Chapter Four
"Tell me about demons,"
said Gwydion.
He sat across from
her, the small fire they had constructed earlier burning brightly between
them. He had argued against a fire, concerned that it might attract
attention, something he did not particularily want, especially if the demon
rider was on their trail, but she would hear nothing of it. "I told
you before, the fiend wasn't looking for us. If he had been, he would
have trailed us down hours ago. There isn't another creature around
for miles, and the nights get chilly in this part of the Outlands."
When he had mentioned the 'lions' that she had told him of earlier, she
had shaken her head. "We're out of that section now, cutter.
Hardly any lions range this far south. There's almost no wildlife
around here."
It was true that the
terrain had changed markedly during their journey since earlier in the
afternoon. They were still tracking through vast fields of grass,
but the ground here was much rockier, and the grass itself was different,
shorter and scruffier, and of a different texture and color than the grass
they had marched through earlier. Here and there scraggly and stunted
trees sprang up from the ground, twisted into odd shapes, and rarer but
also present were a few jagged rocks thrusting heavenwards, towering overhead.
Unconvinced by her
argument, he had nonetheless helped to gather firewood, deciding that she
knew more of the area than he but resolving notwithstanding to be on his
guard.
She glanced at him
over the fire, still chewing on a piece of dried beef. Gwydion of
course had no supplies, so she had been kind enough to share some of hers
with him. A few dried bisquits and some beef jerky was all she had
to offer, along with water, but it had made for a satisfying meal, hungered
and tired as he was after the long day of walking, and he had lived on
far less in times past. "You mean fiends?" she finally responded.
He nodded.
She gave a wary look
around, as if the mere mention of the servants of darkness might cause
them to appear. And indeed, how was he to know but that it might
in this strange place. Night was coming on quickly. Twilight
had passed and darkness was gathering, lending the distant rocky outcroppings
an eerie aspect. It was also getting a little cooler, just as she
had earlier predicted, and a gentle night breeze stirred the nearby clumps
of grass. "An evil subject. What do you want to know about
them for?" she asked at last.
He shrugged.
"It's always better to know your opponent, and it seems likely that I'll
be running into them from time to time."
She considered.
"What, exactly, do you want to know?"
"Everything you can
tell me."
She shook her head.
"That's not much, really. I'm no expert." She gave him a level
stare. "I know enough to stay as far away from them as possible.
Knowing more than that is generally bad for your health."
"Surely you know more
than that," he said.
She shrugged.
"Maybe. But explaining it to someone as clueless as you... well,
it's going to take some time."
"Than take the time."
She sighed.
"All right. But first off we've got to get straight what your idea
of a 'demon' is. You called me one, remember?"
He was properly abashed.
"I didn't know you then. Or what a demon looked like. And I
still don't, aside from the one we saw today. Do they all look like
that?"
She shook her head.
"No, hardly any. There's almost as many kinds and shapes of fiends
as there are... but we're getting ahead of ourselves. When we talk
about fiends, I assume you know that there is more than one kind of fiend,
right?"
He shook his head
slowly. "I'm not sure. You said they don't all look alike.
You mean that they come in lots of different shapes and sizes?"
She gave him an exasperated
look. "No, that's not what I meant at all. Although," she interrupted
herself hastily, "they do come in different shapes and sizes, and levels
of power - you have got that much right in your head at least. I
was talking about the different races of fiends."
He gave her a blank
look.
"Great gods above,"
she said disapprovingly, "even most primes know the different fiendish
races."
Gwydion was apologetic.
"I don't, I'm afraid," he pointed out.
"Right. We'll
start with the very basics. You know where fiends come from, don't
you? I mean what planes they come from."
Gwydion shrugged helplessly.
"Not really. I always thought they just always existed, from the
beginning of time."
She shook her head
again. "That's not what I'm talking about. Who knows whether
fiends always existed? That's something for sages. Look, I
don't want to get into that. I'm talking about their home planes.
You've heard of the lower planes?"
This phrase seemed
faintly familiar to him, and he picked through his memory. "The...
planes of evil? Universes dominated by the darker forces, right?"
"Sort of. What
do you know of them?"
"Not much," he admitted,
"except for their names. Hades, the Abyss, Carceri, Acheron, the
Nine Hells, Limbo, Gehenna-"
"Good enough," she
interrupted him, "although Limbo's not one of the lower planes. But
don't worry about that. Right now, let's just simplify things and
talk about three different planes, and the three major fiendish races."
"There are others?"
"Other fiends?
Of course. But I told you not to worry about that right now.
We're dealing with basics, remember?"
He nodded.
"Right. So,
there are three fiendish races, and they come from three different planes.
The three planes are the Abyss, Baator - you called it the Nine Hells,
and Gehenna. Do you know about the different alignments of the planes?"
"Alignments?"
"Okay, so you don't.
Like you said earlier, all the lower planes are evil in nature. That's
part of alignment. The other part is how chaotic they are."
He didn't understand.
"What?"
"How ordered they
are. How much structure they have. Some places are havens for
order, others are havens for chaos, and still others are neutral, falling
somewhere in between."
He considered this.
"You mean it's part of the plane itself? I can understand a place
being evil in nature, I guess, but that's a little strange."
"Nonetheless, that's
the way of it. So, anyway, each fiendish race is aligned along the
same lines as its home plane. Some are lawful, others are chaotic,
and still others are neutral, depending on which plane they're from.
This is a generalization, of course, but it holds true for the most part."
"What are the demon
races?" asked Gwydion.
"Let's get that straight
right now," said Brianna. "You've been labeling all fiends as demons,
and that's just not right. The word 'demon' has a specific meaning,
and it refers to only one of the three major races. Your traditional
demons come from the Abyss, and are chaotic evil in nature. Devils,
on the other hand, are lawful evil in nature, and come from Baator... er,
the Nine Hells, as you said. And the neutral evil fiends are called
daemons. They come from Gehenna, or at least that's what everybody
figures, since nobody knows for certain. Anyway, that's the gist
of it," she concluded. "That's putting it in prime terms, of course,"
she added a moment later. "The words 'demon', 'devil', and 'daemon'
are racial slurs. Each race has its own true name, but I don't want
to get into them now. Certain words have power and attract attention,
and it's not important anyway, so let's leave the real race names alone
for now. Just remember that the members of the various fiendish races
don't appreciate being referred to as 'demons' or 'devils'. It's
usually best to just keep quiet."
"So there are three
different kinds of fiends," said Gwydion, following her, "and they're divided
by what plane they come from and what their alignment is."
"What plane they come
from determines what their alignment is," she corrected, "but yeah, basically
that's it. Now these demons and devils and daemons, they don't get
along well with each other."
"Strife is the nature
of evil," he offered.
"Yeah," she said hesitantly,
"something like that. But I don't mean they just fight with each
other sometimes. They hate each other. In fact, for as long
as anyone can remember, they've been engaged in an unending war.
That's called the Blood War."
"Blood War?" he asked.
"Yeah. Why it's
called that is anybody's guess, so don't bother to ask. Now the major
players in the Blood War are the demons and the devils. The common
chant is that because one's chaotic and the other one is lawful, they each
want to destroy the other, but nobody really knows for certain. No-one
knows when exactly the war started either, so most people just assume it's
always been going on." She shrugged off the question as silly.
"Another subject for sages. As to exactly why the war is being fought,
not even the fiends themselves seem to know that, at least not except for
the really high-up fiends."
"What about the third
group? The... daemons, I think you said. The ones who are neither
chaotic nor lawful."
She held up a hand
to forestall him. "Don't jump ahead. I'm coming to that.
First you've got to understand the nature of the Blood War. Did you
get everything I said before?"
He nodded.
She was a little surprised.
"And you haven't got any questions? Most bloods at least a little
surprised that such a vast war is fought over so little a thing as differing
alignments - after all, most humans with different alignments can get along
pretty well."
He shrugged.
"I've seen wars fought for less reasons, and with less logic. It's
not surprising that creatures born of pure evil would revel in strife."
"Well, don't get the
idea that just because they're fighting an endless war for no particular
reason, that they're stupid. The last thing fiends are is stupid.
Some of the high-up's would give a power a run for its money."
"You've mentioned
these high-up's before," he interjected. "Tell me about them."
She shrugged.
"Well, like I told you before, every fiend isn't alike. Just because
there are three races of fiends doesn't mean there's just three kinds of
fiends, you follow?"
He nodded and she
continued.
"There are different
types of demons, different types of devils, different types of daemons.
They're all divided up according to power level. The lowest levels
are sometimes as stupid as animals, but the higher ones... well, some of
the Princes of Hell and Lords of the Abyss are nearly powers. See?"
He wasn't sure he
did. "I think I follow, but I'm not sure. Princes? Lords?
Is there a nobility among them, then?"
She shook her head.
"No. Well, yes, after a fashion, but... Look, it doesn't matter.
Suffice it to say that some fiends are more powerful than others - wield
greater magics, are harder to kill, that kind of thing. It's immaterial
to what we were talking about, which is the Blood War."
"Right," he agreed.
"The Blood War. You were going to tell me about the third group."
She nodded.
"The yugol- er, the daemons. They have a role in the Blood War too.
They're mercenaries, hiring on to whichever side is willing to pay them,
switching back and forth and double-crossing one side and then the other."
He looked a little
dubious. "If they're that unreliable, why would either side hire
them in the first place?"
She gave him an exasperated
look. "How should I know? I told you I'm not an expert.
I'm just giving you the common chant. I've never been within a plane
or two of the Blood War. You asked, and I told. Look, I'm getting
the tired of the subject anyway. It's irritating to have to talk
with all these clueless terms."
"You were the one
who chose to use the clueless terms," he pointed out. "Can't you
tell me anything more?"
She sighed, weary
of the subject. "I don't really know much more than that. You
want to know more, ask an expert. There are plenty of them in Sigil.
I'll be happy to point you in the right direction when we arrive."
He was a little disappointed.
He wanted to know more about these fiends, especially the 'Princes' and
'Lords' she had mentioned, and he sensed that she had more she could tell
him. But if there was one thing he had learned about her during their
long walk earlier today it was that she was stubborn. When she got
tired of talking about something, she stopped talking, and no matter how
he questioned her, she wouldn't go on. Still, it was frustrating
to have the subject dangled tantalizingly before him and then snatched
away before he could more than scratch the surface.
Resigned, he decided
to change the subject. "How long do you think it will be before we
arrive in Sigil, then?"
She chewed her lip
thoughtfully. "We've made good time so far. I don't know...
Probably we'll arrive sometime late tommorrow evening. Maybe the
next day. We've still got a little walking to do."
"We'd make better
time with horses," he commented wistfully.
Brianna shot him a
wry look. "Yeah, right. 'If wishes were horses', and all that."
He didn't understand
the reference, but kept his silence.
She got to her feet
and dusted herself off, going to her pack and rummaging through it.
Her hands emerged with a bundle of cloth, and she tossed it to him.
A little surprised,
he caught it and unfolded it, discovering that it was a weathered-looking
blanket. He gave her a questioning look.
"Get some sleep,"
she instructed. "I'll take first watch."
"You don't have to,"
he said. "I can do it."
She snorted.
"You wouldn't know what to be on the lookout for. Besides, the last
person I want watching over me is a green prime who's been in the planes
less than a day. You'd probably kill me with that oversized sword
of yours, jumping at shadows."
A brief smile flickered
across his features. "I promise I wouldn't."
"Whatever. Just
shut up and get to sleep."
He shrugged and rolled
over onto his side, pulling the blanket over himself.
She watched him lay
down with a tinge of surprise. She had expected more argument.
"Hey cutter," she said after a minute. "You asleep?"
He looked over at
her. "Not yet."
She was silent for
a moment. "You really trust me to guard your back?" she asked at
last. "You hardly know me."
"I trust you, Brianna,"
he responded, and rolled back onto his side. "Wake me when it's my
watch," he said. and with a soldier's knack for finding his sleep whenever
he could, he dropped off almost immediately.
The flames were burning
a little lower by now, and making a long, slow hissing sound as they consumed
the firewood. Brianna sat crouched, looking at his back for a long
time.
"Be at peace, cutter,"
she said some time later, when she was certain he was asleep. There
was a curious catch in her voice.
* * *
WAKE!
Gwydion started violently,
surging upwards from his bedroll and nearly knocking the blanket Brianna
had loaned him completely off. As it was, it hung akimbo from his
shoulders, still draped over the lower half of his body.
He had started up
onto his forearms, and for a moment he remained, listening.
The night was quiet.
Over to his right he heard the soft, rythmic sounds of Brianna breathing.
He glanced over at her, and saw that she was asleep, slumped over where
she sat so that her chin was resting on her knees. Whatever it was
that had jolted him awake hadn't bothered her.
The fire had died
down until it was nothing more than a few glowing embers. In spite
of this, the darkness which enclosed their little campsite was not absolute,
and Gwydion found he was able to see fairly well. He gazed about
him.
Nothing. There
was nothing out of the ordinary. No sounds, no movements of any kind.
Nothing to justify concern.
Then what would have
caused him to awake so forcefully? He reflected. Perhaps it
was merely the unease of finding himself in a foreign place. Or a
nightmare he had been having.
Still, a growing sense
of unease was settling on him. He was not a man to distrust
his instincts, and his instincts told him something was wrong. Very
wrong.
He reached down slowly,
feeling for the hilt of Tylith-senshai, remembering he had laid
the great sword beside him beneath the blanket before retiring. Perhaps
he couldn't put a reason to the uneasy feeling that possessed him, but
if Brianna had fallen asleep at her post and he was awake anyway, he might
as well take the watch. She might have insisted that there was relatively
little danger here, but this was a strange place to him, in another universe,
and there was no sense taking chances. There was no telling how long
they had slept unguarded already. Besides, he was a fighting man,
no stranger to battle, and had acquired the soldier's ability to catch
his sleep where he could, and as a result could go without for long stretches
of time. At the moment, however, he was not weary, and even if he
had been the prickling sense of danger he felt would not have allowed him
rest.
His fingers brushed
the hilt of the great sword, nearly closing on it, before he snatched them
back in shock. The sword was thrumming again, and this time it was
warm to the touch.
Danger! he
thought, his premonition confirmed, and reached for the sword again.
A fiercely cold, vise-like
grip suddenly closed on the back of his neck, and almost before he had
time to register what was happening, he found himself snatched up out of
his blanket, raised into the air, his arms and legs flailing reflexively.
What? he had
time to think, bewildered, before he was thrown forward, shoved by immense
force.
He sailed through
the air about fifteen yards, and landed hard in the grass at the edge of
the campsite, the air whooshing from his lungs.
Agony tore through
his neck, and he wondered faintly if he might have a pulled muscle there,
or even possibly something worse. He also realized he was unable
to draw breath, and was dimly aware of a stabbing pain in his knee.
But he had no time to waste on these concerns.
Attacked!
he realized. Danger! Under attack! Get up! Get
up! GET UP!
His attempt to spring
nimbly to his feet and meet his unseen opponent met with little success.
Instead, he managed to roll over on his side, looking back in the direction
from which he had been thrown. Still he could not seem to force air
into his lungs.
For a moment he could
see nothing but the two glowing green orbs hanging in the darkness, and
then, as it approached, he made out the outlines of its body.
The demon rider!
It must have backtracked and trailed them down. Of its unearthly
steed, there was no sign. Get up! Must get up!
Still, when he tried
to rise the most he could manage was to sit halfway up and gasp painfully.
The demon didn't smile,
at least anymore than its skeletal teeth always smiled, but it approached
him slowly, striding almost arrogantly. It was taller than Gwydion
had earlier estimated, standing at least nine feet in height, and it still
clutched in one hand that enormous bone-white polearm which it had wielded
earlier.
It halted a few feet
away from him, watching in amusement as he struggled in vain to get to
his feet, and pointed the weapon at him. The blade came to a stop
within inches of his face, and Gwydion saw that its edge was serrated,
with jagged bony spurs protruding up and down its length. There were
blackened spots which must have been old blood and little withered pieces
of flesh still clinging to it.
"Come to me, mortal,"
it rasped. "Let us play."
The voice was unearthly,
and though quiet, it was perfectly distinct. Although it had clearly
issued from those dried and withered lips and that eerily skeletal mouth,
it sounded to Gwydion as if it had come from the air surrounding him.
The language the demon spoke was nearly indescribable. The syllables
were harsh and grating, and each one seemed chosen especially for its ability
to offend, disgust, and frighten. Though Gwydion understood each
word as if he had been born to the tongue, for such was his gift, they
were more than mere words. Each consonant painted a different, horrible
image upon the mental canvas of his mind. Here was carnage; there
was despair. These were feelings, nameless dreads that were inspired
by each word and impressed upon Gwydion's soul. And the words had
power; a power so terrible and terrifying that Gwydion suddenly feared
that if he understood the meanings and roots of the demon tongue better
he might have slipped into madness, his mortal mind scarcely able to comprehend
the depths of evil to which the language alluded. The feeling was
so vivid that his spine tingled and he sat, momentarily rooted to the spot
in horror. He had never heard anything remotely like it before.
It was the language of pain, of misery, of death and desolation.
If pure evil had a sound, than this was its tongue.
But another sound
suddenly came to his attention, a sound that he had subconsciously been
aware of but which had grown louder and louder until at last it demanded
his attention. It was Tylith-senshai, emitting an angry high
pitched whine. The sword was awake and eager for battle.
It seemed to Gwydion that it was calling on him in frustration. If
the demon rider heard, it showed no sign.
With a shriek of fury
Brianna appeared suddenly behind the demon's right shoulder, hurling herself
at it armed with only a small dagger.
She connected solidly,
sinking the blade several inches into the creature's neck. For all
the effect her sudden impact had on it, though, she might have hurled herself
at a rock. The creature stood unmoved for a moment, its head swiveling
until its luminous green eyes rested upon her.
Then, as if the girl
were no more than a minor irritant, it reached over with its free hand
and swatted her away. She tumbled down with a muffled cry, landing
hard on her back, but started to roll back to her feet.
Lightning fast the
demon swung its polearm in a tight arc, the jagged butt of the weapon catching
Brianna in the forehead as she tried to rise.
There was a terrible
crunching sound and a spray of blood as the tremendous blow connected.
Brianna was flung like a ragdoll, her body arcing bonelessly through the
air in an almost-graceful backflip. She landed face down several
feet away, and lay still, a puddle of blood forming.
"No!" cried Gwydion,
energized with terrible urgency. The demon was still turned away,
towards Brianna. He had to get to the sword...
He lurched to his
feet, lunging past the demon towards his blanket. The sword was louder
now, its call urgent.
He half-ran, half-stumbled
towards it.
Abruptly his feet
were ripped from beneath him, and a searing agony erupted in his knee.
He was dragged backwards, the vice-like grip of the demon creature numbing
in its strength on his ankle.
Abruptly he was hoisted
aloft, upside down. The demon swung him back and forth, as if playing
with a toy.
"You are amusing,
mortal. Do you think you can escape your fate? I wonder how
strong you are. You will take a long time to die, I hope, and provide
much amusement." Again the harsh and evil language assaulted Gwydion's
ears, painting horrific pictures. The demon thing intended to tear
him to pieces, a little at a time, to see how much pain Gwydion could take
before dying. The blackened and whithered pieces of flesh on the
demon's serrated blade would be replaced by fresh ones torn from his body,
and what was left of his body would either be eaten by the demon thing
or worn as mementos.
These were the images
that the demonic words inspired in him, among other more horrific things
and Gwydion felt a sickness and revulsion sweep over him so strongly that
for a moment he forgot his pain.
He was hefted even
higher, until he found himself staring into the demon's eyes. The
demon rider scrutinized him for a moment, as if hoping to read something
within Gwydion's face.
"You are weak," it
said at last, a tinge of disappointment in its terrible voice. "I
do not know what they fear in you. It is an easy task to dispose
of you, mortal."
He was cast aside
suddenly, as if the demon had lost interest in him for the moment.
He struck the ground head first, and was momentarily stunned, laying there
flat on his back.
When his vision cleared,
he saw that the demon was standing over his blanket, looking at him.
"What were you seeking here, mortal?" it asked.
By this time the sword
was roaring in impotent fury, and it seemed to Gwydion that it must be
glowing brightly as well, for waves of light were spilling out from under
the blanket.
It reached down, and
was suddenly bathed in light as it flung the blanket away from the sword.
Tylith-senshai shone like a beacon, emitting a light so brilliantly white
that it stung Gwydion's eyes and made them tear.
The demon rider looked
down at it and laughed, a terrible and grating sound. "Is this little
toy what you were seeking? Foolishness!"
It reached around
with its free hand and pulled Brianna's dagger from its neck. The
dagger emerged clean; there was no blood, and before Gwydion's eyes the
wound sealed itself. "Foolish one," it repeated, "your ordinary mortal
weapons cannot harm me."
Ordinary weapons?
In a flash, it dawned on Gwydion. It can't see the light, or hear
the sound. It doesn't know the sword for what it is! In
this, perhaps, he had the advantage of surprise. If only he could
get at the sword!
The demon rider cast
the dagger aside. "Know fear, mortal!" it cried suddenly, pointing
a skeletal finger at him. "Your hour has come!"
Gwydion rocked back,
physically buffeted by the sudden outpouring of energy. He was aware
that the creature was directing its awesome fear-weapon at him, hoping
to destroy him with it. However, the waves of fear flowed around
him as if they met some sort of resistance, and though he was aware of
them peripherally, they did not affect him. Some connection with
Tylith-senshai must be shielding him, as it had earlier this day.
He edged backwards slightly, trying to get to his feet. The demon
thing was quick, impossibly quick, but perhaps if he could get it away
from the sword he might have a chance. In his state, he had no chance
of outrunning the demon for any real amount of time, but perhaps a quick
burst would be enough to get him past it and to the sword.
The demon mistook
his movements for panic, assuming that its attack had prevailed, and it
laughed again, a terrible grating sound which showed the thing plainly
took pleasure in the despair of others. "There is nowhere to run,
little one. I will grind your bones for meal and use your skin for
paper!" It glanced down at Tylith-senshai again, and grinned.
"I will use your own toy to dismember you, foolish mortal!"
The sword's shriek
had turned to a roaring scream, and the light it emitted was like a miniature
sun. Gwydion covered his ears. The sound! How can
it not hear it?
The demon reached
down and took hold of the sword's hilt. There was a sound like the
crackle of a lightning bolt, and the smell of burning flesh filled the
air.
Immediately, its expression
changed from leering arrogance to frightened agony. Crying out, it
jerked back, but the sword came with it, glaring more brilliantly than
ever, and roaring now in triumph instead of frustration.
The demon shrieked,
trying to release its hold on Tylith-senshai's hilt, but discovered it
was unable to do so. The hilt had fused with its palm - its fingers
looked melted. The creature flashed incandescent as the energies
from the artifact raced through it, its clothing smoking and catching fire.
It shrieked again, staggering backwards and dropping its hold on its weapon.
to claw at the arm which held Tylith-senshai.
Its blackened fingernails
scored deep wounds in its forearm, and Gwydion wondered for a moment whether
it was trying to tear its other arm off so as to get away from the sword.
The sword had reached
the height of its fury, however. There was a sudden flash.
For a split instant that seemed forever frozen in time the creature was
filled with light and nearly transparent, and Gwydion realized that he
could actually see straight through the demon. Then, the light grew
too brilliant to look upon with the naked eye, and he was forced to shut
his eyelids.
There was an abrupt
sound, like a crack of thunder but shorter, and suddenly the shrieking
stopped, replaced by silence.
The silence was absolute,
and, after a slight pause, Gwydion allowed himself a sigh of relief.
It's gone, he thought, with some relief.
His eyes fluttered
open at once. Brianna! he thought, alarmed.
For a moment Gwydion
could see nothing in the sudden darkness, blinded by the afterimage of
the sword's brilliance. Slowly his eyes adjusted.
Tylith-senshai stood
a few yards away, the tip of the blade embedded in the ground and the hilt
standing proudly up in the air. The sword was dark and silent again.
Of the demon, there was no sign.
Brianna lay still
farther away, face-down where she had landed and unmoving.
Gwydion made his way
to her, half-crawling across the crushed grass, grabbing clumps of it to
pull himself forward until he reached her.
Still she was inert.
He reached over to feel for a pulse.
Faint, but unmistakable.
She was alive.
Gingerly he turned
her over.
Blood and dirt was
smeared across her face, although otherwise her expression was of one asleep.
The wound was higher up, just at the point where her forehead met her hairline.
He felt a wave of
despair as he saw it. The mighty blow had not staved in her skull,
but it had cracked it. Blood flowed freely from the gaping wound,
and he could see little bits of bone protruding from it.
Instantly he saw that
the blow was mortal. How she could have sustained it and still lived
was a mystery. Regardless, she was fading quickly and likely had
only minutes left to live unless he could do something.
And there was nothing
he could do.
He was no healer.
The little he knew of herbs and poultices was confined to those aimed to
help minor scrapes heal and avoid scarring. And even that was worthless
here. He had no supplies, nothing other than the clothing he wore
and Tylith-senshai. He had not even had a blanket or bedroll;
Brianna had loaned him hers. And he knew nothing of which plants
growing in this strange new universe would help to heal her, or even if
her physiology was similar enough to his that something which might help
him would also help her. She was, after all, physically different
from him, and though she had said she was as human as he...
A wave of hopelessness
swept over him. She's going to die, and I can't stop it.
"No!" A sudden
thought occured to him, and he left her momentarily, scrambling over to
her pack. If he didn't have any supplies which might help, perhaps
she did. A balm or an ointment or something.
If she does, how
will you recognize it? You're as likely to poison her as heal her.
He fought down the disquieting thought as he dug through her pack.
There was no choice, no time for second guessing himself. He would
have to hope against hope that she had something, and that it would help.
There were a few articles
of clothing, some rope, a knife, a mirror, a letter, a small sewing kit
including a needle and thread, a flask of water, and more of the tough
rations she had shared with him earlier.
And there was nothing
else. No herbs. No ointment.
He sat back on his
heels. Your fault, he thought. She's going to die
and its your fault!
He shook the thought
off angrily. Stop it! You don't have time for self pity!
Do something!
He rummaged through
the pack's contents again, spilling them out on the ground in his desperation.
There must be something here, something... anything...
Suddenly he looked
at the items again. Fresh clothing. Clean water. Bandages!
Something to clean the wound and stop the bleeding!
He snatched up the
water flask and a clean white blouse which he had discarded earlier as
useless, and scrambled back to her side.
Quickly he tore the
blouse into several long strips. Then he regarded her again, a little
uncertainly. He had never attempted anything like this before, and
was a little uncertain how to proceed. It was a head wound, after
all. What if he did more damage than good?
Stop it!
Do nothing, and she dies. Do something and she probably still dies,
but at least you'll have done something! You've seen medics bandaging
the wounded after a battle. Do what they do!
He was uncertain where
the thought came from, but it galvanized him into action. After dampening
one of the strips of cloth, he upended the water flask over her, letting
some of the water trickle onto her forehead. Gently he used the dampened
cloth to dab at her forehead and face, cleaning away most of the dirt and
blood. When it was soiled, he took another strip and continued.
As the blood was cleared
away, the wound became more visible. It was smaller than he had originally
thought, though just as serious.
Having cleaned the
wound, he tossed the second strip aside and lifted a third. This
one he kept dry, and folded it carefully, placing it directly over the
wound.
Then he hesitated.
This next part would be the most delicate part. He had to avoid moving
her head as much as possible.
Gently he took the
fourth and fifth strips, and, tying them together, began to wind them about
her head. Around and around he went, tying the bandage in place.
She was limp in his hands, and made no sound.
He sat back after
he tied off the makeshift bandage, regarding his work. What now?
He looked around for anything else which might be of use and momentarily
came up empty.
He looked back at
Brianna. With the blood cleared away and the bandage hiding the gaping
wound, she looked almost restful, as if she were merely sleeping instead
of dying.
Should I raise
her head? he wondered. It should help stop swelling, though
so far there wasn't any. Still, he wasn't certain it was wise to
move her any more than he already had.
He wrestled with the
problem for a few moments, then decided to act. He gathered up a
few of her other articles of clothing, wrapping them into a makeshift pillow.
Then delicately he lifted her head and slipped them underneath.
He sat back again.
What else? What else?
He pondered for several
moments, but could think of nothing. Finally he decided he had done
all he could do.
Not enough,
he thought bitterly. You've slowed the process, given her maybe
a few hours longer to live, but no more. She's still going to die,
and it's your fault.
Another wave of guilt
washed over him. He had known this person for less than a day, and
she had been a traveling companion and a guide to him. More than
that, she was the only link he had to this universe which he now found
himself trapped in. And, though she might not have realized it, when
she had become a traveling companion and offered to aid him in his quest,
he had had a responsibility to safeguard her. The demon had been
after him, not her, and she would not be in this condition if she had never
met him. He had failed to protect her.
He bowed his head.
Prayer was the only thing left. Please God, please don't let her
die. Preserve her life, I beg of you. I know I am unworthy.
I ask this not for myself, but for the sake of the sacred quest on which
you have sent me.
The prayer was a simple
one, not grandiose like some of the rote prayers written in the Book of
the Prophets, and perhaps some of the priests back on his homeworld would
have disapproved of the lack of formality and the simplicity of the language
but at the moment it was the best he could manage, and he poured his whole
soul into it.
And then he waited
for an answer. It was not long in coming.
The sword!
His eyes fluttered
open, and he looked over to where Tylith-senshai stood.
Quickly he made his
way over to it, hardly knowing what he should do.
He halted before the
sword, regarding it, and realized he was feeling some trepidation.
The sword was dark and silent now, as normal-looking as any other weapon
its size, but he had just seen what it could do when awakened. He
had always heard that the touch of the sword was death to the unworthy,
but having seen it in action, he realized how dangerous this weapon could
be.
Take the sword.
You will need its power.
The thought was not
his own, he knew. It was like a small, calm voice, whispering in
his ear. He obeyed, reaching out and taking hold of the hilt-
-And was suddenly
rocked back by the sudden outpouring of energy that rushed into him.
He may have cried
out in surprise as the raging energies engulfed him, he could not be sure,
but it was not in pain.
Had he been weak a
moment ago? He found the thought unfathomable. Power surged and coursed
through every part of his body. The searing pain in his knee, the
aching of his neck, the pain in his chest and difficulty breathing which
probably indicated broken ribs, suddenly all these things were gone, lost
in in the rush of energy and power. They were trivialities, hardly
worth noting. Tired? Had he been tired a moment ago?
It seemed impossible to him that he should ever have felt in need of rest.
He felt like he could run a thousand miles without tiring! And he
was alive, more alive than he had ever been! His senses seemed more
acute, more aware. The night air suddenly seemed more vibrant and
exciting, filled with sounds and scents which dazzled his suddenly more
sensitive ears and sharper sense of smell. And the subtle shades
of color of the night sky threatened to mesmerize him with their startling
beauty. How could he have seen these things before and failed to
note them? He was amazed.
It was exhilerating
beyond words! Surely no man had ever felt this strong, this powerful!
And yet, even with the excitement of the sudden strength, Gwydion was aware
of a subtle but dark edge to the power.
The demon!
he realized. The sword had absorbed the dying fiend's power and stored
it, and now was passing it to its wielder. He wondered briefly that
this thought should bother him so little in the face of the sudden rush
of power.
As the tide of strength
filled him, he gradually became aware of himself and his position once
more. He found himself on his feet, holding the sword in front of
him as if it were a divining rod. His arms were shaking, not with
weakness but with the power surging through them.
Slowly he lowered
the sword, retaining some measure of his former self. The energy
still filled him, buoying him up, but he recalled Brianna's desperate condition
and became sobered again. Quickly he strode over to where she lay
and knelt beside her, checking her wound again in concern.
She appeared much
the same as before and he had a momentary feeling of frustration.
What should he do now? Power and energy filled him; was there nothing
he could do to aid her? Should he touch her hands to the hilt of
the sword, so that she would recieve the same rush of energy and power
he had?
No, he couldn't chance
that. The touch of Tylith-senshai was death to those not specifically
instructed to wield it. He had seen the sword's power in action,
and was nervous about wielding it himself.
What then? Surely
there must be something he could do...
Heal her.
The thought surprised him. It was the same calm, reassuring voice
as before.
What?
At first he didn't understand. He had already done all that he could
to help her. What more could he do? He hadn't any more power
to heal her.
Heal her, the
thought returned. You hold the keys.
Keys? What keys?
Gwydion was confused.
Heal her, the
thought came again, more insistantly. Lay your hands on her and
call upon the keys of your priesthood.
Understanding flashed
into his mind. He did technically hold the keys to the priesthood.
All servants of the Holy Church did. In his case, before the three
day fast required of all cavaliers who aspired to the Order of the Holy
Templars, he had been vested with the 'keys' - a term he had always thought
symbolic. It had been a small ceremony wherein in exchange for a
solemn covenant to serve his God he had been extended the keys of the priesthood,
or the power to act in his God's name, so long as his desires were righteous.
It had never meant much to him before, and if he thought of it at all,
he considered it merely a formality which was required of all who were
called to be servants of the Prophet.
He had heard stories
of miracles wrought in the ancient times by exceptional priests and holy
prophets, but they were only legends, myths of a time long past.
Miracles didn't occur, at least not any more.
And who was he to
attempt to perform one? He was no prophet, or even a high priest,
but only a lowly templar. A soldier who was no stranger to battle,
and one who was often possessed of temporal cares. No spiritual giant
he.
He shook his head.
I cannot!
You must, came
the quiet answer.
Gwydion was immediately
humbled. Who was he to doubt the will of his God? But how shall
I proceed? he wondered. I do not know the words to such a blessing.
But he didn't have
to, he realized. It was not his power to heal, it was his God's.
He was merely the instrument. "Let the Lord guide you, my son,"
the Prophet had told him. The thought returned to him now, and he
realized that it was his only course. He would trust his God.
He bowed his head.
Give me strength, Lord.
His hands seemed to
move forward of their own accord, until he was resting his palms upon her
brow. For a moment he sat frozen like that, filled with uncertainty
on how to proceed, or what to say.
Then he relaxed, and
instantly he realized that no words needed to be spoken aloud. He
could feel a warmth building within him, springing from some unseen source.
He let it fill him, and for a moment he basked in its glow. Then,
as if releasing something, he commanded it.
It coursed down the
length of his arms, passing through through his palms and fingertips and
into Brianna.
Live!
he commanded, and in that moment they were suddenly one.
For one instant that
seemed to stretch an eternity he could not tell where he ended and she
began. He felt every part of her body as if it were his own, including
her terrible wound. It was not an unpleasant feeling at all, strange
as it was. If anything, he was exhilerated by it.
He directed the main
force of the incredibly powerful healing energy which had been generated
within him towards the wound, and almost before he had assigned it its
task, the job was finished.
The moment passed.
Gwydion reeled back
as if he had been struck, collapsing on his side in utter exhaustion.
Tiny points of light danced before his eyes and there was a great rushing
in his ears. The healing had drained him of every reserve of strength
he possessed. It had taken all the energy which Tylith-senshai
had provided, entirely depleting it in one burst, as well as taking a substantial
part of his own reserves.
He realized that without
the extra energy the sword had granted him, he would have died in the healing.
He turned his head
to gaze over at Brianna. He did not need to see the rythmic rise
and fall of her chest to know she was alright. He had been, for the
space of a heartbeat, more intimately connected with her than any other
person he had ever known. He knew every part of her physical body,
inside and out. The wound had been healed. She was whole again.
He knew it as surely as he knew himself. In all likelihood, there
would not even be a scar to signify the place where she had recieved the
terrible wound.
She slumbered on,
engulfed in a deep, dreamless sleep. The miracle had been as taxing
for her as it had for him.
Miracle, he
thought in wonder, struggling to keep his eyes open. I performed
a miracle.
A moment later he
lost his struggle, and, exhausted nearly beyond the limits of endurance,
slipped into the realm of dreams. His last conscious thought was
if he fell asleep he would be leaving them both unguarded, and though he
knew he should be concerned by this, in his present state of exhaustion
he simply could not bring himself to care.