Darius Chapter 31

They didn’t make it far before night settled in and the horses refused to traverse the uneven hills. They had followed the stream for a kilometer or so, and Heldrus had uprooted a small collection of edible roots and plants on their slow descent, hoping to not have a re-run of earlier. The flora of the western Continent was quite different to the drier earth in the East, but some classics remained, like the hardy tubers such as yams and wild radishes. Even flowers like dandelions could make a passable tea. He had also noticed a few strange plants spread out on a small bench in the young couple’s hut, and he had picked a few plants with the same looking stem and leaf structure.

Hopefully they weren’t just for making paints.

Peskimir tried submersing her hand in the stream, hoping to relieve some of the heat. Unfortunately, the pain only seemed to increase, like the ball of fire in her palm was protesting. She yanked her arm out and dunked her head in instead, shouting bubbles into the rushing water. Heldrus could only watch and keep an eye on her condition. He didn’t like the look of the charred skin.

Running on such a small amount of food and submitting themselves to the freezing temperatures of the Tralmont Mountains left them both entirely drained, and before the sun had fully set, both were asleep. Small animals scampered by throughout the night, sniffing at the saddlebags cast down near the stream. An especially curious mammal pawed at the exposed interior of Heldrus’s cloak, but a stray groan scared it away and sent it running ramshod down the hill.

In the morning, the mist had cleared.

When Heldrus had been told that the western peoples were more nomadic than in the East, he had pictured horse-skin tents, mud huts and stick weapons. What he didn’t expect was the village-on-wheels he saw before him. Whether it was there last night wasn’t clear. He beat the clods of dirt out of his cloak and watched the entire village move before his eyes.

“Peskimir, wake up! Look at that, it’s frickin moving.”

A bedraggled head emerged from her bedroll. She dragged out her limp arm and shook it, waving the unfeeling crimson hand at Heldrus. She had not improved overnight.

“Heldrus, that sword is starting to look really good.”

Her eyes were sunken in their sockets and the bags underneath deepened to the bridge of her nose. Sleeping seemed to have done more harm than good. Heldrus moved forward to help her get up, but she yelled out.

“Back! You can’t touch me, get the fuck away. I’ve already infected Bingo, look!”

Sure enough, Bingo was lying down, attempting to lick a reddened spot high up on his shoulder. Peskimir must have touched him when leading him or taking off his reins. Heldrus picked up the reins, shaking them at the horse. Bingo was able to get to his feet, but he favored his front-right leg and limped. Peskimir chastised him again, but she had already lost some energy from her earlier outburst.

“Drop the reins too, it might transmit through more than just living things. Please.”

He did as he was told and watched anxiously as Peskimir heaved herself out of her bedroll and saddled up Bingo. She scooped up some water and drank, but splashing a couple handfuls on her face seemed to pain her.

They had to get help fast. Heldrus strapped on his saddlebag and got on his horse. He debated leaving Peskimir and going ahead, but he knew she’d get antsy and come after him anyway, so he led down the hill, picking out the route with the least humps and bumps. The crawling village was moving away from them, but the horses had no issue closing the gap once they were out on the open plains. The ground slipped by in a blur of dark ochre soil and patchy grass until they reached the fringes of the village. Four guards stood about thirty meters from the gates, moving forward every few minutes once the village had moved a sufficient distance. It wasn’t clear what was propelling the monolith, but it looked like there were dozens of horses tethered to the outer edges, with their riders steering. It was an awesome sight. One of the guards drew his weapon and waved it at Heldrus as he approached. He wore brown pants a similar color to the soil, nothing but a sash on his chest, and his hair was tied back in a long plait.

“Steady there, mate! What’s yer name?”

“Heldrus Avongold. I’m from Erinstone.”

“Phewww, you’re far from home!”

Heldrus tried to keep his answers short. He didn’t have time to go on a tangent when Peskimir’s life was on the line. She was steadily making her way towards Heldrus, but she swayed in the saddle. One of the guards went to stop her but jumped back when he saw her arm. They recognized the infection.

“My friend here needs help. She touched a purply-red flower with a little bulb in the middle, and now it’s burning her up. The people up the hill said we’d have to chop off the arm, but it spread past her shoulder overnight. Is there someone in the village who can help?”

The guards looked at each other and shrugged.

“There’re healers in the village, sure, but they might not know what to do. In the West, we’re taught from the day we can walk that you don’t touch ‘em. Hell, the whole of the Tralmont Mountains is cursed, says some folk. But sure, come in. Watch out for the walkways, they move left and right a bit.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He wasn’t lying. They trotted through the gate and Heldrus had to immediately correct his horse so that they didn’t collide with a swinging walkway. The villagers wandered around like sailors on a boat, pitching and bending with the movement of the village. Heldrus felt seasick – landsick? – just watching them move. He would stick to the grass as much as possible.

The village had no rhyme or reason to its layout. It was put together like a child might put together a thousand-piece puzzle, mismatched pieces jammed onto each other at awkward, jagged angles. Finding a healer in this mess would be like finding a comb in the soldier’s barracks – he should’ve asked the guards. He took a random path that led them past a bakery, a tannery and a taxidermist, but no healer.

Eventually, he hailed down a local.

“Excuse me, sorry, could you point me in the right direction for a healer? My friend here is hurt.”

The woman he asked pointed him further along the street, swinging her elbow in a ‘go left’ motion, then she looked at Peskimir and noticed the blight on her skin. A horrified look crossed her face and she backed away, pointing to Peskimir, then back the way they’d come. It seemed they weren’t welcome.

They hurried along and the sense of urgency grew as more locals caught sight of Peskimir. Some ran, whilst others gripped weapons or tools and stepped towards them, as though they were wild animals to be frightened off. They could do with this healer showing up now.

Then, as if the gods were listening, a blue topped building came into view ahead of them. A man on a stretcher was being carried in by two people wearing baggy green clothes. Heldrus galloped to the entrance and yelled inside.

“Please! My friend is infected with something! She needs your help.”

A man came out and took one look at Peskimir, then hurried inside. Heldrus thought they’d been rejected, when the man crashed through the curtains with an assistant and a stretcher between them. He wore a hat like a beekeeper over his face and thick gloves encased his hands. He lay the stretcher on the swaying walkway and hopped down, going to Peskimir. At first, she twisted away from him, but gave in once she saw his protective gear. She tried to dismount, but merely flopped into the waiting arms of the healer and his assistant. They carted her to the stretcher and placed her down.

Heldrus followed them inside, marveling at the space. From the outside, it looked like a noodle shop – similar in size to the popular food stalls in Erinstone. Two curtains, attached to three wooden panels, protected the occupants from the light outside. The panels could be moved in any direction to let a certain amount of light hit any given part of the room. Heldrus couldn’t believe how quiet it was.

No one really talks here. The guard out the front was the only one. Even that woman I asked for directions just pointed.

He’d already lost Peskimir. She’d been whisked to a room in the back, but he couldn’t see where they’d taken her after that. For all he knew, they might’ve dropped her under the village and let whatever mechanism carried the place crush her. It might’ve been the only cure to the infection.

The man that carted her in came back, alleviating Heldrus from his imagination. He had a painted clay ball with him that looked exactly like the bulb she had touched. He held it out for Heldrus’s approval and raised his free hand, closing his fist except for his index finger which he curled into a ‘?’ position. The message was clear.

“Yes. Yes, she touched one. Held it in these two fingers,” he pointed at his thumb and index, “for about thirty seconds, before I stabbed it and it popped. Will she be alright?”

The man looked annoyed that Heldrus had to speak. He made a fist, then, keeping his other hand flat, hit his fist like a knife slicing into a loaf of bread. He pretended to hold the two imaginary objects in his hand. Equal weight.

Fifty-fifty chance. Damn.

He tried his best to sign back his response. He pointed at himself and then raised both arms.

What can I do?

The healer shook his head and simply pointed at a sundial through a gap in the curtains.

Wait.

Heldrus wasn’t good at waiting. He went back outside the Healing House and saw his and Peskimir’s horses, fifty meters from where they’d left them. He rushed over and grabbed Bingo’s reins, careful not to touch the spreading infection on his shoulder. He wondered if there was a healer for horses somewhere in this place. He mounted his own horse, checking it for the red spots. There had to be some kind of stable that was up off the ground, or he’d be moving the horses all day. He rode through the maze, unsure if he’d be able to find the Healing House now that he’d left.

Once again, trial and error triumphed, and he found an area where horses could step up into a stable-like enclosure. Seeing the sheer number of horses already sheltered there brought back his curiosity on how the village moved, but he was pretty sure it would be difficult to convey in sign language.

Fine. Keep your secrets.

He wandered through the rest of the village – at least he thought he did, he may have been doing circles – and after finding nothing of interest, returned to the Healing House. Its blue banners were easy to spot once Heldrus knew what he was looking for. A servant boy brought him a cup of tea, and later, a nurse brought a frugal meal out to where he was sitting against the wall. Eating food that wasn’t clad with bits of dirt was a godsend, and though it was a simple meal, it tasted better than anything he’d eaten in Erinstone.

Again, he felt his eyes getting heavy despite the early hour. He lay down for a nap on a cane mat unrolled near the door, assuming it wasn’t there for some infected or broken villager. He blinked, and when he awoke it was dark.

So much for fifteen minutes.

He lay on the mat, looking up at the ceiling, which his vision couldn’t quite reach. Something had woken him, but he wasn’t sure what. Then he heard a scratching sound, like a bird in a cage. It came from the backroom where Peskimir had been taken.

He got to his feet, woozy from resting. The scratching continued, but as he came closer, it sounded more vicious. The scratching turned to tearing, and chunks of wood flew out into the front room, landing on some unlucky patients. Heldrus reached for his sword, but he was unarmed – a bad habit he’d picked up after too much time in the saddle. He pushed open the remnants of the door and saw the damage. The walls were covered with scratch marks and splotches of blood. Medical instruments, herbs and poultices all lay strewn about the room in a state of disrepair.

In the middle of the room, stood Peskimir.

But it wasn’t Peskimir. Her body was half consumed by the red scales, and most of what remained was charcoal grey and dead. She was only human from her nose and up. Her eyes were wide with shock and desperation, but the infection had clearly reached her brain.

She screeched, and lunged.