The Golden Key (Book 3) (27 page)

10

Hobart woke slowly, and the remnants of a bizarre dream
lingered like the fuzziness of a hangover. He had been riding Leslie into battle
against a dozen fishmen armed with axes made by dwarves. They had surrounded
him, and the fishmen had been chipping away at his armor. Bits and pieces of it
flew off with each blow, and then one of the fishmen threw its axe at his head.
He had ducked too late, and the hollow clang echoed in his ears like thunder
smashing through his wits. Then his helmet slipped from his brow, taking his
senses with it as it tumbled to the ground.

Leslie was standing over him, snorting and pawing at the
ground and snapping at the dwarves with her vicious teeth. They were
funny-looking dwarves, though; they were black as smoke and just as fluffy.
Their eyes were like raging embers full of restrained flame, but they weren’t
looking at him. They were looking at the other dwarves forming ranks on Leslie’s
other side. Those were strange dwarves, too; they were white as snow and just
as thick-headed. Their eyes were pale blue pools of hostility. A horn sounded a
rigid thunderclap, and the smoke-colored ones charged the icy ones. He was
stuck in the middle of the battle, trying to avoid Leslie’s hooves as she
reared and kicked at them. But the dwarves ignored her; their gaseous bodies
flowed around the hooves as they passed and then coalesced with a clang as
their weapons met the ice picks of the frozen dwarves. Sparks and ice chips flew,
and when they landed on him they felt like cinders crawling on his skin. He
tried to roll out of the way, tried to bury his face in the snow, but he
couldn’t move. Leather straps had sprouted from the ground to pin his naked
arms to the frozen earth.

Where was his armor? His head jerked up, and he found
himself back in the smithy’s shop in Tyrag. He was a young man, barely through
his training and ripe for a commission. The smithy had his armor ready, and it
was time to pick it up. He had saved his pay for two years to buy it, and now—

Hobart blinked. He was on his back again, staring up at the
morning sky. The pine trees were draped in snow, but it was melting. Icicles
dangled from their boughs, dropping with a muffled thud or splash. The horses
sloshed as they plodded through the slush. It was a chill day, and he felt naked
as the breeze rustled the blankets draped over him. He stared at the sky for a
long time before he turned his head. Ortis was riding along beside him, a bit
ahead of him, but his gaze was elsewhere. He was looking for something up
ahead. Dwarves, perhaps?

I’m awake, aren’t I?
Hobart wandered, deciding he was
too exhausted to lift himself up to find out.
There was a battle, wasn’t
there?
he wondered.
I was injured, wasn’t I?

It didn’t matter. He had survived, and Ortis would watch
over him.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep again.

11

Iscara woke to a sharp, insipient, unrelenting screech of
“Owie! Owie! Owie!” She tried to ignore it, tried to fall back asleep, but it
wouldn’t stop. She rolled over and groaned. Someone in need of healing was
pulling on the rope.
Why can’t they come during the day?
she wondered.

The screeching stopped, and Iscara sat up, rubbed her eyes,
and waited. If it was a simple matter, Karas would deal with it. He was the one
on night duty, and he was more than able enough to deal with cuts and bruises.
He could even set a broken limb. If the injuries or illness was too serious for
him to deal with, he would come get her. She stretched and yawned, and shifted
position until her feet were on the floor. Then, still wrapped in her coverlet,
she slid down to the end of the bed near the table. The candle was out, but she
saw it clearly in the blue luminescence filling the room. She half-turned and
said, “You’d best hide yourself before Karas sees you.”

Typhus didn’t move until there was a light tap on her door
and Karas softly called, “Iscara?” Then he pulled the coverlet from her and
draped it over himself, leaving Iscara shivering in the darkness.

“What is it, Karas?” she called, standing up and moving up
to the door.

“The guard,” Karas said, his voice barely carrying through
the door. “They’ve asked for you by name.”

Iscara frowned. What could the guard want? They had their
own healers to tend to battle wounds, and there hadn’t been any of those for
months. There were training accidents, but their healers dealt with them, too.
“What do they want?” she asked as she moved to her wardrobe. Of all the things
about being a healer that she hated, being woken up in the middle of the night
was the worst.

“A man at the gate asked for you by name,” Karas said.

Iscara opened the wardrobe and asked, “What was the man’s
name?”

“I’ll ask,” Karas said, and there were rapid footsteps up
the stairs.

By the time Karas returned, Iscara had donned one of the
half dozen healer’s gowns from her wardrobe. It was made from a coarse, tightly
woven, white fabric reinforced with magic to keep blood and other body fluids
off her skin. It was effective but
boring
. She never wore anything else,
and that made her feel boring, too. One day, she would have to get something
with color that conformed to the curves of her body and wear that instead.
“Well?” she demanded as she opened the door.

Karas had a lantern in his hand, and held it off to the
side. “His name is Angus,” he said. “He’s from one of the banners.”

There was a gasp from her bed, and Karas turned his
attention toward it, but Iscara moved in front of him to block his view.
A
banner man
, Iscara thought, her curiosity piqued. It had been a long time
since she had treated someone from a banner, and the last time had been at
least interesting. A disease from the Death Swamps had lingered in him for a
long time before it struck. Could this be something like that? “Did they say
what he needed?” she asked, stepping to the side to retrieve her bag.

“Injuries,” Karas said, his gaze directed toward her bed. He
backed up quickly as she stepped through the door and shut it, and then they
hurried up the stairs side by side. “Bad ones from the sound of it,” he
continued. “They’re bringing him on a wagon. He should be here in a few
minutes.”

Iscara sighed; if he was on a wagon, it had to be bad. But
why hadn’t the guard’s healers taken care of him? She stopped at the top of the
stair long enough to cast a simple refreshment spell that tweaked the magic
within herself until she was fully alert. It wasn’t as good as sleep, but it
would do for the time being. Then she turned to follow Karas and paused. What
was the man’s name again? Aggles?

Uggles?
she wondered. Wasn’t that who Typhus had said
had the key Argyle wanted? Maybe Argyle had sent him to her? She hurried after
Karas. If this was the same Argus, then maybe she would find the key and get
back on Argyle’s good side?
If
Argyle had a good side….

“Get the table ready,” Iscara said when they were in the
main room.

Karas nodded. He was a good-looking young man with a boyish
face and figure, and she’d had a little fun with him a few times. But he was
too nice, too
gentle
, for her tastes, and she’d quickly grown bored with
him. But he was a quick learner when it came to healing, and after a few more
years of instruction he would make a good healer. A better one than herself, in
fact;
he
had a passion for it. But he still had a lot to learn. If it
were a disease, it would be a good case for him to study. If not….

Karas pushed aside the tapestry separating the main room of
the shop from the infirmary where they tended to the more serious cases, and
then he stepped through the wide opening. A large glass sphere was dangling
just above the table, and he quickly cast the Glow Ball spell on it. When he
was done, he went to the wall and pulled on a cord to raise the light over the
table. As it rose, the light reflected from mirrors until the room was as
bright as a noonday sun. By the time he finished, the wagon was approaching,
accompanied by the sound of several horses’ hooves clomping on the
cobblestones.

He’s important,
Iscara thought as she moved quickly
to the door.
He wouldn’t have an escort like that if he wasn’t. I wonder why
they’re bringing him to me?
The guardsman standing just outside the door
held it open for her as she stepped outside.

The riders arrived first, their horses sliding to an abrupt
halt on the cobbled roads. They dismounted rapidly, and by the time the wagon
slowed to an easy stop, the guardsmen were already on either side of it, ready
to remove the man lying on the stretcher in the bed of the wagon.

“This way,” Iscara said, pointing to the infirmary as she
fell in beside them. “What do you know of his injuries?” she demanded as she
looked down at him. His face was unknown to her, but there was something
familiar in it. He was still clutching a coal-black staff, and she reached for
it, intending to take it from him and set it aside. But she couldn’t; his grip
on it was too tight, and the strange wood was warm to the touch.
Hot
to
the touch.
Magic?
she wondered. At least she had no trouble lifting his
backpack out of the way. She handed it to Karas, who carried it to the little
alcove where they locked up their patients’ possessions when it was needed.

“Left leg,” one of the guardsmen said. “Right shoulder and
arm. There may be more.”

Iscara nodded as she ushered them into the infirmary. “On
the table,” she said as she stepped aside to give them room. After they had put
the stretcher on the table, she said, “Now get out of my way.”

All but one of the guardsmen left; he moved to the entryway,
well out of her way, and planted himself there. She glared at him, but there
was no time for anything more than that. She leaned in close and said, “Let me
have your staff. I will keep it safe for you, and I can’t heal you with it in
your hands.” She reached for it again, and this time was able to pry his
fingers from it. It was still warm to the touch as she set it out of the way in
a corner. There was something strange about the staff, as if a familiar shadow
had collapsed upon it, but she didn’t have time to look more closely at it.
Even a brief glance had told her his injuries were severe.

When she returned to the table, she put her hand to the
man’s forehead and briefly wondered at how much he looked like Typhus, only
younger and prettier. At least he didn’t have a fever, but what about the rest
of him? She brought the magic within him into focus, and her lips compressed
into a thin line as she saw it. Death magic and decay swarmed over the man,
running through his veins like worms trying to devour him from the inside out.
She had seen this pattern before when a wound had gone untreated for far too
long, and she reached up to touch his forehead again. Where was the raging
firestorm of the toxins in his blood? His temperature was normal, and that
bothered her. He should have a fever, a very high fever, one that should have
killed him by now. Why didn’t he? She looked at the magic within him again, and
shook her head. There was something more than just the toxin there, but what
was it? No matter; it would be easier to treat him if he didn’t have a fever.

She reached for the sash of the man’s robe, untied it, and
Karas helped her peel it open. As it fell aside, a part of the magic within the
man faded, and the death magic coursing through his veins blossomed into a
raging inferno. She gasped—what was happening to him? She reached for his
forehead, and a fever was rapidly rising to the surface. She had never seen
anything like it before. It was as if the robe—

Iscara quickly closed the robe and tied the sash—but nothing
happened. She felt his brow again, and it was so warm to the touch that he was
beginning to sweat.

Heal him.

Iscara gasped and her head snapped up. She recognized that
voice! She had felt it in her mind before, when she was with Argyle…. She cast
her gaze around the room until it fell upon the staff and shuddered.
Sardach?
She thought as she stared. Then she abruptly turned to the guardsman lingering
at the entryway and said, “Leave us. I must concentrate.”

“No,” the guardsman said. “I stay.”

Iscara glared at him and said, “Do not interfere.” She moved
quickly. She needed to assess the injuries and decide what needed to be done.
“Ice,” she said as she touched the fury of the man’s skin. “Quickly!”

Karas nodded and hurried from the room. By the time he
returned, she had done the initial assessment and realized she couldn’t heal
him alone. “We’ll have to amputate the leg,” she began. “But—”

Heal him!
Sardach almost shouted into her mind.
He
must be whole!

Iscara gasped at the ferocity of the thought, then glared at
the staff.
I can’t!
she thought with equal ferocity.
It is too far
gone for me to heal.

There was no response from Sardach, only the intensity of
his thought warning her of his presence. Iscara gnawed on her lower lip as she
thought about what Sardach could do. She didn’t want to risk finding out, but
she
couldn’t save the leg.

“Fetch my mother,” she told Karas. Her mother might be able
to save the leg, but it would be costly. What about the shoulder? The bone
fragments were a jumble, and she was never very good with puzzles like that.
But Ninny was. “And Ninny,” she added as Karas hesitated. “Hurry!”

After Karas left, she focused on the magic in Angros, trying
to force the roiling death and decay into some semblance of controlled chaos.
If that was all that she needed to do, she could manage it for a time, but as
long as the leg and arm were still there, the most she could hope for was a stalling
maneuver. She could hold it off until her mother arrived, but not much more
than that.

She looked into the corner where the staff was waiting, and
asked,
Were you keeping the fever down?

No
, Sardach replied.

How, then?
she wondered. Then she was too busy working
to contain the wriggling strands of death magic from consuming the man to think
about it.