Eight

The guardhouse was a simple, single-story building made of crudely plained wood and mud combined with straw to seal the gaps between them. A couple of cots, a hastily mended table, and four rickety chairs occupied the only room, oil lamps burning in hazy globes providing a warm, orange glow.

Marcus sat on one of those chairs, some questionable water inside a wooden mug sitting on the table in front of him. The overweight guard sat across from him, his arms folded across his chest and resting on his protruding belly. Only the sound of Jorel’s ragged breathing coming from one of the cots permeated the silence that had settled over the room.

They had been sitting like this for some time now while they waited for the ‘healer’ the other guard, Brechton, had run off to fetch. He didn’t know how far away this healer was and, by the few hours that had already passed, assumed it was quite far.

The sound of unhurried footsteps bled through the thin wooden door, sending a wave of relief coursing through Marcus’ body. The door creaked open on neglected hinges, announcing the arrival of a grizzled old man dressed in a long, flowing purple robe. His hair was thin and grey, almost white, and his face was etched with deep wrinkles that betrayed his advanced age. He walked through the threshold with a slight hunch but still managed to hold himself in a dignified manner that demanded respect from all of those present.

The healer, assumedly, scanned the room with tired eyes that held a bit of irritation underneath their dull blue irises. “That is the patient, I assume.”

His words were more of a statement than a question, and his languid steps carried him across the room to where Jorel lay, barely breathing. Marcus started to speak, wanting to explain what had happened. He had already told everything to the guards, but he didn’t mind explaining things one more time. But as the healer placed his hand on Jorel’s chest, Marcus’ word caught in his throat.

He felt the warmth before he saw the light. A barely perceptible white light emitted from the healer’s palm, flowing out of it and immediately sinking down into Jorel’s body. After a few moments that dragged on for hours, the healer nodded his head and turned around to face Marcus and the guard he had stood from his chair.

“I can heal him…”

“That’s great!” Marcus interrupted. “Thank you so much.”

The healer glared up at Marcus, his eyes narrowing in a wrinkly scowl that told Marcus of his foul mood. “Do not interrupt me again, you filthy beast. Do you understand?!” He didn’t wait for Marcus to answer before continuing, the scowl still firmly on his face. “I can heal him, but I require payment beforehand. Who will reimburse me for this task and for the inconvenience of the odd hour?”

Marcus’ stomach sank. He should have figured any treatment would have cost at least something, and he didn’t have anything on him. Both of their packs were far away in the woods, along with the few gold coins he had found at the bottom of the krillgor’s nest.

“How much?” Marcus hedged, knowing that whatever the answer was, he couldn’t afford it.

“Twenty gold crowns…” The old healer stated, still glaring at Marcus as he stood there. “Are you his servant? Can he afford my services? If not, I will be on my way.”

Marcus scowled right back at the pompous old man, but no matter how angry he made him, he knew there was nothing he could do. At least back on earth, they would make sure you wouldn’t die before asking for an arm and a leg, but it looked like in this world, healthcare was even worse.

“Are you as stupid as you are big?” The old man snarled, already moving towards the door on his way out. “Such a waste of my time. I knew I should not have answered the door……”

“Wait!” Marcus called out, holding the walnut-sized mana stone out in the palm of his hand. “Would you do it for this?”

Both the guard and the old healer turned to look at what was in his hand, but while the guard’s brows furled in unfamiliarity, the healer’s shot up almost past his receding hairline. Jorel had told him that the small mana stones were worth several silver crowns and was hoping that this larger one was worth something to the unpleasant man.

“Where did you get that?” The healer asked, his soft footsteps bringing him right next to Marcus’ outstretched hand. “What creature did that come from?”

“The same monster that did that to him,” Marcus said, using his other hand to point to Jorel. “Is this enough to help him?”

Reaching out, the healer snatched up the large mana stone, holding it to a sparkling eye. He hummed to himself, nodding his head as he turned it over in his arthritic fingers. It was like looking at a child with a brand-new toy, but just as quickly as his excitement showed through his grumpy exterior, the healer immediately squashed it.

“It is almost completely drained of its mana…” The healer mused, “I was told this happened recently?” The old healer asked, directing the question to the guard standing in the room with them.

“That is what we were told.” He answered, nodding his head along with his extra chin. “The slave brought him to the gate not too long ago.”

Marcus didn’t really appreciate being ignored all of a sudden, but he knew better than to make an issue of it. The most important thing right now was that Jorel receive some help, and the only person capable of doing that was the angry old man in front of him.

The old man nodded his head again before shrugging his shoulders. “Well, no matter. This will be enough…” He said before hastily pocketing the mana-stone. “Just barely, though, hardly worth the trouble, really.”

As he grumbled to himself about all of the injustices of waking up at such an ungodly hour, the old healer shuffled over to the half-elf lying on the canvas cot. Once again, he placed his gnarled hand over Jorel’s chest, the pads of his fingers barely grazing his pallid skin. Heat poured off of the old man, filling the room with a stifling atmosphere that reminded Marcus of the hottest summer days, but as he looked at the guards standing next to him, it seemed as if he was the only one who felt any difference whatsoever.

The heat continued to build, and the healing light of the spell he was casting shone with a brightness that caused the two men watching to avert their eyes. Suddenly, with an audible pop , the light was absorbed into Jorel’s broken body. Marcus’ eyelids fluttered rapidly as his vision readjusted to the dim glow given off by the oil lamp, the much softer light illuminating a miracle happening right before his eyes.

The discolored flesh hanging off of Jorel’s mangled leg regained a much healthier color before squirming around like maggots as the strips of now healthy skin knitted themselves back together. Marcus had been sure that Jorel’s leg wouldn’t have been salvageable; the entire limb had turned a deep purple, and a fetid smell had started to waft from the open wound. Marcus desperately wanted to learn magic after seeing such a sight.

Once the leg had healed sufficiently, the miracle worker undone the ties holding the tourniquets in place, letting blood flow back into the limb. At the same time, Jorel’s twisted arm cracked back into place, the sound somehow being worse than when it had been broken the first time. With his leg made whole and his arm repaired, Marcus thought that the healing was complete, but from the sweat beading on the old man’s brow and the grunts of exertion coming from deep inside his chest, he knew that it was anything but.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The color that had long ago drained from Jorel’s face returned, his fair complexion looking less like a corpse and more like a living being. Now done with his incantation, the old healer cut off the flow of mana, and the heat that accompanied it faded away. His shoulders visibly sagged as he brought a handkerchief out from his chest pocket, and he let out a tired sigh as he used it to dab at his forehead.

“He will live.” The healer said as he returned the sweaty cloth to his hidden pocket. “And I am done here.”

“When will he wake up?” Marcus asked before the healer could slip away.

Swinging his head toward him, the old man’s scowl only deepened, but he managed not to snap at him for interrupting like the first time. Marcus had to wonder if that mana stone did manage to lighten his mood somewhat. “Could be five minutes, could be next week. Either way, it is no longer my problem. He has healed physically; any other issue is not my concern.”

With those snide words, he hurried out of the little guard shack, and back onto his waiting carriage that promptly took off with a crack of the driver’s whip.

Marcus shook his head, powerless to do anything about the mage’s sour attitude. “What now?”

The portly guard sat back down at the uneven table, his dirty boots perched on the edge. “He can’t stay here. You heard the mage; it could be a week until he wakes up.”

“Then where am I supposed to take him? Is there any place that will take care of him until then? A hospital, maybe?” Marcus didn’t really know what to do. He couldn’t look after Jorel; he had to return to Franklin soon and doubted he would accept the injured man as Marcus’ trophy.

“Look,” the guard said as he started to pick his teeth. “I don’t care where you take him. Just as long as it is not here. Now, I’m done talking to you. You should be grateful for the help you’ve already received and get out of here before I decide to throw you into a cell. I’m sure that’ll make your master as pleased as punch…”

Swallowing his rising anger and the slave seal using his violent thoughts as fuel to plague him with agony, Marcus stomped over to where Jorel still lay unmoving. Seeing his healed body did much to assuage his ire, and he could only be thankful he had received the help he did when he did. Scooping him up in his arms, Marcus made his way outside, pointedly ignoring the fat guard that had moved on from his teeth and onto his ears.

It was still dark out, and the crescent moon and stars were hidden behind a thick layer of low-hanging clouds. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide what to do. He wondered whether Jorel might have any family that could look after him, but then he remembered that he had told him that his mother had been a slave, ruling that option out completely.

He then thought of any temples or nunneries that might be willing to take him in but then dismissed that idea just as quickly. If there were places like that that existed, then it would have made sense for the guard to have gone to one of them for help, not the bad-tempered mage that came to the little guard shack.

In reality, he only had one choice.

Shifting Jorel’s limp body and his warmhammer within his arms, Marcus looked out across the rooftops into the darkness of the night sky. He didn’t know exactly where he was but was sure someone would be willing to give him directions to the gate he had left from when being led out of the city. From there, it would be easy for him to find Franklin and the punishment that surely awaited him.

Dawn had just broken as Marcus approached the barracks, squatting in the middle of the woods. He had been much further from the gate he recognized than he had originally thought, and it had taken him several hours to find his way here. Jorel was still unconscious, and even though he looked completely healthy, Marcus couldn’t help but think that something was still seriously wrong with him.

Marcus kicked at the door with his bare foot, the entire thing rattling in its frame. He knew that Franklin was awake; he had always made sure they were all up before first light, so he had no fear of waking the always stoic man.

It only took a few moments for the door to swing open, allowing the warm air from the burning hearth to envelop his entire body. Franklin hadn’t answered the door; it was one of the ever-silent attendants who accompanied them during their daily training sessions. Without a word, Marcus pushed his way inside, going directly to one of the empty cots before gently placing Jorel on the canvas stretched across the wooden poles.

“You’re early.” A familiar voice sounded out from behind him. “A few days yet remain for your task.”

Marcus turned around to see Franklin standing there, his full plate armor polished to a mirror sheen. Marcus didn’t think he ever took it off, even to relieve himself.

“And you brought us a guest as well…” Franklin added, his eyes drifting down to the cot but his expression unchanging as they did so. “I know that I didn’t specify what variety of trophies I wanted, but I still would have thought your intelligence was greater than this.”

Marcus scrunched up his face at the blatant insult but kept his voice calm as he replied. “He’s injured and just needs someone to look after him.”

“And you will do this?” Franklin asked, “You were supposed to return with something to prove your worth, but yet you come back with nothing, not even the boots on your feet.”

Marcus took a moment to study the man’s face but was still unable to read any emotions whatsoever. Throughout the few weeks he had known the man, the same placid look remained on his face, not a trace of anger or a hint of happiness. The only time he had seen anything other than complete neutrality was when he had smirked at him when enjoying an entire table filled with food, all by himself.

“He saved my life, so of course I will,” Marcus said defiantly, having decided to take whatever punishment was in store for him rather than abandon his friend.

“No, you won’t,” Franklin stated plainly before motioning to the two attendants hovering nearby. They both quickly nodded their heads before moving towards the cot Jorel rested on.

“Hold on a minute…” Marcus said, taking a step forward, aiming to intercept the two much smaller men.

“Stay right there,” Franklin ordered, his voice booming inside the large room. Marcus’ muscles instantly seized, the seal igniting as he actively fought against the order given to him. “He is not your responsibility; your responsibility is to me. Do you understand?”

Marcus didn’t move. He couldn’t. He could only stand there and watch as the two attendants picked up the cot and started carrying Jorel away. “Where are you taking him?”

He didn’t know where they were going to take him, but at that moment, he could only think about the other slaves that had been taken away during his hellish training and their unknown fates.

“Like I said, he is no longer your responsibility. He will be taken care of appropriately while you will be punished for your failure.” Franklin answered in a flat tone like he was simply speaking of the weather. “Take him away.”

With another nod of their heads and a flurry of hurried steps, the two attendants wove through the dimly lit barracks with Jorel between them and vanished behind a closed door. Marcus and the other slaves hadn’t been allowed to see what was behind this particular door located at the back of the building. They had always assumed that was where Franklin and his two helpers lived but had no way of knowing for certain.

Marcus watched as the door closed behind them, the click of the lock falling into place punctuating the end of his temporary freedom. He had done everything he could for his new friend, and now his fate was out of his hands. He could only hope that Franklin spoke the truth that Jorel was going to be looked after and that his punishment wouldn’t be too severe.

Marcus stopped actively fighting against his seal, the persistent searing agony slowly receding as he relaxed his body. “You promise he’ll be alright?”

“I don’t promise anything,” Franklin admitted as he walked toward the door that led to the sandy courtyard. “Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it. It’s time to face the consequences of your actions.”