Cruel Device

(a work in progress, a later chapter in the Stormdove Legacies)

Her knee shoved into the cold muck of the forest, Eithyne knelt in a sheltered gulch, a fallen tree at her back. The heavy morning fog stayed thick and refreshing despite the death and blood. Softly spoken words tumbled from bruised lips, and before long, she opened her eyes and made a slow, deliberate gesture in the air, drawing a prayer with two fingers. Delicate movement was difficult in thick metal armor, she had to be especially precise, tucking her gloves away in her belt.

Reaching down, she closed the eyes of the man she had tried to save, her carefully made, hastily used bandages lying useless at his side, used in a final effort after her prayers had fallen on deaf ears. There would be someone else to care for him now, she was sure of it. She folded his hands on his stomach, awkwardly attempting to cover the wound that had caused his passing. His golden tabard was soaked with red, his leather armor pierced and torn apart by claws and fangs.

A hand rested on her shoulder as she stood, and she turned to face a familiar, welcome visage. A man, not much older than her, half-hid his face with an elaborately embroidered cowl. Silver shimmers began to fade from his robes and gloves as one of his many spells faded.

“Zeulus.” She smiled as she said his name. He nodded and glanced down at the body that lay beneath the hollow’s shadow. Other figures could be seen stirring in the mist, some limping, others standing as straight as she and her friend. The numbers were thankfully more than what she had prayed for, and she hoped the fog hid even more of their host.

“We have lost many today.” She sighed and glanced down again, this time at herself. While her mage friend looked nearly untouched in his robes, the thick plate she wore was grimy, caked with grit and ash. “Are you all right?”

He nodded and was silent for a long moment before responding. “I am fine. There are many that are injured worse than I.”

She looked at him for a long moment, waiting for more, but he did not offer anything else, merely standing with his staff heavy in one hand, ignoring the weight. His robes appeared complete, and though his cowl kept his full face from sight, she had seen enough battles with this mage to know instinctively that he was very worn, even if he himself did not realize it.

“Zeulus, your arm.” His left arm was cradled close to his body, and the tips of his fingers were a bruised purple. He gave her his hand without argument when she extended hers, pushing back the long bell sleeve and peeling away the cloth glove and bracer. His flesh buckled slightly, a dent in what should have been a smooth bone.

“A small injury, hardly life threatening.” The mage slowly flexed, grimacing slightly. A gentle shimmer passed between his fingers, as a croaking frog suddenly transformed into a sheep and began wandering aimlessly, baaing in confusion. “And it seems there is no permanent harm done.”

Eithyne smiled slightly, watching the ‘sheep’ for a moment before turning back to him, “May I?”

He nodded, giving his hand to her. A soft golden illumination that filled her palms as she began tracing well-worn lines into the air. Her soft prayers, the entreaty she offered to the divine, empowered the glow in her hands, each word a yearning for protection, for guidance and blessing. The plea was not sent unheeded, and her hands began to move on their own, the glow enveloping them as they danced.

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The casting was complete after a moment and two. She opened her eyes slowly, trying to catch her breath. Her fingertips tingled liked they had fallen asleep; her shoulders sagged as if feeling the weight of her armor for the first time. Zeulus’ arm was whole and solid, the assumed fracture and the damage caused by it had disappeared, old blood rejuvenated and weakened bones strengthened. The sheep’s baaing disappeared in a shrinking poof, and the frog hopped away in a panic.

The mage smiled slightly and nodded in gratitude. It was enough to make Eithyne smile in return, relieved. Her job had been done, her prayers answered.

The forest around them still glowed almost imperceptibly, the sunlight from somewhere high above diffused and soft. It was comforting in many ways, like an angel’s embrace—the gentle light was soothing to the mind, and the fog also hid the horrors of what lay scattered on the ground.

Her friends and allies were beginning to gather up the hill a bit, she could hear the sounds of horses. Healers started making their separate ways through the carnage, some uttering words like her own to their own Order’s deity, entreating for divine intervention and healing. Others, followers of a much older persuasion, called upon the power of the earth and the curative energies of Nature itself to mend wounds.

No matter what the form the wishes took, the faithful were rewarded with the lives of the injured.

From up the slope a bit, she could start to make out words spoken quietly in reverence to the tired and the dead. Glancing back, she caught Zeulus’ gaze and they began to move together, their feet squelching mud and dead leaves. The ground was still soaked, making each step a labor. She sank a little deeper than he and stumbled once, her toe catching a resilient root.

Zeulus’ hand closed on her wrist to balance her, thankfully keeping her from falling completely. Her armor made balance almost impossible, her foot slipping already. She stuck out her arms to catch the side of the gully and her fingers sank deep into the debris. A sharp burning lashed across her exposed skin, sharp pinpricks of breaking skin.

The sharp vine clung to her hand as she seized back, biting her lip as she examined it. It was sticky and clingy, small trickles of blood had begun to slide into the speckles of muck. She shook away quickly, trying to free herself from the aggravating plant. Finally, it tore free, from the ground and her hand, leaving small thorns in her fingers.

There was something wrong from the instant heat began to spread from the tiny cuts, she could feel the fever begin rising through her fingers. She grabbed at her gauntlet, fighting to tear it off, to clamp down on her wrist before whatever it was could spread too far. Zeulus gave her an odd look when she pitched the plate into the mud.

Her fingers twisted hard, cutting off the blood flow to her hand. Her fingertips began to throb and bleed more profusely as she pushed tightly. Zeulus had long since noticed something amiss. He reached out to take her wrist, much as she had moments before, then frowned in concern when he felt the heat.

“I need…a healer…” She hissed between clenched teeth, eyes narrowed. He nodded and looked up the incline, at the gathering throng, searching the faces. Zeulus let out a sharp whistle, one that caught a certain figure’s attention quite quickly. A man with silver hair turned away from the deep blue panther and a woman with dark skin. He paused for a moment, confused at the call.

His eyes widened for a second before he started down the incline quickly, skipping and hopping between rocks before sliding to a wet stop. An animalistic roar followed him, a sound of impatience. The man turned and sliced his hand through the air, peeved, “Adeou, hold! I will be back, just wait!”

The source of the feral cry eyed him, annoyed. The slinking, dark-colored panther paced from side to side in obvious irritation, pausing every so often to look up at the other officers gathered about him, licking gore from his large paws. The man was brave to ignore him, to turn his back to the beast, but he continued on his slippery path.

“Eithyne, love, what happened? Zeulus?” He took her hand quickly, examining the purple-tinged skin, looking at the death grip on her own wrist, “What did you do?”

“She fell, her armor carried her off-balance.”

“I caught my hand on something, a vine.” She interrupted the mage in pain, biting her lip for a moment, “It should still be on the ground.”

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He did not release her hand, instead, he knelt, still holding her injury up, above his head. Searching the trampled soil was no easy task, but his metal-plated fingers were far more suited to plucking the spiny plant from the ground. His eyes darted quickly over the missing thorns, the sticky white sap that smeared from the breaks. A soft sigh escaped his lips.

“Balbanes…what’s wrong?” Eithyne sucked in a breath, keeping the heavy pressure on her wrist, but her grip was slipping as her injured hand grew number. She watched his face as he tossed the plant aside, along with his own gloves, and drew a small blade from his belt, almost a shiv. “What are you doing?”

“We are going to get these thorns out,” He narrowed his eyes and held her hand up close, their wedding bands tinking softly together as he slid his hand to cup hers. The blade scraped lightly over her grubby skin, pulling away dirt as well and catching the edge of one of the embedded thorns. Her weight had pressed the spine deep into the flesh, and his blade edge hooked it, tugging it free. Muttering under his breath, he wiped the blade off on his tabard. “It looked like a Deathweed sprig, heh. They say it must be carried very, very carefully, something for brewing poisons.”

She nodded in understanding, grimacing as she waited patiently, her grip weakening. “I do not mean to rush you, but…” Her voice trailed off purposely as her injured fingers went completely numb. Zeulus watched carefully from the side, standing nimbly on a half-sunken branch from an old trunk that had long since fallen. He had reached into his bag, searching for something.

Balbanes nodded to her, strands of silver hair falling into his eyes as he concentrated carefully. The heat in her hand was palpable, he could feel it even through his gloves. Despite the bruising she was causing herself with the grip, he could see a rash begin to spread as far as her wrist. He looked up at the mage, who was patiently waiting, glanced up towards the slowly growing group of people, and returned to Zeulus again.

“Zeulus, do you have any bandages? Silk, linen, runecloth, anything?” He let out a soft breath, catching Eithyne’s eye, “This will be a little painful, hun.”

The mage already had a bandage ready, the long length of netherweave glimmering subtly. It was what he had been searching his pack for, and he slowly unrolled it, waiting.
She nodded in response and looked down at her hand. There were eight little thorns in her hand still, and each one was beginning to be lost in blood, muck, and inflamed flesh. A length of pale purple cloth looped around her forearm, just behind her furious grasp. Zeulus held each end tightly, waiting for Balbanes’ command.

“Let go of your wrist.”

Eithyne looked up at him for a moment, then nodded. A hot flood of sharp prickles filled her arm, up to her shoulder, as her blood rushed to continue circulating. Zeulus deftly pulled the ends of the fabric apart, tying them around one another and squeezing down, a tourniquet that would not tire. The throbbing pain of trapped blood did not stop, it ached with each beat of her heart. The fever had visibly begun to spread from her wrist, the inflamed rash following suit.

The blade pulled carefully at each thorn, the swollen skin around each one making it harder and harder to find where it was. She wiped her now free hand off on her stained golden tabard, flexing her fingers in sympathy to her other, injured limb. Her forehead began to bead with perspiration by the time the fifth thorn was pulled, and the heat had just filled her chest when the last offensive spine was flicked to the ground.

The blade was tossed after it, diving blade-first into the mud with an earthy shuk. Both hands now free, Balbanes closed his eyes tightly and began to speak the same words she herself had uttered over Zeulus’ arm. His prayers came much more swiftly than hers had, his utterances much more practiced, more precise. The fever began to fade slowly, the swelling unable to remain in the light.

But before his prayer was finished, his words changed a bit, reciting a different entreaty. This response was almost instant, the fever disappearing in a second’s time. She sighed in relief as Zeulus’ grip on either end of the bandage loosened.

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Taking her hand back, she rolled her wrist, rubbing quickly to promote circulation once again. By this time, the commotion had drawn a bit of attention from others, but as the crisis faded, they returned to their conversations and whisperings. Some had already rode off towards the nearest town to rest and recuperate from their strain, many of the injured and still-living had been carried away to safety as well.

As she rubbed her aching arm, Eithyne glanced over the gully, sighing softly as the fog faded a bit more. At first the mist had begun to dissipate almost imperceptibly, but now it was obvious, more of the foot and hoof trampled mud could be seen.

“Thank you, Balbanes.” She smiled up at him, gratefully. He returned the smile and reached out, gently holding her neck in one hand to pull her close to him, into a warm embrace. Her wedding band clinked softly on his plate armor, under his tabard, as she squeezed him tightly. Planting a soft kiss gently on her forehead, he reached up, brushed some hair away from her eyes and squeezed her waist gently.

“I should get back to the other lords,” He glanced up the hill where a small group was awaiting him: a light haired woman with dark skin, a tall blue-skinned elf with long ears, an older man with grey hair and robes much like Zeulus wore, and that same dark blue furred panther. The feline stared at Balbanes with its empty black eyes, waiting impatiently, his claws seemingly never clean from that blood.

Eithyne shivered uncomfortably, and Balbanes squeezed gently one last time before releasing her. The sea of golden tunics that once filtered through the fog was diminishing as bodies were carried to places of rest, that was somewhat comforting, but the deadened look in the panther’s eyes made her wish for the heat of battle once again, perhaps even the fever was preferable to the piercing bitterness in that gaze. She allowed her mind to wander a bit, back to the fight, to the man she had tried to save but failed. His injuries were animalistic, clawlike.

Zeulus approached quietly as she looked over her shoulder. The panther looked up at Balbanes as he approached, its attention now focused on the noble group gathered around it.

“Thank you, Zeulus. I would not have been able to hold much longer.” He did not ask about her preoccupied tone, he did not have to. Her frown was enough to tell him that she was thinking hard, and by the bite of her healed lip, she was dwelling on something unpleasant. They met gazes for only a moment before she shook her head with a slight smile, waving her still slightly painful fingers. He reached out, resting his hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing in reassurance.

Eithyne looked back at Balbanes and the other lords for some sense of security, but the glimpse of the panther with his bloodied claws chased that safety away. With a sigh and a silent prayer to her deity, mumbling the Watchful One’s name through tired lips, she began to make her way up the slope, hopefully out onto the farmland she remembered from before the midnight assault. Her charger, a proud, armored steed should be awaiting her there, cared for by the hands of a talented and dedicated druid, a student of animals and nature. Zeulus followed close behind.

As she passed by the officers, a tail swung past and brushed her ankle. Adeou looked up at her, cold eyes void and emotionless. Her stride was interrupted for a second only as she sidestepped with a courteous nod. He was her superior after all, despite his feral spirit, and she was expected to offer him his dues in respect. He turned back to the others, the tall blue-skinned elf was speaking quietly now, animatedly describing something about the battle.

Her charger did await her, and as Eithyne took the reigns, she could not help but look back at the officers, the lords of their guild, conversing so quietly. Zeulus’ own mount, an armored black war tiger, pawed at the ground as its owner pulled himself into the low saddle. Mounting up, she clucked her tongue, calling up some measure of speed as she and the mage fled, not the battlefield, but what secrets she feared might have been hidden by the blood and death therein.