David Gaider - The Calling

“All right, then,” she breathed. “A spell it is.” She was pale and sweating, with dark circles under her eyes from the exhaustion, but still the mage collected herself and began to cast. She firmed her grip on his shoulder, whispering arcane words under her breath. The blue aura of power surrounded her and flowed into him, bringing with it a cool, blessed relief that made him gasp out loud.

He could feel his flesh mending, even feel some of the bones moving about inside his arm. That should have been painful, but it wasn’t. The sensation was merely odd, his senses numbed as the magic danced its way along his body and tickled at his fingertips.

“We have some poultices,” Maric commented. “Potions, too. You shouldn’t waste your strength, Fiona; you look exhausted.”

She didn’t stop. “We may need those. I may not be here to cast these spells later.”

He didn’t argue, and instead looked around the cavern. Duncan followed his gaze and noticed Kell limping toward them. The hunter looked quite a sight, completely caked in dirt and blood, his leather jerkin torn with several long gashes in it along his side. He’d lost his hooded cloak, and his head was coated in blood, but for all that Duncan supposed he looked rather healthy for having been inside the dragon’s mouth not minutes earlier.

The man wasn’t looking their way. Instead he was casting around anxiously, looking toward the far reaches of the cavern. “Hafter?” he called. Normally such a shout would have been enough to bring the hound bounding toward him, but there was absolutely no response. Not even a bark or a whine.

Fiona looked up sharply. “Oh no! Hafter!”

Just then, Kell noticed a shape against one of the far walls. It was where the dog had been flung by the dragon, and from where Duncan sat it looked like he had not moved at all. He was just a heap of lifeless fur collapsed at the base of the wall, a small stream of hissing lava not two feet away. The hunter limped in that direction, ignoring his pain as he sped to see to his companion.

Fiona completed the spell. “Are you going to be all right?” she asked Duncan anxiously. He nodded and tried to get up. The pain was still there, and his arm was stiff as a board, but he was much improved. Maric helped him, while the elf ran off to join Kell, her tattered blue skirt swishing.

With Maric’s assistance, Duncan limped over to where the pair of them knelt by Hafter’s body. It looked certain that there was nothing that could be done. The dog didn’t move, and Kell’s face was anguished as he ran a shaky hand along his fur. Duncan had never seen the man look so helpless.

“Is he—?”

“No.” Fiona shook her head. She sighed in relief, and Kell closed his eyes in silent thanks. Perhaps he prayed; Duncan really couldn’t say. He’d never known the hunter to offer thanks to the Maker—or any other god, for that matter—but perhaps this was a special occasion. “He’s badly hurt, but I think my magic will be enough to restore him.”

She began to cast her spell, and as the blue glow spread across the hound’s body, Hafter suddenly twitched. His dark eyes opened, and when he saw Kell kneeling above him, he whined plaintively and thumped his tail weakly against the stone floor. The hunter patted his head and urged him to remain still while the spell did its work.

“Lucky dog,” Maric chuckled, to which Duncan could only nod.

An anguished cry from elsewhere in the cavern interrupted them. Fiona’s spell fizzled to a halt as she looked up, and the rest of them turned around. At first Duncan couldn’t see where the sound was coming from, and then he noticed Utha on the far side of the cavern next to a large, rocky outcropping. In the dim light of the lichen he could see that the cavern floor sloped up to that point and led back the way they came. The dwarf was very still, and it took him a moment to realize that there was someone crouching on the ground next to her.

It was Nicolas, holding a limp and bloody Julien in his arms.

“Fiona!” Duncan cried, though it was unnecessary. The mage looked to Kell and the hunter nodded quick assent. She collected her skirt and dashed quickly across the cavern toward the others. Duncan limped slowly, Maric helping him along, and he saw that Genevieve was walking there, too.

The elf got to Julien’s body, and it took a moment to pry the grieving Nicolas off of him. The blond warrior was disconsolate, tears streaming down his face as he begged his friend to hold on. Utha looked sorrowful, but when she put a compassionate hand on Nicolas’s shoulder, he shrugged it off angrily.

“Just help him!” he shouted at Fiona.

She nodded, shaken, and laid her hands on Julien. The blue glow of her healing spell surrounded him, but as Duncan drew closer he suddenly saw the warrior’s state. Julien’s body was twisted and broken, his head at an odd angle from the rest of him. Blood covered his armor and was pooled around him, and one of his arms was almost completely ruined. It was nothing more than a bloody red mass, held together by the fragments of his armor.

If Fiona had gotten here earlier, then perhaps … but from the way Julien’s neck looked, it was possible he had died instantly. Duncan hoped he had died instantly. The man’s eyes were open and staring, but strangely calm. Like there was nothing wrong with him in the slightest. Duncan shuddered and looked away.

Magic continued to pour from Fiona into the body, but very little seemed to be happening. Some of the gaping wounds on Julien’s body were closing, but no color was being restored to his pale skin and he didn’t move at all. Tears welled in the mage’s eyes as she intensified her concentration.

“Do something!” Nicolas insisted. “Why is nothing happening?”

“I’m trying!” she sobbed.

Genevieve stepped forward. Her expression was stone, and she touched Fiona’s shoulder. “Stop,” she ordered. The elf looked up at her uncertainly, but there was no ambiguity in the command. The spell faltered and then ceased entirely.

“No!” Nicolas shouted. He knelt down again and cradled Julien in his arms, trying to support his head carefully even though the neck was clearly broken. “No, you can’t stop! He’ll be all right! He just needs healing!”

“He’s dead,” Genevieve said. Her voice was flat.

More tears streaked down his face, mingling with the splatters of blood. “You don’t know that!”

“Look at him, Nicolas. He is gone.”

For a second it looked like the warrior might rebel. He shook with rage, and then his anger quickly dissolved into tears. Trembling now with anguish, he lowered Julien’s head back to the ground, and then pressed his face into the man’s chest plate. His desolate sobs racked his entire body, his hands touching Julien and then recoiling. Duncan couldn’t watch. The others hung their heads, and for a time all they heard in the hushed cavern was the sound of Nicolas’s grief.

Fiona looked up at Genevieve, her face streaked with tears. “Are you sure you don’t want me to try …” Her voice faltered, and there was nothing more to say.

“Magic cannot bring someone back from the dead.” Genevieve gestured back to where Kell still sat. “Go and help the dog. We will need to move soon.”

“No!” Nicolas roared, jumping up. “We’re not leaving him here!”

“We must. The darkspawn are already coming; can you not feel it? We have very little time.” She stepped forward and put a gauntleted hand on the warrior’s shoulder, looking at him directly. For a moment she hesitated, and compassion broke through the Commander’s steely facade. Tears of grief welled up in her eyes. “My friend,” she began, her voice faltering. Nicolas stared at her in incomprehension, and it was clear that though Genevieve searched for words to comfort him, she found none.