Rohvim #1: Metal and Flesh (4 page)

Priam continued, “… to grace their ranks with our skill! Our valor! Our …”

“Our women … getting … skills!” Aeden shook his sword in the air while Priam choked back a laugh.

The two continued their talk of glory, girls, and gossip for awhile, before Priam announced he had to return home to help his mother “with something.” Aeden mocked him again for his family’s lack of hired help, and the two got up and, slapping each other on the back, bade farewell.

As Aeden returned into the house he nearly ran into his father, who stood in the doorway with arms folded across his chest. “What are you doing all night that requires you to sleep until two hours after breakfast is finished?”

Aeden squirmed a bit, “Uh … nothing. Just, reading. Working on my Chronicles. I’ve nearly finished copying the Lay of—”

His father opened his mouth to continue, then stopped, and simply said, “Follow me.” His son followed him back out into the courtyard, where the lord stooped to pick up one of the practice swords. He held it up at arm’s length and looked down the length of it, then swiped the air a few times as he approached Aeden.

“Duel me.”

Aeden stiffened. His father had taught him everything he knew about swordsmanship, but they hadn’t dueled in over a year. He believed that his father gave up competing with him when he feared that Aeden might actually win. His father served for a time in the royal guard as a young man, and was a formidable dueler, but their final lessons often ended with the lord in a foul temper as he realized the younger, more agile boy had nearly learned all he had to offer.

“What are you waiting for, son?” His father smiled slightly, pointing his sword at the boy.

“Are you sure you can handle me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s been a long time, sir.”

His eyes betrayed a dangerous look. “Are you scared?”

“No.” In fact, he was rather uneasy. But he would not let his father see it. “No, ok, lets go.” He turned to pick up his sword where he had left it, and was sent sprawling by an unlooked for blow from the older man.

“Ow!, What was that for?”

The lord advanced on him. “When you enter combat, your enemy will rarely ask if you are ready.” He brought his sword down on the prostrate boy, who this time held his sword ready. He slashed it away and jumped to his feet, only to jump again to avoid a swipe at his feet. The two circled each other, the man frowning down on his son, Aeden biting his lower lip, looking for an opening.

“You had a visitor this morning.”

Aeden nodded, “Yes, I know. Priam and I practiced out back all morning. Well, all the rest of the morning.” He jabbed at the man, who swatted the sword away, countering with his own thrust.

“No, not Priam—he came later. No, the master healer came by even earlier. Just after sunrise, in fact. He asked to see you, and when informed of your sleeping habits, he requested that you call on him at his study later this afternoon.”

Aeden stared at his father. “Really? He wants to see me? What for? Did he say what for?” He dodged another blow, but almost too slowly. His mind raced.
The master healer? What does he want with me?

The older man shook his head, “No idea. Maybe he wants to heal your sleep disorder, for all I know. He does often recruit promising young men in the city to join the society of healers, but why that would bring him to our house I have no clue.” Aeden lunged at him, but the man parried and kicked the boy’s feet out from under him as he passed, causing him to collapse with a wheeze onto his back.

“I wouldn’t think you would be interested, though.”

“Well, I don’t know. They’re a pretty select group.”

“The king may put up a public front of tolerating them, but I’ve talked to the priests in private, and they highly disapprove. Witchcraft and dark arts, they claim. And many of the healers openly profess disbelief in the Creator. Where they claim to get their healing power from, I don’t know—I would think you’d be better off with the royal guard. Much more honorable. Are you going to get up?”

Aeden grimaced as he rose. “Yeah, I guess. Still, I’d like to go hear what he has to say….”

“Were you listening to me?” His father’s tone grew dangerous. “The master healer may have won some renown in the kingdom, but I’m telling you more honor is to be had in the guard.” He eyed his son up and down, then whipped his sword out in a disarming maneuever. Aeden saw it and before his father knew what was happening his own sword wrenched out of his grip. Aeden had been forced to step past the man though, and even as the sword fell, the man grabbed the boy’s wrist, punched him solidly in the gut with his other fist, and backhanded the boys face as he doubled over. Aeden collapsed again.

“You can’t grab my sword hand in a duel!” Aeden held his face where the redness betrayed the force of his father’s blow.

“Do you think you will say that to your enemy in combat?” the man sneered.

“Enemy? What enemy? Father, the kingdom has been at peace for over a hundred years!”

“And yet,” the man stooped and offered his hand, but maintained his dangerous look, “the world changes. Constantly. You may not be aware of it, but changes are coming in the kingdom, and as my son, I want you to be prepared for it.”

“What changes?”

“I will not speak of them here. Do well in the tournament, and I may deem you worthy of my trust.”

Lord Rossam lifted his son to his feet, and abruptly left, leaving his son staring after him in bewilderment.
Changes?
He rubbed his cheek, glaring at the back door as it shut.
What in creation is he talking about?

He entered the house and unstrapped his armor, letting it crash to the floor in the hallway, and made for the dining room to eat. Then, abruptly changing his mind, he opened the back door once again, crossed the back courtyard to the bathhouse, and stripped his clothes off. There, a servant had ready a bucket of steaming water, half of which he poured over himself, and reached for the lye. He scrubbed his body, which smelled of an hour’s worth of hard swordplay, and wetted and washed his hair and face. He then poured the remainder of the bucket over himself, and, still dripping, walked back across the courtyard towards the house.

“Put some clothes on! Your sister will see you, for heaven’s sake!” his mother called out from a third floor window at her dripping, naked son. He quickened his pace, bolting up the two flights of stairs to his room. He approached his closet, pausing only briefly to survey himself in the mirror, admiring the growing muscles on his abdomen and chest, and reached for some fresh clothing the servants had hung there the day before. Clean and dressed, he strapped his sword to his belt, for appearance more than anything, and left the estate, heading towards the center of the city.

He ambled down the streets, wondering what the master healer would say. Would he invite him to join the society of healers? Aeden couldn’t help but wonder why since he had shown no propensity for any healing skill, but still felt honored, as the society was generally highly regarded by many, including the king. Aeden still remembered the outbreak of plague ten years before: panic enveloped the city and the healers announced they had the ability to cure the sickness, but only if one presented themselves quickly to the healers at their building on the lord of the city’s estate. He remembered long lines that moved steadily, wrapping out the gates of the estate, snaking up the street and around the corner to the market. The lord of the city required the healers to have a separate line for the nobility, apart from the others, and Aeden and his family spent about an hour waiting there. Inside the building, he met the master healer for the first time when he welcomed them to the healer’s clinic and directed them to a small room where he placed his hand on their heads, one by one. His touch lasted only a second or two, but his hand lingered on Aeden’s head for a few extra seconds before he opened his eyes and declared them all clean.

”Did we have the plague?” Lord Rossam asked.

“Just you and your son,” the healer answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there are several thousand more patients to see.” And thus, over the course of a few days, the group of twenty-five healers saw the vast majority of the inhabitants of the city, touching their heads one by one, working from before dawn until well after midnight.

At least one hundred thousand people were healed in this way (most as a precaution), and as a result, the lord of the city announced a festival in honor of the society and declared each of the twenty-five heroes of the city. The society maintained their headquarters in the distant city of Ramath, near the sea, but the lord of the city deemed their worth and importance so great that he constructed a large, spacious building for them on his own estate to replace the smaller, humbler one that stood there previously, and asked them to open a permanent clinic in the city.  

Aeden approached the center of the city, which bustled with people about their business, buying, selling, trading, mending, sewing, cooking, talking, yelling, drinking, kissing, singing. He passed a beggar sitting on the ground, holding his hand out expectantly to him, but was distracted by a pretty lord’s daughter ahead in the crowd. Seeing he still had some time yet before the master healer would expect him, he followed her as she walked the street, his heart pumping a little quicker has he caught glimpses of her pretty face and fine dress. She turned this corner and that, he not paying attention to where she was taking them, and at last, she approached a house on a corner and disappeared inside. Aeden sighed and gave up the hunt, turning to walk back towards the city’s center. 

As he strolled down the narrow lane, he noticed the trash in the street, the rickety, dirty buildings, and the wafting smell of sewage—he hadn’t realized the pursuit took him into a section of the city he rarely entered. He passed more beggars and toothless old men and women hawking their shabby wares from blankets laid out on the side of the dirt road. He turned down a street, realized that he was now heading in the wrong direction, and turned around and retraced his steps.

He heard a cry behind him. The street, more of an alley, was deserted, except for a small circle of young thugs surrounding an older man on the ground. They brutally kicked and pounded on the man, and one of them vigorously hit him repeatedly over the head and back with a small wooden plank, producing profuse amounts of blood as the wretched man waved his arm in a vain attempt to block the savage blows. They did not stop, but continued their vicious assault until the man fell limp back to the ground.

A few of them then knelt and removed several items from the man’s pockets, including a small change purse, fighting and squabbling over how to divide the spoils. The loot divied up, they stood and, noticing Aeden, began to approach him. He drew his sword, pointing it at the encroaching young men. Flashing toothy grins, they drew closer, one of them slapping his plank repeatedly into his hand. Aeden brandished his sword and they halted. One of them announced to the others, “Not worth it, boys. The brat is a noble by the looks of him, and we’d be beheaded for sure. Can’t say it isn’t tempting, though.” The boys laughed, but ran off in the other direction.

Aeden, seeing the slanting rays of the sun, started briskly walking again, but conscience drew him back. He returned to the fallen man and bent over him. The unkempt old man looked up at Aeden, blood flowing from wounds on his face as he coughed hoarsely and reached up at the boy. Aeden’s eyes widened, and, taking a step back, dug into his pocket.

“Here.” He tossed a coin at the man, who struggled to his feet. “I’m late for an important appointment, but I thought I saw an inn around the corner, I’m sure they can help you there.” He turned and ran off as the man started a coughing fit, clutching the wall next to him. Aeden ran until he reached the central market again, and approached the estate of the lord of the city. He entered the gates, nodding to the guards who saluted back, and found the small mansion that housed the healers working in Elbeth.

The door stood wide open so he entered and looked around. Several people sat in chairs by the entrance, waiting to be seen by a healer. There were several tables and couches scattered throughout the large room, and doors lined the walls leading off to what looked like an assortment of offices, bedrooms and storage rooms. He walked through the room and approached a seated woman who held her hand against a man’s head lying on the table before her. Large oozing pustules covered the man’s face and neck, and he coughed violently. After a minute, she lowered her hand and looked up at him.

“Yes?”

Aeden bowed low and said, “I’m looking for the master healer.”

She motioned to the chairs by the front door. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait like everyone else. There is no special line for nobility. Only in times of crisis.” And she placed her hand back on the man’s head.

He stammered, “No, wait! He summoned me. He asked me to meet him here this very afternoon.”

Without even looking at him she continued, “That does not change my answer. Please have a seat.”

Somewhat stunned, he found his way back to the chairs and sat. He passed the time examining the other waiting people who stood one by one as they were called, the newly healed leaving the building with smiling faces, often rotating their shoulders or rubbing their arms or heads in happy disbelief. He looked at the man across from him. Old, toothless, torn clothing. He had several open sores on his face and hands, and coughed almost ceaselessly. He scratched his arms and shook his head repeatedly, as if in deep conversation with himself and suddenly disagreeing with what he had to say. The man looked up at him.

“What do you have?” he croaked.

Aeden, pretending he thought the man was talking to the woman next to him, examined the floor—wood boards fastened to the underfloor with iron nails.

“What do you have?” the man repeated.

“Excuse me?” Aeden looked at the man, faint disgust on his face.

“What do you have? Are you sick?” The man licked his cracked lips, chasing down stray drops of drool.