surrendered to night, preparation for the next battle continued apace. Siege engines rolled on vast wooden wheels, pulled by enormous Curalk with great horns and fan-like ears. Columns of soldiers thundered past on Shadamar mounts, weapons glinting darkly in the ruddy evening light. The sun was a red blur sinking despondently into the jagged maw of the mountains as Chalos the Healer walked after the scurrying sherdling.

They soon reached the Command Headquarters. A wooden structure sitting upon a vast wagon, it was strewn with banners fluttering in the breeze and even had four small turrets, each inhabited by a single crossbowman with a marvellous violet-plumed helm.

Two soldiers guarded the wooden steps that led to the entrance. They were huge, muscular Krune, their faces hidden behind ornate bull's-head masks. Menace flowed off them like heat from a furnace or sweat from the flank of some predatory forest beast.

'Slinger Latharn for the Duke!' the sherdling declared, and the soldiers stepped aside. The sherdling gave Chalos a crooked yellow smile. 'In you go, sir.'

'Thanks,' Chalos grunted. He climbed the steps and pushed the door open.

The office was lit by six lamps fixed to the walls. He saw the Duke at the far end of the room, sitting at a large desk, the surface littered with maps, scrolls and books. There was a weird hexagonal stone urn on the desk also. Surely ancient, its scarred skin deeply riven with strange markings, it was the sort of antiquated device Chalos would have loved to study. The healer closed the door behind him and cleared his throat.

The Duke shifted in his chair. Like the rest of the Black Talon, Duke Elas was a Krune from the western archipelago. Eight feet tall, and nearly half that wide, with purple flesh and pale green eyes, his powerful body was wreathed in inky black mail. Baldaw Mesh, crafted by the blind giants of that region.

'Slinger,' said Elas, his voice low. 'Have a seat.'

Chalos approached the desk and sank gratefully down into the chair. A groan escaped him.

'Tired?' the Krune asked, raising a silver brow.

'Exhausted, sir.'

'Pity.'

Elas noticed as Chalos stole a glance at the hexagonal stone object on the desk. His eyes narrowed.

'Ah, a mysterious treasure, is it not?' he said. 'Sent to us from the King himself.'

'It looks old,' Chalos said. 'Pre-Coronation at the very least...'

'Very old! Found by an adventurer a hundred years ago, in the Cobalt Valley, that terrible wasteland that saps life with each step.' A large hand reached out to idly tap the lid of the urn. 'The poor wretch died of dysentery on the voyage back. His family passed it on to the King as a gift.'

'What is it?'

Elas removed his hand as though suddenly wary.

'Who knows? It matters not,' the Duke replied.

Chalos slumped, too tired to press the matter.

The pale green eyes took in the bird on the healer's shoulder. 'Your Accomplice. A fine creature. We would all appreciate our own servile spy, coursing above the field, relaying to us the obstacles ahead.'

'It's a necessary bond,' said Chalos. 'She tells me where the wounded are.'

This was the truth. All slingers in the military were given an Accomplice, a magical creature with which they could communicate. For healers, it tended to be a bird or a hound, something that could either scout for wounded on the field from on high, or seek them by the scent of blood and sickness. Chalos had been given the bird two years before, by a servant of the King.

The Krune stared at the healer warily. His people trusted in blades and shields, not magic and mystery. It was clear that the huge man was uneasy sharing his office with Mysa, a product of what he saw as the foul and unnatural interweaving of magical energy and captive beast. Sensing the Duke's distaste, Mysa acted like any other bird, pecking absently at her feathers and blinking at nothing in particular. She could play the idiot quite convincingly.

'Has your bird noticed anything else on her travels, slinger?'

'She said that our vanguard had suffered a defeat, hinting at the involvement of powerful magic,' said Chalos. 'That, and something about rain and old buildings.'

Elas rested his chin on his knuckles and stared at the young mage through knotted brows.

'According to our scouts,' he said, 'the Gilt Plates were driven back into the Dallian Woodland. We're waiting on further information but I think we may be called upon to recover them and push northward in their place.'

Chalos could see that the Duke wasn't happy about the prospect. The expertise of the Gilt Plates lay in puncturing the enemy's armour, the Black Talon's in forcing the wound wider. The Krune were equipped for consolidation of conquered territory, for fortifying towns and clearing out remaining enemies. They were not ideal vanguard.

Not that the Krune lacked the skill or tactical nous to lead the invasion. They merely lacked the logistics. Their swords, shields and crossbows were designed for an altogether different purpose than the arms of a company of hulking Dauwarks in golden plate, armed with weapons the size of treetrunks. That Gilt Plates could go weeks without feeding also made them ideal vanguard troops. The Krune, as the perpetually chaotic  state of their mess tents proved, seemed to permanently desire fat wedges of pavarine steak – the bloodier the better.

'As for the rain,' the Duke added, 'does the bird always talk in riddles?'

Chalos noticed the sarcasm in the Krune's voice but ignored it, through fatigue rather than indifference.

'To her, it is the rest of us that talk in riddles. She makes perfect sense.'

The Duke grunted.

'Well, there may be truth in her...
musings.
' His thick purple finger tapped the map on the table. Chalos looked down, his gaze tracing the carefully inked lines of mountains, dotted routes of travel, red marks of interest. Under the finger was a vast circle of walls that were half rubble, broken towers and what seemed to be enormous crypts. Skulls and bones had been littered about. The artist, certainly the King's own Cartographer, had indulged herself.

'
Ranoum P'haktar!
' Chalos breathed. 'The Ruin!'

'Indeed,' rumbled Elas. 'They say none set foot there, not since all life was driven from the place by a terrible curse. It lies at the Riln Meridian, halfway between the coast and their capital, Aphazail.' His wide mouth twisted into a smile full of nuance. It was the smile of a challenge relished, but also – perhaps – the acceptance of a reckless and doomed undertaking. 'Our Master intends for us to push into the Ruin, and prepare it, for that dread place shall be our base of operations from which we will launch our final assault on Aphazail.'

Chalos could only stare at the map. His eyes slowly crawled back across the Riln Plain, through the Dallian Woodland and into the Doyu Basin, to a big black cross.
Our current camp.
It was a long, hard trek, and they would be expected to complete it in good time. If the Gilt Plates had indeed been routed, they would be licking their wounds in the woodlands, waiting for support. By the healer's reckoning, they would have a long wait.

What were they doing so far ahead of us? So exposed?

'Why are you telling me this, Commander?' Chalos asked in a small voice. 'Usually I receive my orders from messengers attached to Lieutenant Agryce, or Jolm.'

This was true; the lieutenants would relay their orders to the healer via sherdlings or lowly Black Talon corporals, as if dealing with a Rovann was beneath them. Which, from their point of view, it was.

'They're busy working out our advance,' said the Duke. 'And besides, I wanted to get a measure of you.' He sat back and drummed his fingers on the desk. His nails were long, thick and carefully cut at the tips so that there were two points on each, like the forked tongues of serpents. Perfect for raking flesh. 'I want you and the Dread Spear riding ahead with Jolm, supporting him with sorcery as he recovers what's left of the Gilt Plates and rides for the Ruin.'

Fear assailed the healer. Exhausted as he was, he barely held himself together. Mysa threw him a glance and opened her long beak. No caw emerged, but Chalos nevertheless heard her concerns.

'Fancy you, a soldier!' her voice sounded behind his eyes.

The muscles of the Duke's brow crinkled for a moment, as if he had picked up on the silent speech of the crow. Krune were known to have strange affinities with magic, even though they held it in disdain.
Perhaps they can hear it, smell it, feel it, but not comprehend it,
Chalos thought.
That's why they don't like it; magic irritates them, like sand on skin.

'I'm not a warrior,' Chalos managed.

'You're not a coward, either,' said the Duke. 'I hear good things about you from my men. You heal them, time and again, never recoiling from even the most horrific of wounds. You give of yourself tirelessly, until you are almost dead on your feet. Such depths of conviction are rare.' He offered the healer a conciliatory gesture. 'The King has given me a task, slinger. I do not mean to shirk from it. You and the Dread Spear will accompany Lieutenant Jolm and provide him with the support he needs to get the job done.'

'Would a couple of Rovann really make a difference?'

'A healer and a fire mage?' Duke Elas gave a nasty laugh. 'A formidable team indeed! Yes, slinger, I fear you will make all the difference. Remember, the Gilt Plates rode with Tankanis, the Flint Wizard, one of the King's most vaunted sorcerers. And look at the good it did them.'

'Has he been in touch?' Chalos asked, knowing that such powerful beings had access to many avenues of communication that were beyond most people, perhaps beyond even Mysa's fleet wings. 'Any word of the foe that awaits in the north?'

Darkness fell on the Duke's face.

'No, slinger. No word from Tankanis. I believe him dead.'

'Dead?' The healer's voice was barely a whisper.

'You have heard the word before, I am sure, working elbow-deep in guts! Yes, boy.
Dead.
Were he alive, he would have contacted us by now. He has always kept in close communication, yet we have heard nothing since he called the advance out from the woodlands.'

Chalos could not speak. The colour had drained from his sharp, narrow face. He sunk into his chair, a lock of dark hair falling before his eyes, which were now closed.

Was Tankanis really slain? A Flint Wizard, brought down by the Riln! If such a thing is possible, we have underestimated the folk that defend this land.

'The Riln, it seems, got very lucky,' the Duke reasoned. 'But with your bird's eyes, we will be one step ahead of whatever awaits us on the Plains. Jolm's orders are simple: ride forward, with Agryce close behind, locate and patch up the Gilt Plates, rally them and pull them forward to the Ruin. Should the enemy strike again, your bird will see them coming... and you can ride amongst the front lines, healing in the midst of battle as the Dread Spear pours fiery death on the foe!'

It was crazy. Chalos could wield potent magic, yes, but he was no Dread Spear. He could conjure no defences. A single arrow could kill him as easily as it could kill a sherdling. He didn't have the brawn or the stamina to wear heavy armour and he didn't even carry a blade.

Gods and bones... I'm doomed!

'Any questions?' Elas asked, his eyebrow arching. The Krune's tone implied that none were expected.

'No, Duke,' said Chalos, too tired and downcast to fight his corner – especially against such an intimidating figure. 'None.'

'Excellent. Then prepare yourself, for you leave at dawn.'

'This isn't good,' Mysa's voice said softly, in his mind.

No,
Chalos thought.
It's really not.

Aside from the curalk, with their legs like stone pillars and skin like granite, the army of the Ten Plains King had also brought with it whole herds of pavarine for slaughter and close to ten thousand shadamar. The latter were fine riding beasts common in the south, with sleek fur and a chitinous blue armour that grew naturally on their cloven hooves and long, equine faces. The diamond-shaped nosebone flared out over the slanted amber eyes as though a smith had crafted a helm for each animal.

Chalos clung to the saddle as his rode, closing his eyes against the nausea. He hated riding. They'd been at it for hours now, under the plain white sun, the sombre mountains either side of them and the Doyu Basin stretching out ahead. The horizon was a grey blur that hid the great forest of Dallian.

The slinger opened his eyes to squint up at the sky, trying to spot Mysa. He could see several scrawny black shapes circling overhead, scavenger birds that had been following the force since it had left the camp.
Hoping to pick over our bones,
he thought.
Did these same beaks feast on the carrion of the fallen Gilt Plates? Will we find them eyeless and stripped of armour and flesh?

The unpleasant image in his mind finally tipped his stomach. Yanking on the reins he peeled away from the main column of Black Talon riders and then slowed to a trot before sliding from the shadamar and staggering a few steps. With a groan, he doubled over and vomited.

Behind him the sound of the column of soldiers was a deep, thundering roar. A bellow without end.

As he drew the back of his sleeve across his mouth he heard a rider approach. He turned and looked up to see the smiling face of the Dread Spear peeping out from beneath a dusty black hood.

'Flailing etherclaws, Chalos,' she said. 'You look pale!'

Chalos took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering closed.

'I can't take much more of this riding, Samine.'

'I overheard Jolm talking to one of his lieutenants,' said Samine. 'We're to be stopping soon. One of the scouts spotted a ravine up ahead, with a spring. The plan is to camp there until the shadamar have regained their stamina. Then we press on to the woodland.'

Despite their slender limbs, shadamar were far superior to horses in terms of their energy reserves and the speed at which they replenished that energy. It was almost impossible to ride them to exhaustion, although an army in full armour would have more chance than most of doing just that. So regular rests were a good idea, especially when the Black Talon might meet a Riln detachment at any moment. Fighting on a tired steed was not a challenge any sane warrior would relish.

Chalos clambered weakly back into the saddle. Sweat had broken out on his forehead. He brushed a lock of black hair out of his eyes.

'Are you alright now?' the young woman asked.

'Yes.'

'Do you want to ride with me?'

He looked over at her, seeing the concern on her face.

'Um, fine.'

They wheeled and rode back to the main column. By now, Jolm was far ahead with the most ferocious Krune warriors. When the two slingers rejoined the force they found themselves riding beside sherdlings and pavarine, a few metres ahead of a rearguard of mesh-clad Black Talon warriors.

'You seem in high spirits,' Chalos said.

Samine shrugged.

'Just relieved to be outside, I think,' she said. 'I was in that damn cavern system for hours. The Riln were well fortified.'

That was true enough. She had been sent in with the second wave of soldiers. Chalos remembered how she had looked when she had emerged, so many hours later, worn out but still able to manage a smile.

'That's the life of a Dread Spear, I suppose,' he mumbled.

She was a slinger, like him, but whereas he had been trained to heal flesh, she had been taught to rend it apart. She could blast bones from bodies, pulverise hearts and immolate foes by the score. Her Accomplice, a shifty-eyed iguana, was slouched in a leather pouch buckled to the saddle of her mount.

She was their siege weapon, as Tankanis had been for the Gilt Plates. No Flint Wizard, but devastatingly effective nonetheless.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, listening to the lowing of the small herd of pavarine.

'Do you think they know they are to be slaughtered?' Samine asked.

'They're too stupid for that.'

'Gods might say the same of us, Chalos.'

'And they would be right.'

She laughed then and threw back her hood, running a long-fingered hand through her thick auburn locks. Chalos felt his mouth go dry.
She's older than me. Two winters, at least. She probably thinks I'm a child.
He cleared his throat, nervously.

'Dusty,' he said. 'Riding behind all those soldiers.'

She turned back to him, a quizzical expression on her face.

'Chalos, why did you become a healer?'

'And not a proper mage, you mean?'

Samine smiled. That was precisely what she had meant.

'Well,' he began, with a shrug. 'I always had an affinity for magic. I liked the feel of it, you know? That resonating note, silent but strong, in your veins, when it's flowing through you... there's nothing like that in all the world. But I didn't want to see battle. Not on the front lines, anyway. So, I chose the Vital Gourd.'

'You could have been a Scryer.'

'Scryers always go mad before the others do.'

'True. But though their lives are short, they live them far from carnage and chaos.'

Chalos smiled thinly.

'Had I the choice again, right now I might take another path.' He waved a hand dismissively. 'Anyway, what about you, Samine? Why did you choose to be a Dread Spear?'

'I was good at it,' she replied without hesitation. 'And I knew that we would be marching on Riln. I wanted to be one of the first to cross the ocean.' Her eyes were fixed ahead, sparkling. 'Imagine, the history books telling of Samine, the great mage, who helped the Ten Plains King conquer the northern empire! I would die happy if I knew I would be remembered for my prowess and deeds.'

One of the pavarine made a low sound and started to move askew, butting the beast next to it. A sherdling prodded it back into place with a tapering wooden pole. The beast snorted with indignation but allowed itself to be hammered back into formation.

'Then this mission is a great opportunity for you.'

'Yes!' Samine grinned. 'We will soon overtake the Gilt Plates, the most celebrated shock troops in the Unified Plains, and usurp their position as the vanguard of the army. Then, we will have both battle and adventure. Who knows what mysteries lie ahead? What terrible foes?'

'Be careful what you wish for,' said Chalos. 'Something battered the Gilt Plates into submission. Not many have done that over the centuries.'

'Exactly!'

'That doesn't frighten you?'

'It's a chance to show our mettle. To prove ourselves first to Jolm, then to the Duke, and then to the Fenc. And once we impress those grey veterans, our names will make it to the ear of the King himself. Then we will be immortal.'

'And live like heroes,' Chalos said. 'Or die like them.'

She laughed with open-mouthed delight and shook her head.

'You are a dark one, Chalos. Don't you want to die for your kingdom?'

He knew the answer he wanted to give. It burned on his tongue like an acid.
In what way is it, or could it ever be, my kingdom?
But he knew nothing would puncture her inviolable sense of duty. Dread Spears were all the same. There was something about having all that firepower to hand that made them live in the moment, hankering after the next excuse to unleash absolute mayhem. They did not ruminate deeply like healers did. They just dreamed of destruction and of the awe on the faces of friends, or the terror on the faces of foes.

Healers were different, he knew. They could be seduced by the world of magic –
lost in their mirrors
as the expression went – like any other slinger, be seduced by the strange song of that other world where magic swam in the air like a scent. But there was no release for them. Scryers lived for uncovering new lands, new treasures. Wizards for unlocking new abilities and crafting new powers. Mages like the Dread Spears who had not yet achieved the mastery that differentiated true wizards from the rest simply enjoyed their dalliances with the other world, and the power it lent them in the real one. But for healers, the release came only in the wake of tragedy. They impressed others by setting bones, eradicating infection, closing cuts, restoring burst eyeballs or smashed brain matter. The only time they got to use their powers was when the blood ran in rivers and the screams filled the night. There was no adventure for healers, only woe.

She's right. I'm a dark one.

'Look alive, Chalos.' Samine's voice snapped him back to reality.

A black shape coursed down over the column, its long-beaked head ducking left and right, as if looking for something, or someone. Then the big black eyes settled on Chalos and Mysa Tundra-Shadow dropped onto his shoulder, ruffled her feathers and clacked her curved, unnaturally long beak.

'Good to see you, Mysa,' the healer said.

'What did I miss?' the Accomplice asked.

'You're the one with the bird's eye view,' he sighed. 'So come on, what news from ahead? Are the Duke's scouts right? Is there some sort of ravine up there?'

He was aware of Samine watching him. She would be able to hear his questions but not the bird's answers. Of course, he would hear only one side of any conversation she would have with the iguana. Accomplices could only be heard by their slingers, after all.

'Yes, a miserable depression in the miserly ground of this joyless place. To think, a sea once flowed through here! But that was in aeons past.'

'You could have stopped after that first word.'

'And spare you the learning? Pah!' Mysa fidgeted. He felt her thin, strong claws poke the flesh of his robed shoulder. 'I tried the water there. A pleasant spring from a deep river. We will be well-rested after a night there but the dawn will bring fresh horrors.'

Samine leaned over and poked his arm. Chalos started as though torn from a dream.

'What does the bird say?'

'Something about
fresh horrors
,' Chalos said. 'She's in a good mood.'

'What does she mean?'

'Yes, Mysa, what do you mean?'

The bird clucked.

'So in demand am I. For my wisdom? Oh, yes. We head into an ancient land, where nine eyes watched over petrified guardians as vast as the gods themselves. Our boots disturb things we should have avoided. It was foolish to try and take the straight line to Aphazail.' Again, the bird ruffled those silken black feathers, at times so black that they made the bird seem like a hole in the world. 'We should have skirted around the mountains and avoided the basin. There are reasons why the Riln are not camped on this very earth and why there is no city built over the spring.'

She was twittering now and agitating, flexing her claws fretfully. Chalos raised his left hand and cupped it over the bird, gently soothing her trembling form. He made soft, susurrant noises and Mysa sighed before becoming still. Through his palm the healer could feel her small body pulse as the heart – powered by magic, but made of flesh – beat steadily beneath the feathers and hollow bones.

'Well, Chalos?' Samine pressed eagerly.

'Golems,' said Chalos. 'We are passing through
Pheg-Tol
country.'

A whistle escaped the girl then.

'We must advise Jolm,' she said, wheeling away on her majestic shadamar. 'It seems we may have sport before we even glimpse this great forest!'

And with that, she was gone, tearing northward parallel to the column. In minutes she would be relaying the warning to Jolm, the enormous mesh-clad lieutenant who led the detachment. Chalos considered, for a moment, going with her. He liked her company, even though he did not share her courage or exuberance. But he found himself hanging back with the sherdlings and the herd of pavarine.

For some reason, it felt like he belonged amongst them. The herd went towards the killing blade in complete ignorance, after all. Only the Black Talon, and their talismanic and mighty Dread Spear, galloped knowingly into the slaughterhouse, thinking they might find glory instead of a row of hooks.

Is ignorance what I seek, rather than knowledge?
He asked himself as he hunched his left shoulder to help Mysa snuggle into the curve of his neck.
I must be the only slinger in creation that wants less wisdom rather than more.

Somehow the steady beat of the herd's hooves and the glum chatter of the sherdlings lulled him almost to sleep, and he rode on to the ravine in a daze.

'So tell me, slinger,' boomed a voice from behind a jagged grille set into a pock-marked demon-face of black steel, 'of the myth of the
Pheg-Tol.
'