Andrew Hartley - Act of Will

Mithos gave the responsibility for disarming the Shale forces to Raymon, who was suddenly anxious to please. Then he slipped away with the rest of the party. He was going to find Orgos’s body, and I was going with him.

Orgos lay in a dark, candlelit chamber that smelled of the wildflowers and incense on the table by his bed. Lisha had bandaged him and prepared a poultice. Some local wise woman had sung low incantations around the bed and anointed him with oils. Between them they had set his broken ribs and stopped the wound in his abdomen, but he had bled copiously, and they were unsure of what had been ruptured inside. It was unlikely that he would make it through the hour.

The bandages about his stomach were soaked through with blood, but that was somehow less disturbing than the greyish hue his whole body had developed, like a deep, inner pallor. From time to time his eyes opened slightly, but they were pale and sightless. Several times I found myself feeling desperately for his pulse, convinced that he was already dead.

The air was thick with the aroma of candle wax and petals. It was like a sanctuary or a crypt. I thought of the battle, of the pain in his face when the enemy had come at us in spite of our numbers. I thought of our flight to the citadel and his single-handed defense of the bridge, and suddenly I knew what I had to do.

Moving close to his bedside, I knelt beside him, took one of his large dark hands in mine, and began to talk.

I talked of honor and heroism. I told him what had happened after he was cut down by the raiders, how we had taken his position and held them off. I told of how the Shale soldiers had turned on their leaders and on the raiders themselves. I told him how we had thwarted the Empire, who was retreating back to Stavis even as we spoke. I told him everything and I thanked him for it. It was, after all, his victory.

I looked at his still face and his half-open eyes and, charged with emotion, I said, “So you can’t die! We need you to champion the things you fought for and you can’t do that on your back in some cemetery. You held off an army, damn it! There’s too much for you to do here. You have to come back and finish the story.”

His eyes closed for a second and their lids rippled. When he opened them again, he could see me. His mouth moved, but at first no words came out. Renthrette gave him water and he drank it, looking at me. He mouthed something that I couldn’t catch and I had to lean in close while he tried again. “Will Hawthorne. ” he gasped, “you talk too much.”

I shrieked with joy as the others clustered around the bedside. Mithos looked at him and remarked, “I should have known Will could talk you round.”

“He’s better with words than he is with a sword,” Orgos said softly.

“Tough to imagine,” I said.

“Now that we have our swordsman back,” said Lisha, “Will is welcome to stay our wordsman.”

Words, like swords, have a way of getting people in and out of trouble. Morality was never my strong point, but I suddenly saw the attraction of being in the right and knowing it. Orgos always had, but for once this knowledge hadn’t been enough and he had to be reminded. In this, I suppose, we were similar after all. A writer like myself doesn’t pen plays just for the hell of it. There always has to be a sense that his audience, for the briefest moment and in some infinitesimal degree, are changed by what they hear onstage. It’s the same for swordsmen: When the opposite of your values rides at you hacking and spearing, grinning through their bronze helms, you need a little more than principle to keep your hopes for humanity alive. Orgos had needed to see victory more than ever before. He needed to know he could change the world.

I suppose there is an arrogance there, but I could relate to it. The fighter and the writer struggle with the balance of absolute omnipotence and total impotence that are intrinsic to their media. It’s that balance that keeps them on their toes. Yes, Orgos and I were more alike than I had ever suspected.

Orgos rose from his bed three days after the battle and within another week was recovered enough to walk around the citadel walls by himself. The bandages stayed on. During his recovery, Maia often came to sit beside him and hold his huge hands in hers. Maybe that did some good. He had become to her, and many of her friends and relatives, something of a hero-and by that I mean a real hero, not the actor I had been. I didn’t resent this. It seemed only right and proper that the latest act of heroism should banish all previous acts from the audience’s mind. I had been a hero because they had needed to see me as one. He was the genuine article.

Orgos and I spent a lot of time together and I noted in him a quietness that had been less evident before. It was a long time before I saw him polish and sharpen his swords again, and when he did, it was with a caution that verged on mistrust. When he grew sad or talked of the death and injury he had seen over the years, I would remind him of the battle on the bridge. Eventually the weariness and resignation left him and he grinned at me and said I’d been stupid to take them on by myself. Like he hadn’t, right?

We had gotten lucky. It doesn’t usually work like this, as we well knew, but for the moment, everything was on our side. We spent a few anxious days watching Greycoast’s western border but the Empire never came back. I guess there were too many troops still intact for them to risk achieving by force what they had hoped to win by guile. We sat at the head table of a banquet of roast beef loins and exotic game birds and laughed with relief. We were cheered in the streets and people bought us drinks wherever we went. Women hung about me with glazed eyes. Gorgeous women. I was the conquering hero (one of them, anyway), and everyone wanted to know me. Funnily enough, I didn’t want the attention so much, now that I had it. I spent a lot of time with the other party members and Renthrette smiled knowingly at both my offenses and my triumphs.

“I knew she’d appreciate me in the end,” I lied.

“I don’t know why I believe a word you say,” Orgos laughed.

Verneytha and Greycoast divided Shale between them. The Adsine keep and the Razor’s fortified home became infantry forts that kept a watchful eye on the roads and borders. It took several weeks to divide up the goods and treasure from Caspian Joseph’s warehouse, and the roads were continually dotted with heavy wagons of silks, silver, iron, and so on, all under cavalry escort en route to Ironwall. Mithos and Lisha used the gratitude of the governor of Verneytha and duke of Greycoast to force their hands a little, and much of the revenue from the stolen goods was kept in a fund for retraining and housing the survivors from Shale and the villages hit hardest by the attacks. Shale’s debts would be forgiven and its people would learn new skills, fitting comfortably into Greycoast’s and Verneytha’s economic success stories. That was the plan, at least. We had played our part and now we could only hope.

We never found out exactly who knew what within the government of Shale. There had been no vampire lord, no intrinsically evil force behind them, and I found myself in some sympathy with the land that had resorted to such desperate and unconscionable methods to get back on comparable economic footing with its rich and self-interested neighbors. That was, of course, the wrong way to think about it. Arlest and his Empire-supported raiders were the bad guys and had needed to be destroyed. It would have been easier if they had merely wanted to enslave the world, or if the victors had been a little more appealing. But Shale had lost and, in any future discussion of the matter, its people would turn into demons whether they had been so before or not. Alas, the victors write more than history books.