Marked (14 page)

For a moment, they watched the battle going on at the other end of the clearing. Two of the defenders in heavy armor—the ones who had been on the outside of the semicircle—had already fallen. The one in the middle was retreating and was also badly wounded. There were only four left standing and they would not be able to hold out much longer against the relentless onslaught.

“Let’s get out of here!” urged Komir.

“I’m with you,” agreed Hartz.

But the leader of the attackers was apparently not inclined to let them out of there alive. Screaming wildly in a foreign tongue, he sent three more men after them. They were forced to stay and face the oncoming danger.

Komir exhaled, calling to mind the teachings of so many afternoons of training in Udag. His mind was in balance; calm, serene, and alert—the state that Master Warrior Gudin had taught him to achieve after many years of instruction and inexhaustible patience. It was a technique that few managed to master, but after practice and perseverance, he had succeeded. His body now moved harmoniously and with rhythmic agility, never losing its posture or center of gravity. He was like a trained dancer carried along by a soft melody, avoiding any obstacles set before him, dancing the lethal dance of death. He caught sight of a sword directed at his left ribs; he blocked it, took a step forward, and with his right arm blocked another attack to his head. He stayed lightly flexed with both weapons blocking simultaneously, one on each side. Much to the surprise of his two attackers, he dropped down on one knee and, from that position, cut both his rivals’ legs with a swift sweeping movement of both weapons. The two assailants fell to the ground, screaming in pain. In the blink of an eye, Komir stabbed them both in the lower abdomen. 

Hartz was now completely in his element, in the heat of the battle. He looked at Komir and saw he was fighting with wicked skill and agility—which did not surprise him in the least. He’d often witnessed his friend’s natural talent with the sword. An enemy hesitantly approached on his right, and Hartz smiled when he saw him. There was nothing he liked better than the sound of metal on metal—except the sound of bones breaking after a good blow. As long as he could remember he’d been well aware that he possessed an innate gift for fighting, and nothing pleased him more than putting it to good use. He raised his weapon over his head and, spinning around, used his sword to attack like a spinning wheel, sending his opponent flying through the air, entrails hanging from his lifeless body.

The colossal Norriel contemplated the battlefield. The fighting had come to an end. Just four contenders remained standing after the bloody dénouement: Komir, himself, the leader of the assailants, and the lone survivor of the men in white and gray who was checking on the condition of the person they’d been trying to protect—now lying motionless on the ground. Judging by the amount of blood coming from his left side and the small, viscous puddle that had formed under his body, Hartz was quite sure that man would never be getting up again.

Komir signaled to him and they headed toward the leader of the enemies.

Hartz observed him carefully. His face was covered by a strange, violet-colored mask with a sinister silvery smile. The eyes, also drawn in silver, gave the mask a surreal, nightmarish air. He was thin with a medium build and was dressed in dark purple with a cape and hood that covered his back and head. In his belt he carried a short, curved sword with golden engravings on the handle that was inlaid with precious stones. His attire was unusual, extravagant. Hartz had never seen clothing like this and assumed it was probably of foreign origin.

“Who are you and why did you attack these men?” interrogated Hartz sternly, intending to get answers one way or another.

The foreigner did not respond and slowly unsheathed his ornate sword. He lifted it and pointed it toward Hartz. A striking silence fell over the plateau, devouring every sound. The wind ceased and all sound within the forest seemed to vanish. An unnatural quiet engulfed them.

“Are you threatening me?” Hartz exclaimed loudly, seeing the imminent danger of the situation. “Lower your sword or I will be forced to split your head open!”

“Hartz, be careful; something isn’t right here. I sense danger. I don’t like this at all. Be ready! Don’t be reckless!” warned Komir.

Almost before he even finished speaking, Komir heard the enemy speak several incomprehensible words, directed at Hartz, as if delivering a lugubrious funeral chant. The sword with the golden adornments shone with a bright mauve light that bathed it in a purplish glimmer.

“Look out! That purple glow could be Magic!”

Hartz, surprised by Komir’s shouts, looked at the foreigner in confusion, his mind racing.
What purple glow? I don’t see glowing of any color. What is Komir talking about? Could this guy have put a curse on me? What a cretin! No matter. I’ll take care of him and end this problem once and for all. If he put some kind of hex on me I’ll find some witch who can rid me of it; maybe Amtoko could. Either way, I’m going to finish off this pig right now.

He prepared himself for attack but, all of sudden, felt a prick in his chest—then an intense pain. It came from inside him, as if a ghostly, invisible hand was crushing his heart. The suffering quickly escalated, and in the blink of an eye it had become so intense he couldn’t think straight.

Aaaahh! What is happening to me? What in the world... Where is this pain coming from?

His mind, overcome by the suffering, could not react. The agony was beginning to spread through his body... his hands... his feet... his head... and it was unbearable, as if his whole body was going up in flames.

“For Ikzuge’s sake... this pain!” he cried out in agony.

He tried to attack the stranger, knowing he was the source of the sinister force, but after taking just one step he had to stop; he simply could not go on. Every movement, every thought heightened the suffering. The pain was consuming him; it was killing him. He collapsed to the ground, his whole body in a state of stress, fighting to stay alive.

Komir realized his friend was in grave danger.

“What’s happening to you? What has he done to you?” he asked, his voice fraught with worry.

“Intense... pain... make him stop... please... stop him...” he stammered before his entire body began to convulse.

“Stop this dark magic or I will slit your throat!” threatened Komir, now fully aware that they were in the presence of a sorcerer or wizard.

But the sinister foe was undaunted.

The situation critical, Komir launched an attack. The Sorcerer pointed at him with the opulent sword and murmured more unintelligible words that caused the weapon to again glimmer ardently with that strange purple light.

Komir was almost on his adversary when, without warning, he felt as if his feet had turned to solid rock. It stopped him in his tracks.
I can’t move!
He looked at his feet, frightened; he could not see anything there... but they felt so heavy that he absolutely could not move them.

In a desperate effort, he reached out his arm and, throwing his body forward, slashed at the Sorcerer’s neck.

He missed by two inches.

The Sorcerer, with an insulting lack of urgency, took two steps back to avoid the reach of Komir’s sword.

Komir looked incredulously at his petrified legs.
They will not move! What the hell is going on here?
He continued fighting with his extremities, trying with all his might to move toward the enemy.
Come on, obey! Move!
But his legs were solid rock, like the pillars of a temple.

The foreigner again pointed at him with his sword.

Komir prepared for the worst.

But a split second later, just before the enemy could execute the fateful incantation Komir had expected, a figure in white and gray charged toward the Sorcerer, sword raised and ready to strike.

It was the lone survivor of the group under attack!

He had completely forgotten about him.

The Sorcerer saw the soldier coming at him and swiftly turned to point his sword at him. He recited what seemed to Komir to be another spell, and the purple light shone once more on the sword. The figure in heavy white armor struck at the foreigner’s neck with his sword but somehow missed.

By a long shot.

He struck again, this time with both hands, and—again—missed definitively.

“I can’t see!” cried a voice from under the helmet. “He’s blinded me!” He continued trying to attack, but connected with nothing but air.

A despicable cackle erupted from behind the Sorcerer’s mask.

“And now you all shall die!” he proclaimed triumphantly with a heavy foreign accent.

He prepared to carry out his threat. Moving away from the blinded soldier he pointed his sword at Komir. The coup de grace was about to be invoked.

But the Sorcerer was too slow.

The ornate sword slipped from his hand and fell to the ground. He took a step back and looked at his right shoulder. A small throwing dagger was stuck in his flesh, just below his neck. He looked up at Komir; hidden underneath his mask, there must have been a look of tremendous shock.

Komir tensed as, with his right hand, he readied the other small throwing dagger he had in reserve.

The Sorcerer vacillated.

A moment later, despite the injury he’d suffered, he quickly crouched down, picked up his sword with his left hand, and took off toward the forest.

Komir watched as he ran away. Doubt invaded him. He knew he could hit the Sorcerer again with the dagger he had left, but he was not sure if he could kill him. His petrified legs weren’t supporting him sufficiently when he threw, which was why he had missed the first shot he’d aimed at the Sorcerer’s throat. If he threw now and did not kill him, they would be left defenseless and completely at his mercy.

Better to hold on to the weapon in case he tries another incantation. If I missed, we would be lost. But if he turns around before reaching the edge of the forest I will have to react; I cannot let him attack us again or we’re as good as dead.

The sinister figure made it to the tree line. He disappeared among the trees, heading east, without ever looking back.

Komir sighed in relief but was instantaneously overcome with frustration.

“Dammit! I cannot move! I’m sorry, Hartz.” He shouted toward his companion who was still lying on the ground, his hand on his chest and an expression of immense suffering on his face.

“Pain... help...” begged his friend.

The retinue of Healers and Royal Lancers was riding as swift as the wind, pushing their mounts to the maximum. Time was marching on; Sorundi and Aliana were due in Rilentor and could not waste a single second as they pushed toward the city, which was located less than a day by horse from the Temple of Tirsar. The Royal Trail on which they were traveling connected the Healers’ home with the capital of the kingdom of Rogdon as well as to the other main cities of the realm.

They entered the capital by crossing the wall through the south gate, known as the Gate of the Deserts. Aliana was somewhat surprised to see that the soldiers of the Royal Guard had completely cleared the way for the entourage. The cobblestone avenues of the stately royal city, usually packed with bustling pedestrians, were deserted and heavily guarded from the two immense exterior walls all the way to the royal castle. The impressive fortress, with its six imposing circular towers, rose majestically in the center of the city.

Aliana, who adored riding at a gallop, was nearly flying along the streets of the great city on her horse’s back, listening to the hollow noise of its hooves resonating off the cobblestones. The soldiers guarding the streets to guarantee their safe passage saluted them. They quickly reached the drawbridge that led to the royal family’s castle. They passed over the moat and into the courtyard. Aliana and Sorundi hastily dismounted and two officers of the Royal Guard instantly led them to the Prince’s quarters. Aliana realized they had just traversed one of the best protected cities on the continent and accessed an impregnable castle in the blink of an eye. An incontestable demonstration of Rogdonian efficiency.

Both the room of the only royal heir and the halls that led to it were heavily guarded. As they walked, Aliana stared at the men in the Guard. They were tall and strong, with pointed helmets that covered their head, neck, and nose but left their stern faces exposed. A breastplate of shiny polished steel protected their back and chest. Under the shield a long blue tunic reached down to their knees, with both sleeves embroidered with the emblem of the kingdom. A long coat of mail extended down to their thighs, protecting their upper torso and arms, and their high, leather boots were reinforced with steel. Each of them held a lance and kite shield. The shield, characteristic of this kingdom, displayed the distinctive emblem of Rogdon—a grand white horse rearing on a tower with a gray background.

As she entered the room, Aliana’s eyes swept over the luxurious space. King Solin, dolefully gazed at his badly wounded son from the foot of the bed. Queen Eleuna was tenderly holding her only child’s hand. Situated on either side of the feeble Prince, two of the royal house’s surgeons were attending to the young man who was delirious and mumbling incoherently. The tension in the room was suffocating; it hung in the air like a toxic cloud, coating everything with its pestilence. A frightful silence reigned among all those present, as if they wanted to avoid making any sound that would awaken merciless Death.

The King’s face was marked by fatigue and worry; the dark circles below his eyes visible proof of his anguish. He was a strong man, with broad shoulders and powerful arms and long, dark hair speckled with white that had made its appearance little by little over the years. He had intense, brown eyes, and a steady gaze. But the monarch’s most striking feature was his great height. He was a perfect example of an extraordinary soldier, a leader with fifty-five springs behind him. The Queen was about the same age as her husband but physically dissimilar in every way; svelte with a fragile-looking figure, shrouded in an almost sublime softness. Her hair, golden and straight, cascaded to the middle of her back and she had small blue eyes. Even in this state of extreme distress, her incredible beauty was plainly appreciable. She was wearing a dress made of fine fabrics, a blend of beige and warm white that accentuated the air of sheer nobility that enveloped her.

As soon as King Solin noticed the Healers had arrived he hurried to welcome them.

“Finally, you are here, Master Healer!” he immediately went to the older of the two Healers, his voice full of urgency. “Please, come in. My son is at the brink of death,” he lamented, motioning toward the figure lying in the bed.

“We came as quickly as we could, Your Majesty.”

“We have tried everything, but we cannot improve his condition,” explained the older of the two royal surgeons. “We truly do not know what more we can do... The arrow was empoisoned, and there is no known antidote in the entire kingdom. The situation is desperate. He surely will—”

“We shall do all that is in our power to return the Prince to health,” assured the expert Healer of the Order of Tirsar.

“Please, save my son, I beg of you. Save him!” pleaded the Queen between sobs. “He is far too young to die! He has barely begun to enjoy life. Do not let him die... Save him, please!” She brought her hands up to her sunken, bloodshot eyes and burst into inconsolable tears that melted Aliana’s heart.

“Your Majesty, if you could give us some time alone... it would be of great help. We need calm and quiet to make use of our healing Gift,” requested Sorundi.

“Of course, whatever you need; you have only to ask,” replied the monarch. With a quick flick of his head he indicated that the two surgeons should leave and, immediately thereafter, gently took hold of his grief-stricken wife and led her out of the room.

The two Healers examined the young man at once. Aliana guessed the Prince was approximately the same age as she, perhaps a bit older though not by much. His hair, long and blond and coated in sweat from the high fever, was plastered to his forehead. His blue eyes, delirious; his face, stunning like his mother’s. A man of classic good looks. He was tall and strongly built, undoubtedly a worthy son to his father. A perfect blend of his mother’s beauty and the strength and physique of his father.

Aliana focused her attention on the arrow wound on his shoulder. Beside him on a chair was his exquisite silver armor embossed in gold. She calculated the position of the impact: just where the breastplate ended and below the shoulder guard overlay. A well-aimed, studied shot that had sought out the vulnerability in his protective gear. The wound itself was not terribly serious. His shoulders had been protected by the coat of mail. However, the poison in which the arrow had been soaked was dreadfully dangerous.

Sorundi placed her hands on the wound just as the King came back into the room and silently sat down next to them. As the Master Healer concentrated, a pale blue light, only visible to those blessed with the Gift, emanated from the palms of her hands. The healing energy left her body and was propelled forward. It was a soft blue light—almost white, actually; no matter how much she contemplated it, that light always captivated Aliana’s heart as much as it had the first time she’d seen it. She observed as Sorundi’s concentration maintained a continuous flow of the curative energy, the extreme effort of what she was doing apparent on her face. She attended to the wound for a long while, never letting up. Finally, she pulled back her hands, completely exhausted.

“It is a very potent poison. Extremely noxious. It is attacking his vital organs. He does not have long to live. We must hurry or he will die.”

“Save him, please!” begged the King, his voice desperate. “Save him and I will reward you handsomely. He is my only son, the heir to the throne.”

“Aliana, we need your power. I cannot stop the advance of the poison; I only managed to slow it down,” she stated. Assisted by King Solin, she sat down on a chair next to the bed to try to recover from the tremendous effort she had expended.

Aliana approached the dying man and placed her hands on the wound just as her teacher had done. She concentrated and summoned her power. A chill ran down her spine and she shivered—a sensation she always experienced; so unique yet so typical among the Healers. It felt like an icy tingling coursing throughout her whole body. The energy flowed toward her chest. Thousands of pale blue streams of pure, living essence surged from inside her and joined together in a great, powerful lake in the depths of her being. Once accumulated, the energy flowed in the form of a healing power; as if a part of herself, a part of her own spirit, were passing through her hands to the wounded patient. The pale blue light appeared again, this time beneath the palms of her hands. After many years of study and practice under the attentive watch of her instructors, and following to the last detail the ancient teachings of the Order, she had come to understand and master her Gift—the Gift of Healing. Now she felt confident in this difficult art, even if it were never possible to foresee the outcome.

She concentrated completely and allowed the energy to flow through the afflicted man’s body. A hazy vision began to form in Aliana’s mind. Within the series of images, she could catch glimpses of how the rivers of energy were bathing the Prince’s body. The image slowly began to appear more clearly defined; several places where there were organs that had been damaged by the poison became visible and were taking on a greenish color. Aliana knew what this meant; these organs were severely compromised, and the color indicated the state of deterioration... of decomposition. Healing him would indeed be very difficult. She increased the intensity of her concentration above the first damaged area, focusing the healing energy on the organ, tirelessly irradiating it, trying to repair the damage it had suffered. After quite some time, she verified with great relief that the healing energy was having a positive effect on the organ; it was beginning to change color—now the pink of daybreak—and to heal, recovering its natural appearance.

Aliana sighed, relieved. Healings were not always successful. Everything depended on how critical the damage was. Never was there any guarantee that a healing would work, no matter how much effort the Healers put into their art. Every body, every being, and every wound, was different. The Healers never knew with any degree of certainty what they would encounter, nor if their talent and experience would be sufficient to heal the sick or injured person. All they could do was to give it their all. Fatal wounds could not be cured; try as they might, Healers could not reverse death or work miracles. After all, they were only human, and only the gods were permitted to work miracles.

Focusing, she placed her hands over the next point of infection. This one was much larger. She concentrated her internal energy on the organ and irradiated it, applying all her power to it. As if dawning anew, it began to turn pink, to heal. That was encouraging. She continued working incessantly, losing all sense of time, until each and every one of the damaged organs had been treated. She searched for traces of the deadly substance throughout the rest of his body, intending to attack those as she had the others, but there was no longer any sign of it. Her healing energy had completely eradicated it.

At last, she focused on the site of the wound itself, where there was still an ugly infection. She concentrated on it and managed to eliminate it. She repaired the wound by regenerating as best she could the tissue that had been damaged. Finally, she relaxed. She let the last remnants of energy reenter her body, and the bluish light disappeared from beneath her palms. She withdrew her hands from the Prince’s body and, throwing her head back, inhaled deeply. She felt extremely satisfied; happy to have been able to overcome the poison. She tried to stand up but was so weak she blacked out for a moment. Two strong arms prevented her from falling to the floor. When she looked up, still lightheaded, she saw it was King Solin who was holding her up.

“Are you all right, young Healer?” asked the monarch.

Aliana was totally worn out. She could barely stand. The use of her Gift for such an extensive period of time had sapped all the vitality from her body, leaving her with barely a drop of strength to carry out even the easiest of tasks. Still, she was not worried; she knew well the physical sacrifice her Gift required, its limits, and the dangers if she were to surpass these. All the Healers were aware that the Gift could be fatal if not controlled. That was the first rule with which they were indoctrinated. It was typical to see Healers faint after weakening their bodies during healing and, occasionally, carried away by the desire to achieve the impossible with a treatment, they had died trying, their battered bodies unable to sustain the punishment inflicted. The Gift could completely consume one’s vital energy; it could kill. Understanding and respecting human limitations and never surpassing these was paramount.

Aliana was so completely exhausted that all she wanted to do was lie down on the floor and sleep.

With great difficulty, she managed to explain. “I did it... I eradicated the infection... and... I healed the organs. In a few hours we should... see a marked improvement in... his condition. His fever will begin to drop...”

“Can this be true?” pressed the king, his eyes full of hope.

Aliana nodded, unable to continue speaking.

“I cannot believe it! This is fantastic news! So, it’s true? You’ve healed him?” the king questioned incredulously, his face brimming with excitement.

Seeing Aliana was unable to speak, Sorundi intervened.

“There are no guarantees in our profession, Your Majesty... but if the Sister believes she has conquered the infection, it is quite probable that your son will recover. To complete the treatment and to ensure there will not be complications, we will prepare several potions that he will have to take for at least one month. This should guarantee that the infection will not reappear and the wound will heal over without any setbacks. The wisdom of nature dictates that the young prince’s badly injured body will require extended rest.”