Gnawing hunger hit first, followed swiftly by thirst and low, ubiquitous ache. Talia groaned, opened her eyes, and attempted to lever herself upright. Her body was stiff, constrained by a slew of tightly wrapped bandages.
Surprisingly, the pain was tolerable, mild even.
She’d certainly expected more than the sore tenderness she was currently experiencing. Setting the puzzling sensations aside for the moment, Talia took stock of her injuries as best she could through the gauze. Her chest was bandaged in fresh cloth, with no indication of any bleeding or infection, nothing more than the itchy sting of a healing cut. The right side of her face reported a similar stinging from just below her eye down to her jaw. She must have missed the injuries in her shock down in the Maw. Through the numbness of analgesics, the cuts felt deep.
I wonder if they’ll scar.
Talia wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the idea, so put it aside to ponder later. Her wrappings smelled of pungent herbs and rock honey, a thick gooey grey substance that smelled like quartz dust tasted. The reasons why she knew what quartz dust tasted like involved strong spirits, a rock tumbler, cruel teenagers and a dare.
Her stomach gurgled plaintively, causing her head to pound in sympathy. Thankfully, Orvall seemed to have bathed her, or she’d have ‘smelling like literal shit’ to add to the list of uncomfortable sensations.
Talia’s thirst outweighed her discomfort and, not seeing any water in sight, she gingerly eased herself off the bed. She was in the room Orvall used to treat the gravely ill, or those needing…relief, in their final hours. Probably more due to the hassle of carrying her up the stairs to her room than anything else.
The space was part healer’s workshop, part bedroom, divided by a paper-thin curtain of stretched leather, beyond which she could spot neatly organized shelves loaded with all manner of plants, roots, labelled jars, and an assortment of tools. In the corner, opposite the bed, sat a worn leather futon, crammed in snugly by the door, for family and loved ones of ailing patients. Currently, it held her sleeping adoptive father, snoring softly, spectacles askew on his bulbous nose and white braids in disarray.
Talia limped quietly around her father’s somnolent form, easing herself past the notoriously creaky door, down the hall and into the kitchen, beelining for the pantry as fast as her bum leg allowed. The cupboard was slightly less full than usual. Which, in Orvall’s view, generally meant that nothing fell out when it was opened.
Nonetheless, every shelf held sustenance of some form or another. Rye flour, a bag of cave oats, a variety of dried and fresh mushrooms, some sacks of jerky and rounds of orvak cheese. Peas, beans and herbs of all shapes, smells, and sizes were stuffed wherever they would fit.
Glancing leerily at the pots hanging about the metal stove, the injured young woman forwent anything requiring preparation. Instead, she snatched a handful of jerky strips and a stone mug, which she filled and drained in rapid succession in between bites of the salty meat, standing at the sink, moaning in satiation.
Talia was chewing on the last bit of jerky, eyeing up a wheel of mouldy cheese speculatively when Orvall stumbled into the room in a panic, spectacles dangling from their strap around his neck, warhammer in hand.
“Ye Old Gods, lass, ye nearly scared the life outta me!” he exclaimed.
Talia froze mid-chew, mouth ajar. She flinched as Orvall dropped his hammer beside the door frame with a heaving sigh, rattling shelves and their contents—the hammer that is, not the sigh. An undecipherable expression flitted across his wizened face as he registered her involuntary movement. Swiftly as his short legs could take him, Orvall crossed the few metres between them, sweeping her into a gentle hug. Talia bent slightly to accept it.
“Ye had me worried there for a moment, poppet,” the old dwarf muttered, “ye dinnae look so good for a while. Patchin’ you up were real touch’n’go, it were. Ah’ had to call in a favour from Durvin the old coot, needed some—”
“I’m alright, Orvall. I feel much better, a little sore is all. I’m just glad to be home.”
Talia’s father pulled back from their embrace, looking up at her incredulously. He pulled her this way and that, pulling down her face to look into her eyes, the back of her throat, and even her ears.
“Just a little sore?!? Daughter ‘o’ mine ye were out for nearly a week! When ye fell into me lap, ye were covered in shite and looked like ye had one foot in the grave, with the next halfway there!” He scoffed, hustling her over to one of the four stone stools placed around the low table and pulling at her splinted left leg.
“ ‘Alright’, she says,” he muttered. “Ye sprained yer knee so bad it were twice the size of me own head and getting bigger! The next day ye started coughing somethin’ fierce, and ‘ad fever ter light a forge with.”
Talia lowered her gaze sheepishly and shrugged. Orvall scowled at her. He unstrapped the splint with a healer’s touch, pulling her knee slowly through a range of motion, shaking his head in bewilderment when she reported only mild tenderness.
“That’s…that’s impossible, poppet. In all my days I never—” The old dwarf shook his head. He was momentarily at a loss for words, the healer in him at odds with the relieved parent.
“What matters is tha’ yer alright,” he finally said, before peering at her suspiciously, “ye wouldn’a be daft enough to be tellin’ me tales wouldja’ poppet?”
Talia laughed, pushing her father away and standing up with a wince. She gave a tentative stretch, pulling her body taught, bones cracking and popping, and released a sigh of relief.
If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
“I’m fine, you worrywart, just really sore is all. It must’ve looked worse than it actually was,” she said.
Her words brought to mind the ordeal she’d gone through before getting home, causing a complicated mix of emotions to swirl up in her throat. Gratitude won out first.
Her expression sobered. “Orvall…I guess…er- thanks,” she said, lamely.
The dwarf’s gaze softened. His hands fretted about his braids, and Talia thought she saw his eyes tear up before the gruff dwarf wiped at his face and waved a dismissive hand.
“Bah, don’t be daft, girl. What kind of healer would I be if I couldna’ heal me own daughter, eh?”
He turned away, dragging a step stool from under some shelves and beginning to rummage through the pantry. He looked back at her and winked from under his bushy eyebrows.
“Now sit, sit, I’ll make us some proper food ter fill yer belly,” he paused “and when yer good and ready, ye can tell me how in all the hells ye ended up half-dead at my door.”
Talia stilled. Though his words concealed it, Orvall sounded angry. Her father was never angry, yet, in that moment, the ice in his tone could have cut glass. The atmosphere in the room grew frigid all at once. Talia’s thoughts ricocheted off the sides of her head, bouncing about like the rocks in a tunnel after a cave-in. The blur of memories encroached on her mind insidiously, tainted with dread, misplaced guilt, and pain. Not trusting herself to speak, Talia nodded mutely. Her father’s frown only deepened.
----------------------------------------
They ate Orvall’s hearty, exquisitely seasoned stew in silence. One of the things she appreciated most about her father—aside from his marvellous cooking—was his respect for silence, his patience in allowing her to live in her head.
As a child, after her parent’s…accident, it had been months before she’d spoken a word aloud, and when she finally had, the gruff old dwarf had acted as if nothing had changed, taking it in stride. She would always be grateful for that. It had allowed her to work through her grief in her own way, as children were wont to do, safe in the knowledge that he was there to lean on if she ever needed a sturdy shoulder or friendly ear.
Tonight, the silence served to give her time to order her thoughts. To parse through the memories and detach them from the intense emotion that they accompanied.
When their spoons clinked the bottom of their bowls, the white-bearded dwarf set their empty dishes in the sink, and quietly tamped his bone pipe, lighting it with a click from an old arcano-tech trinket that seemingly never ran out of mana, not in all the years Talia had seen him use it. He puffed soft clouds of smoke towards the ceiling, warm, brown eyes pensive.
Waiting.
Talia sat up from her hunched pose, marshalling her will and setting the story straight in her mind. She would hide nothing, but the story had to be told exactingly. Her father may be patient, but he was a devil for the details.
“It all started when I stayed late at the workshop. Reggie had brought in a batch of prototype steamboxes, and I… lost track of time. By the time I realized how late it was, two hours had passed…”
Orvall nodded for her to continue, puffing at his pipe.
So, taking a deep breath, she did.
She told him about taking a shortcut through the low market, through Bleeder territory, hoping to shave time by using the lifts. She told him about the…thugs who had accosted her and then cornered her in the alley. Her father’s complexion paled momentarily, before shifting to a ruddy hue. His voice was rough as he interrupted.
“If ye’d prefer, I could have Meriam here to talk with ye—if it’d make ye more comfortable, I mean. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, kind as she is,” he started, but Talia was already shaking her head.
“No, it’s fine. Maybe if things had happened differently—then…no, I’m fine,” she finished.
Orvall released a breath, leaving his anger for later, in the same way he had taught her to, and took a drag from his pipe before waving her on.
“If they didna…sorry, go ahead.”
Talia hesitated.
“I think…” she swallowed; her voice cracked “I think I killed them.”
The dwarf’s eyebrows rose up into his bushy hair. Confusion and understanding warred in his eyes. He placed a hand on hers, setting down his pipe. His usual cool-headedness fled once more, as it seemed to be doing often tonight.
“Now you listen here, poppet, ye oughta’ feel no guilt bout’ none ‘o’ that nasty business. What those scum did, cornerin’ a young lass in an alley, accostin’ ‘er like that. No, don’t shake yer head Talia I’m serious,” he locked his gaze with hers, “Takin’ a life ain’t ever easy, shouldn’t ever be. But those men had it comin’, ya hear? From the looks of it, ye fought hard, fought fer yer very life. You let that guilt go, alright poppet? Ye don’t deserve it.”
Talia shook her head vigorously, wrestling rising dread back into the box where she had stuffed it.
“No, you don’t get it,” she whispered, “I killed them with magic. I’m a mage, Orvall.”
It took him a moment to register what she’d said. When it sank in, her father’s hand went limp in hers and his body slumped on his stool. Yet, in his eyes, Talia saw no fear, no shock or surprise. Only resignation, and sorrow.
“Ah. I’ve made an arse of meself, jumping to conclusions in anger like some young fool. Tell me the whole story then, go on. I won’t interrupt,” he said.
The young woman did, the words coming out in a rush, spilling from her lips like mushroom ale from a cracked cask.
Her flight through the Low Quarter and into The Warrens. The mage-hunters. Falling into the Maw. Her miracullous survival. The gruelling trek back home. The fear, the adrenaline, the powerlessness. When the story ended, silent tears streamed down her face, splotching down onto the polished stone of the kitchen table in warbling beads.
“Orvall…what do I do?” she asked, her voice cracking.
The old dwarf sighed and put out his pipe with a thick finger. He stood and rounded the table, wrapping her in his gnarled arms, beard braids tickling at her neck. Talia leaned back into him, fighting back the sob in her chest.
Gushing like a damned broken pipe lately! Enough already, get a hold of yourself Tals!
When she had stuffed her dread back into its cage and steadied herself, Orvall stood back.
“Right now, ye get some rest while I send out some feelers. Nothin’ to be done tonight but sleep for you. Ye may not be feeling it, but yer still recoverin’.”
Talia nodded, feeling drained.
“Git’ on then poppet, up ye get. We can discuss our next steps tomorrow.”
Orvall sounded resolute, cogs turning in his head, working through the problem already. Talia allowed a small seed of hope to bloom in her heart.
He gave her a gentle push towards the stairs, a reassuring smile on his bearded face.
That night, Talia slept like a stone, curled up under the thick blanket that smelt so much of home, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. Oblivion held her tightly—not that she struggled against it.