Michael Stackpole: Chartomancy

“Leave him be, boy. You can’t help him.”

Ciras looked toward the voice’s source. A small ivory creature crouched on a bier. He would have taken it for a child, save that its oversized head held seven eyes. Two, which were black with gold pupils, lay where expected. A third lay in its forehead. Four more, smaller and gold with black pupils, dotted its face at cheekbone and forehead, above and below the normal eyes.

It’s a Soth Gloon, harbinger of Disaster! Ciras eased Moraven’s head to the floor, then came up on one knee to ward his master from the creature. His right hand reached down to where his sword should have been, but found nothing.

The Gloon laughed. “I am no threat to him. Come, you are needed to help Tyressa.”

Though Ciras remained confused, the words “need” and “help” prompted an instant response. He staggered to his feet and trudged after the ghostly creature as it leaped from bier to bier, deeper into the cavern. It slowly dawned on him that he was in some sort of tomb complex, and he did not take that omen as anything save fell.

With each step Ciras’ attention abandoned the dying pain in his head. From the darkness he heard an odd grunting and wheezing, which was about as strange a sound he could recall.

A thickset figure emerged into the light, dragging something heavy. A horrid stench hit Ciras. He recognized the object as Tyressa before he realized the man pulling her along was Borosan Gryst. Ciras darted forward and grabbed her ankles, holding tight despite the slimy muck coating her boots.

“Over here. Put her up on this bier.”

Both men carried her to a flat bier and struggled to lay her down. Her heels hung off the end of the marble slab. Despite the bat guano streaking it, there was no mistaking the pale blonde hair gathered into a thick braid. The exposed flesh on her arms and legs showed abrasions, but how serious Ciras could not tell because of the shit covering her. Those cuts, no matter how deep, were not her major problem.

A crossbow quarrel jutted up just beneath her navel. The head had disappeared in the muck coating her tunic.

Ciras supported himself by bracing his hands against the bier. “The bolt is rising and falling with her breath. That’s good. It’s not stuck in bone.”

Borosan looked up at him. “What are we going to do?” The man’s mismatched eyes remained wide. “We have to do something or she’ll die.”

“I know.” Ciras shook his head to clear it, and instantly regretted it. “I am not thinking straight yet. Keles will know. Where is he?”

Borosan shook his head.

The Gloon, perched on a nearby bier, pointed a slender finger back into the darkness. “They went together. He is alive. This much I see.”

Ciras nodded toward Tyressa. “How about her? Soth Gloon can see the future. Will she live?”

“That will depend, Ciras Dejote, on what you do.”

Ciras closed his eyes. His entire life had been spent in training as a swordsman. His masters had insisted on his understanding the human body and its parts. He knew where and how deep arteries lay. He could thrust through organs without a second thought. He’d even been trained in ways to deal with cuts and wounds. But all of this left him far shy of being a healer.

Part of him wanted to reject the Gloon’s statement, but he could not. He had trained as a swordsman in order to be a hero. He had grown up listening to the tales of ancient Imperial heroes, wishing he could equal their skill and daring. Many of them faced challenges that did not require mere sword work as a solution. If I reject this task, she will die, and I will never be a hero.

He opened his eyes again and touched the quarrel lightly. He didn’t try to move it, but just felt the fletching brush between his fingers as she breathed. He slid his hand slowly down, doing his best to estimate how deeply it had penetrated. While archery had never been his focus, the quarrel’s thickness suggested a length, and that gave him hope that it had not penetrated far at all.

Then his hand reached her belly, and he smiled. He scraped away some of the muck, then a bit more. His smile broadened, and he looked up at Borosan. “It is not as dire as we feared.”

“What do you mean?”

Ciras straightened up. “The Keru, like Tyressa, wear swords, but they prefer to wield a spear. Because of that they wear their swords in a scabbard, which they belt on, not in a sash as a swordsman would. The archer who shot her hit her belt buckle. The quarrel penetrated, but not very far. Probably just an inch, through her skin and the muscle beneath.”

“So we have to yank it out?”

Ciras nodded slowly. “The difficulty is that it’s going to hurt her a lot. If she jerks, she’ll do more damage to herself.”

“That shall not be a concern.” A hulking form moved forward from behind Borosan. Hunched as he was, the Viruk appeared barely taller than Borosan, though his broad shoulders and muscular body made him far wider. Black hair hung to his shoulders and ran down his spine between bony plates covered by dark green flesh. His skin tone lightened from throat to groin, and along the insides of his arms. Thorns thrust up through his hair, as sharp and strong as the hooks at his elbows and the claws that capped his hands and feet. His black eyes seemed to be holes in his face, and needle-sharp teeth glittered in his mouth.

He reached the bier and studied Tyressa for a moment. “Get water. Wash around the wound. We will cut her belt away so all we need deal with is the buckle.”

Borosan fetched water, and they were able to wash the muck from her clothes. Following the Viruk’s directions, Ciras used a small knife to cut away Tyressa’s thick leather belt, then slice open the canvas tunic she wore. More water cleaned her skin, and very little blood trickled from beneath the buckle.

“What now, Rekarafi?”

The Viruk raised a finger, pressing his thumb against the uppermost pad. Moisture began to gather, hanging from the claw’s sharp end. “First we ready her. Borosan, hold her ankles. Ciras, her shoulders.”

The two men did as they were bidden. When they were in position, the Viruk slowly scratched a line above and below the wound, then to either side of it. The woman groaned at his touch. Just inside the square, Rekarafi plunged his talon into Tyressa’s flesh and a jolt ran through her. Ciras almost lost his grip, but held on tightly. Tyressa had stiffened, but after a third puncture, her body began to relax.

Ciras’ eyes narrowed. “You’re not using magic, are you?”

The Viruk’s huge head turned slowly toward him. “Not in any sense you would recognize, Lirserrdin. Do you not remember how Keles Anturasi had been poisoned by my claws?”

“Yes. He said that was very painful.”

“You have spittle and you have tears; you have other fluids which use the same conduits to flow. Why should I be different?” Rekarafi returned his attention to Tyressa and continued to puncture her stomach. “This will numb and restrict blood flow. There, that is done. Give it a minute.”

The swordsman raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to draw it out now?”

“No, you are. She might yet move, and neither of you would be strong enough to hold her down.” The Viruk rose up and laid one hand over her thighs. Then he settled his other forearm against her collarbone and leaned forward. “Proceed, Ciras Dejote. As you would feel a sword going into a target, feel the bolt coming out.”

Ciras moved opposite the Viruk, then held his hands out for Borosan to wash. He shook them dry, then closed his eyes. The Viruk’s words, delivered with just the hint of contempt, helped focus his mind. He had trained so well with a blade that he could think it through a joint, twisting and curving his cuts so they severed muscle and sinew without ever touching bone. Here he would have to do the reverse.