Leslie Moore - Griffin's Shadow

The king and his generals had worked out the final plan over many weeks of intense research and discussion. They had options available to cover all possible scenarios-from the quick defeat and rout of the enemy to a full scale invasion and siege of Sendai itself.

Not a single man or woman on the council wanted to contemplate the possibility that the heart of Alasiri might be invaded, but contemplate it they must. Their duty compelled them to plan for the worst and come up with ways to safeguard the future of the elven people.

Jelena listened attentively at first as each lord gave an accounting of the size and composition of his or her force, but her mind soon wandered. The image of Mai’s face kept intruding on her thoughts, and with a painful start, she realized she now thought more about Mai these days than about Ashinji.

She knew she should look upon this as good and healthy-a sign that she at last felt ready to let go of the past and move on, perhaps to a new love. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a small twinge of guilt and sadness, even though she realized she in no way betrayed what she and Ashinji had shared.

I promised Mai a speedy answer. That was five days ago. It’s time to end his suffering.

Jelena rose from her chair and moved on silent feet to a small side door that exited into a secondary corridor. Before reaching for the handle, she glanced over her shoulder; no one seemed to have taken notice of her departure. She pulled on the handle and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. She slipped through and hurried away.

"Tilo, there you are!” Brother Wambo scurried toward Magnes from across the sun-dappled courtyard, skinny arms waving. Magnes waited for the elderly healer to catch up before he continued on his way to his dispensary. “Fadili told me of what has befallen your slave friend. I am sorry,” Wambo offered in his thin, reedy voice.

Magnes nodded in thanks. “I was just on my way back to the de Guera yard to check on him.”

“You look terrible, Brother,” Wambo observed. “I daresay you could use a meal and a nap.”

Magnes grimaced as he pushed his fingers through his unkempt hair. “It’s been a rough night. When I left him this morning, my friend still lived, but that was several hours ago. I’m very worried. The worst of his wounds is quite deep. The knife pierced clear through the muscle layer and entered the body cavity.”

“Eeee…Not good!” Wambo shook his head in dismay. “Your friend will most likely die, I’m afraid. Such is the fate of most arena slaves.”

A momentary flash of irrational anger tightened Magnes’ chest.

Ashi will not die! I won’t let him! he wanted to scream, but instead, he reined in his emotions, then stopped in his tracks and regarded Wambo thoughtfully.

“Brother, do you remember discussing with me a plan to provide medical care to some of the outlying suburbs and villages around Darguinia?”

“Yes. You wanted to outfit a wagon as a traveling clinic. I thought it was a good idea; I still do. Anything we can do to combat the woeful levels of ignorance and superstition in the general populace is a good idea. Why do you ask?”

“I’ll talk to you about it later. Right now, I’ve got to get back to the de Guera yard.”

Wambo shrugged. “Eh, suit yourself, though I think you should eat something first. Good luck.” He shuffled off, sandals slapping against the hard-packed clay of the courtyard.

Magnes continued on his way to the dispensary, intending to pick up some supplies before heading out. The traveling clinic idea hadn’t been entirely his own. A suggestion by Fadili had planted the seed in his mind, and at first, the idea hadn’t involved anything nearly as elaborate as a specially outfitted wagon. But the more Magnes had mulled over the details, the more he had been convinced of the merits of a wagon, and he knew just the person to finance the venture: Mistress Armina de Guera.

For years, the mistress had suffered from headaches of such ferocious intensity, they had left her completely debilitated when they struck.

The first day Magnes had come to her yard, several months ago, Mistress de Guera had been in the throes of agony, laid low by her head pain. His honey-sweetened tea of skullcap, ginger, willow bark, and valerian root had eased the pain and gained him an extremely grateful patron. Magnes felt certain the lady’s ongoing gratitude would insure a swift affirmative to his request for money.

The irony of the whole plan lay in the fact that the very wagon the good lady financed would carry two of her slaves to freedom.

After packing a supply of fresh bandages and some packets of herbs he would need to treat Ashinji’s wounds, Magnes started out for the arena precincts. The late afternoon sun shone through shredded clouds, blown apart by stiff spring winds.

As Magnes walked, people called out to him.

“Ho there, Brother Tilo! My wife’s got another boil on her arse that needs lancing!”

“Brother, can ye come an’ look at m’ son’s sore tooth?”

“Brother Tilo, the rash is baaaack!!!”

Magnes waved and kept walking. So many residents of the neighborhood now came seeking their services that the local temple of Balnath-their archrival-had sent several of their bretheren to spy on the Eskleipans as they went about their work. To Magnes, the priests of Balnath were nothing but reprehensible charlatans. They traded on the superstition and fear of the common people, preferring to keep them ignorant of even the simplest things they could do to protect themselves from disease, such as hand washing.

When Magnes reached the gate of the de Guera yard, the guard waved him through without challenge. He went straight to the infirmary and found Gran still sitting in her chair by Ashinji’s bed.

“How is he?” he asked, advancing to the bed and dropping his satchel on the floor.

Gran heaved a weary sigh. “He’s still adrift. All I can do is continue to call to him.”

Magnes reached out and lifted one of Ashinji’s eyelids. He observed no response, not even the barest flicker of awareness. He picked up Ashinji’s wrist and felt for the pulse that beat there, slow, but steady.

That’s one good sign, at least.

“I need to check the wounds and change the dressings,” he said, replacing Ashinji’s hand on the blanket.

Gran nodded. “I’ll help you.”

“I’ll need a basin and some warm water.”

While Gran went to fetch the water, Magnes began his work. He peeled back the coverlets to expose Ashinji’s torso, swaddled in bandages. He pushed the unconscious man over onto his side in order to look at his back. A large brown stain discolored the linen, something he expected to see.

Doesn’t look too heavy, though, thank the gods.

He dug in his satchel, retrieved a small knife, then began to cut the bandages. Carefully, he peeled away the soiled linen and bloody padding until his handiwork lay revealed.

The long, shallow slash across Ashinji’s ribcage looked good. The neat black stitches stood out in stark contrast to the paleness of the patient’s skin. The deep stab wound in the back, however, appeared red and swollen. Magnes leaned in close and sniffed. He breathed a sigh of relief.

No odor of rot…another good sign.

Gran returned with the water. While she held Ashinji up on his side, Magnes removed the sticky drain and washed the wound with an infusion of mallow root-excellent for inflammation. Next, he packed in a fresh strip of linen, applied a poultice of honeysuckle and comfrey and, with Gran’s help, bound up Ashinji in a fresh wrapper of clean bandages. Together, they changed the covering on the mattress and resettled the patient under a pile of fresh blankets. Throughout the entire procedure, Ashinji remained completely unresponsive.