Dancer's Lament: Path to Ascendancy Book 1 (52 page)

Though he was far from reassured.

The Wrath of the Goddess
.

He shivered despite the heat of the day.

*

Dorin reached the main avenue leading to the western gate and slowed, short of breath, as he saw no large fires in this district. He walked now, stepping aside from rushing wagons and panicked families dragging their bundled possessions from the devastation. Once the female mage, Nightchill, had left him alone on the rooftop he saw all the many fires starting up along the river’s shores, and his thoughts rushed to Ullara. He ran immediately for the western Gate of the Sunset.

The streets were a clamouring chaos of fleeing citizenry stampeding for the nearest gates, all convinced the city was about to be consumed in a raging firestorm. The solid press of their numbers impeded the militia as they attempted to reach the fires. City guards had to resort to beating them from their paths.

Confirming everyone’s fears, black boiling smoke hung everywhere and embers fell all about, causing spot fires that people either ran from or fought to extinguish. Through this nightmare of fearful yelling families, Dorin made his way to the caravanserai district. Here he found the buildings, far from the riverside, standing free of any major fires. At Ullara’s family barn, Dorin saw what must be her father and brothers on the roof, wielding blankets as they beat out falling embers. The caravanserai district was of course close to the gate, and so the press was intense. But through the milling crowd Dorin spotted Ullara herself. She was sitting by the roadside with a dumpy woman who must be her mother, cloth bundles of their goods about their legs. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a cloth about her eyes, and she had her arm wound through her mother’s.

He did not approach; not when she was with her family. He watched instead from the vantage point of an alley mouth while the solid press of wagons, carts and families on foot shuffled by on their way to the gate.

All through the morning the father and brothers beat at the spot fires with blankets. At times the thick smoke from conflagrations raging closer to the river came boiling over the Inner Round wall to completely obscure them. Dorin tensed then, ready to rush in, but eventually they would emerge elsewhere on the roof, coughing and wiping at their eyes. They dared not let up as their roof was made of wooden shingles and was particularly at risk.

A neighbour’s corral and barn caught fire and Dorin joined the helpers fighting that blaze. By noon the volunteers had managed to contain it, but the property itself was completely consumed. He rested with them, crouching, elbows on knees, as ladles of drinking water made the rounds. The afternoon sky above their heads glowed with leaping flickering orange and lurid red playing across the underside of the churning black smoke.

Ruefully, Dorin wondered whether the Protectress had just succeeded where Chulalorn hadn’t despite all his efforts.

The informal firefighting crew Dorin had joined was called to another blaze in a block nearby and they ran there. Someone threw a bucket of water over him as he passed and the shock of the cooling water was a rejuvenation.

This building was a large rundown tenement. Dorin didn’t give a damn for the property itself, but the fire could pass along to neighbouring buildings and become a menace to Ullara’s barn. He and a few others helped clear the rooms. Dorin burned his hands badly doing this, opening one flame-ridden passage, but he wrapped his hands in rags and kept working. Again, the building was a total loss, but they managed to contain the blaze.

At dusk he sat on his haunches alongside the empty street – all those who wished to leave had long since gone – exhausted, his clothes blackened, sweat-stained and scorched. His crew laughed and joked among themselves. A flask and a pouch of snuff made the rounds.

He sat with his blistered hands outstretched, hardly able to clench them, and cursed himself. Look at what he’d done! His working tools, his hands, and now just look at them! And for what? Some rundown shithole whose owner had probably torched it on purpose?

He shook his head at his stupidity. An old woman passing down the line stopped before him and took hold of his hands. He tried to yank them away but she had an amazingly strong grip. She started kneading in some sort of stinking animal grease. He gazed up at her, startled, as the pain quickly subsided. She wore multiple layers of skirts, stank of the river, and puffed on a long-stemmed clay pipe as she worked on his hands.

She moved on to another wounded fellow down the way. This one had had the misfortune of catching an ember in his eye. Dorin held up his hands, staring at them in disbelief. The blistering had subsided and the raging crimson burning was fading even as he watched. He knew High Denul healing when he felt it and he snapped a look to her.

She was grinning behind her pipe as she worked on the next fellow, and she offered Dorin a wink.

‘What’s your name?’ he called.

She grinned all the wider. ‘Liss it is and that is my thanks. A favour for a favour.’

He sat back and flexed his hands, still bewildered.

The crew was breaking up as fresh volunteers arrived. Dorin pushed himself to his feet and staggered off, utterly spent.

*

Once they had escorted the king to his quarters, Iko looked round and saw that the full fifty of the current bodyguard were present now, all posted within and about the complex of tents, and she judged him more than secure. She sought out Yuna, their acting commander.

Once she had her attention she bowed and spoke. ‘Perhaps a few of us could go to offer help.’

Yuna shook a negative. ‘We have our duty here.’

‘Just me, then.’

‘No. We have our job and it is here.’

‘With respect – the king will hardly be secure if the camp goes to the Abyss around him.’

Yuna scowled her irritation. She raised her voice to the gathered sisters: ‘Anyone wish to accompany Iko?’

Rei stepped forward. ‘I will go.’

Yuna snorted a breath. ‘Very well. We can certainly spare you two.’

Iko clenched her lips, saying nothing. She nodded to Rei and they pushed through the tent flap. As they jogged north to the river, Iko could not help but watch her sword-sister curiously. Finally, she asked, ‘Why did you come with me?’

‘I didn’t come with
you
. Help is needed – that is plain.’

Iko nodded, chastened. ‘Of course. You’re right. It’s just that no one else . . .’

Rei sighed. ‘Do not judge them. It is easier to remain in the pavilion. To use duty as an excuse to avoid all else.’

The stream of sufferers thickened as they neared the shore. Iko felt overwhelmed by the severity of their injuries. Where to start? How could she make any difference? Their cries tore at her heart. She knelt to one fellow sitting among the rushes, apparently catatonic, his back a great mass of seared flesh. ‘Let me help you.’ Rei, meanwhile, jogged on to another knot of wounded.

The soldier peered up at her, uncomprehending, blinking sleepily. She took his arm and raised him up. His breath hissed from him in an agony beyond words. She began walking him to the infirmary tents. ‘This way. Almost there.’ Tears ran from the man’s eyes, so great was his pain.

She came across others – some fallen, others standing dazed – and urged them to go with her. More emerged from the darkness and coiling mists like wandering ghosts. She did her best to cajole them along towards the infirmary.

These tents she found to be a mass of humanity. One could hardly take a step without having to avoid some wounded trooper, and the awful stink of burned flesh almost drove her out. She laid her charges down and sought a healer. In one of the brighter lit tents she found a woman treating a soldier who was being held down by four burly assistants. This bonecutter, a mechanic rather than a Denul healer, was using a knife to dig away cloth and armour that the ferocious heat of the sorcerous attack had fused into the flesh of the man’s neck and chest.

At Iko’s entrance the woman snapped her an annoyed glance then shouted to soldiers nearby, ‘Get her out of here!’

Iko pushed away a trooper’s arm. ‘I am here to help.’

The grey-haired woman snorted as she bent to her patient. ‘There’s a first. Earlier this night one of your sisters came charging in demanding I leave this work to attend to the king. You are not on a similar errand?’

‘No.’ Iko watched, fascinated despite her horror, because the man the healer was working on was still awake as she dug into the weeping bloody mess of his neck. He writhed in the grip of the assistants and clenched his jaws on a folded strip of leather jammed into his mouth. ‘Is there nothing you can give him?’ she asked. ‘No palliative?’

‘We are out of everything. The Denul talents are merely stopping the bleeding. This is salvage work. All we can do at this point.’ The woman glanced up, gave her an evaluative look. ‘You are quite skilled with a sharp edge, I assume?’

‘Yes.’

The woman nodded curtly. ‘Very good.’ She looked to one of her assistants. ‘Set her up on another table.’

An assistant came to her and gestured for her armour. He helped her expertly as she quickly undid her belts and ties, and she realized that he must have had a great deal of practice in getting soldiers out of their armour. He led her to a wooden table covered with fresh blood and pieces of cut cloth and leather. Next to the table stood a long tray on which lay a collection of bloodied tools, including wicked-looking saws and the sharpest, slimmest blades she had ever seen.

The woman came to her wiping her bloodied arms and hands on an equally bloody rag. ‘Name’s Haral.’

‘Iko.’

‘Okay. I’ll be sending you the donkey work. Amputations, mostly. Frees me up for the more difficult stuff. Are you all right with that?’

Iko’s mouth had suddenly gone stone dry. She nodded and managed a faint, ‘I’ll try.’

‘Very good.’ Haral nodded to the assistants at the door flap. They ducked out and returned carrying a wounded trooper. As Iko watched they slid him on to the table. His arms had been scoured to the bone by burns and Iko looked away, blinking back tears. Haral studied the patient while nodding to herself.

‘Okay. Take the right at the elbow, wrap the left.’ She returned to her own work.

Iko was still blinking back tears, trying to swallow to wet her throat. The assistants began cutting away the blackened cloth and the crisp burned leather armour from his arms. One handed her the blood-slick grip-end of one of the thin blades. ‘Cut through down to the joint,’ he murmured, ‘then use a saw.’

She nodded her readiness and they tensed their grips on his arms, neck, and legs. She took hold of the right forearm and drew the blade across the pale inner flesh of the elbow.

The man convulsed in agony, screaming, arching his back and writhing. Iko flinched away, horrified, and dropped the knife. One of the assistants retrieved it and returned it to her. She cleaned it by wiping the blade down the edge of the table. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, almost crushed with humiliation.

The assistants merely indicated their readiness and she bent to the trooper once more.

She froze, then, as she saw him staring up at her.

‘Please don’t,’ he begged her in the barest of whispers. ‘Don’t . . .’

An assistant jammed a piece of leather into the patient’s mouth, told Iko, ‘There are many waiting . . .’

She swallowed, nodding, and set to work. The man screamed and howled behind the gag. He arched his back and writhed the entire time she cut at flesh and sinew. He sagged into unconsciousness only when she set the saw to the ligaments at the joint.

No sooner was she finished with the limb than the assistants slid this fellow away and replaced him with another – this one with a shattered leg. She pointed to the knee and one of them nodded an affirmative. She set to work again.

So it went through the rest of that day and on into the dusk. Iko had stopped thinking by noon and by the evening she was a mere automaton that could only wait, numb and exhausted, to be told where to cut and what to do. At twilight the bonecutter Haral came to her and said something. Iko merely stared, uncomprehending, her ears brutalized by all the screams. The older woman had to finally pull the knife from her hand and set the surgery assistants on to her. They steered her gently to a wash station and filled a ceramic bowl with warm water before returning to their work.

She stood staring down at the water for a time before she understood, and then she dipped her hands in up to her elbows and began to rub. She rubbed and scraped and scoured harder and harder. The water became so crimson and clouded she couldn’t see her hands. When she drew them out they looked like someone else’s. She was happy with that thought, and dried them on a rag.

Only now did she realize that her long loose shirtings hung from her heavy with blood and gore. She reached over her shoulder and carefully drew the shift over her head, then tossed it on to a pile of similarly bloodied discarded clothes. She stood in a thin chemise and linen trousers, which hung blood-bespattered from the knees down. She peered about and found her gear where it had been set aside, carefully folded. She picked it all up, the whipsword on top, and headed out.

Straightening from the tent flap she had to pause, dizzy. She drew in deep breaths of the cool night air. ‘A moment!’ someone called from within, and the bonecutter Haral emerged. She held a small cup in her hand. ‘Tea.’

‘Thank you, but I don’t really drink—’

‘This isn’t your regular tea, child.’ Haral extended it to her.

Iko accepted it. ‘My thanks.’ She sipped the hot drink and blinked immediately, her eyes widening. ‘What is this?’

‘A special recipe. Gets me through days and nights of straight work. Can’t use it beyond that, though. You start seeing things.’

Iko downed it, grateful. ‘My thanks.’

Haral nodded, her arms crossed. ‘The lads say you’re a wonder with a knife. Ever thought of training for a cutter?’

Iko shook her head. ‘No. It is too . . . painful.’

The older woman nodded, acknowledging the point. ‘You get used to it.’

Iko held out the empty cup. ‘I must get back. I’ve been gone too long.’