David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Where is Calan?” he asked as he grabbed an elderly priestess, her face a circle-web of wrinkles.

“Busy,” she said, giving him a reproachful glare. She didn’t seem the slightest bit unnerved by his size or skin.

“Bring him,” he said, refusing to let go despite her tugging to break free. “He owes me one. Tell him that.”

“And who are you?” she asked as he released her sleeve.

“Just point him my way. He’ll recognize me.”

She looked him up and down, and though it seemed impossible, her frown grew deeper.

“I can imagine so,” she said, then hurried on her way. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. If he could ignore every noise, every visual distraction, he could focus on the pain, and doing so made him feel better. His temples throbbed with each pulse of pain, but he kept it under control. He felt the pain’s limits, how far it stretched throughout his leg. Time passed, and he was dimly aware of it.

“I see you’ve returned,” a man’s voice said. Ghost stirred to see Calan standing before him. He looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes and his smile forced. “May I ask why you’ve given us the pleasure?”

In answer, Ghost pulled up his pant leg to reveal the wound. He winced when he saw it himself. The purple bruise had spread, and the green puss was filling up his bandage. Calan’s smile immediately vanished, and he grabbed Ghost’s arm.

“This way,” he said. “You need a bed, now.”

Ghost wanted to protest but didn’t. He’d hoped for a bit of healing magic, and then off he’d be. Instead, he obeyed without argument, for his head ached, his stomach continued to do loops, and he felt intensely drained. It was as if the pain were a fire burning away his energy. Calan led them through the maze of people and pews. His head swiveled, but he saw no opening, no space available. Muttering, he turned them toward the back, then through a door to a quaint room. It had a small desk, a bookshelf, and a bed, and it was that bed Calan set him upon.

“My quarters will have to do,” the priest said. “Though I fear the bed might be small for you.”

“A bed’s a bed,” Ghost mumbled.

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Here.” He tossed the small bag of coins to pay for his treatment. “Save my leg, will you?”

Calan rolled the pant leg, carefully folding it over and over until it was up to his thigh. Ghost closed his eyes. For some strange reason, he didn’t want to watch. He didn’t want to understand what it was the priest would do, or what its implications meant. Gods were for other people, not him. Gold and killing, that was god enough for him. He heard whispers, undoubtedly prayers, so he leaned his head back and tried to relax. The pain continued to throb, its reach growing. He felt it down to his shin, as if instead of a single cut, the Watcher had beaten and smashed his whole leg with a club.

A strange sound met his ears. It was like a soft breeze blowing past the entrance of a cave, yet deeper, fuller. Even through his closed eyelids he saw the light flare. When it plunged into his legs, it was like fire. He clutched the sides of the bed and clenched his teeth. His nostrils flared as he breathed in and out.

“The infection is deep,” he heard Calan say. “Bear with me, Ghost. I know you’re strong. You will endure.”

More prayers, and another burst of light. This time when it plunged into him, there was no feeling of fire, only a cold numbness that spread with alarming speed. He worried if it reached his lungs he’d never breathe again. It stopped at his thigh, though, and then seemed to shrink back in on itself. With its retreat, he realized he felt no pain, even when the coldness left his leg entirely.

“What did you do?” he asked, daring to open his eyes.

“What you wanted me to do,” Calan said, looking down at him. “What else?”

The priest resumed his prayers, and as his hands hovered over Ghost’s knee, the flesh began to knit itself together, forming a pale white scar on his dark skin. When finished, Calan took a step back and more collapsed than sat with his weight pressed against the door. His head thumped against the wood, and it seemed those dark circles had increased.

“A long two days,” he said, as if to himself.

“Blame the Trifect,” Ghost said.

“I blame no one. Have no reason. Some days are long, and some painfully short. Must say, I do prefer the calmer ones to this, however.”

Ghost chuckled, but he didn’t have the strength to continue. Drowsiness was stealing over him. He’d only slept a few hours in the tavern, and it’d hardly been deep or comforting. The pain had found him even in his dreams.

“I think I’ll sleep now,” he said.

And then he did. His sleep was deep, dark, and strangely without dreams. When he awoke, he felt as if an immense amount of time had passed. His leg felt worlds better, though he was still hesitant to bend it. What if it were all an illusion, and the pain returned tenfold when he finally tested it? Rubbing his eyes with his hand, he shook his head to speed up his waking. He found himself alone in the room.

When he put his weight on his knee, it buckled and gave completely. He caught himself on the bed and collapsed back atop it.

“What the fuck?” he asked, then felt guilty for cursing in the middle of a temple. It was a silly feeling, but still his neck flushed. He stretched his arms and back, then settled in. What should he do now? It wasn’t like he was in any real danger, and he’d already paid for the bed and healing. The only thing nagging on his mind was the Watcher. He needed another confrontation, one without those annoying mercenaries getting in the way. How could he manage it? And would the Watcher be foolish enough to return to that building, return to where he knew others might find him? What he knew about the Watcher could be written on a pebble. The man might still be with the Eschaton, or he might be halfway to Ker.

Ten minutes later the door opened, and in stepped Calan. He looked a little better, but not much.

“Was your rest pleasant?” he asked. He sounded distracted, the question more obligatory than any conscious desire to know.

“Best in years. How long was I out?”

“Five hours,” Calan said. He pulled the chair out from the desk and plopped into it. Massaging his forehead with his fingers, he stared down at the wood and appeared to soak in the calm. Ghost had seen people look like that before, after they’d endured a long stretch on a battlefield. Once the blood and bodies were gone, the men looked as if solitude was something physical they could soak in like a sponge, silence a concoction they could massage through their temples and neck.

“It bad out there?” he asked, disliking the lack of noise.

“It was,” Calan said, his eyes staring through his desk. “Better now. A lot of dead, and even more anger and hopelessness. Too many expect miracles, as if I had any to give.”

Ghost felt another awkward silence descend over them. Deciding he was out of his league, he pulled things back to something more grounded, more real to him.

“What’s wrong with my knee?” he asked. “I can’t stand on it.”

Calan looked up. “I cleansed the infection and knit the flesh, but it is still tender. The spell I used to numb your pain will take time to fade, and until it does, most of your muscles will ignore any request you make of them. Don’t fight it; there isn’t much point. In another few hours, you’ll be walking, albeit with a limp. A few more and you’ll be back to doing whatever it is you do. Killing, I assume, sending me even more men and women to care for.”

“I came and paid good coin for healing, not insults.”

“My apologies, that was uncalled for.”