Leaving the Healer’s

“I’m afraid there is nothing you can do for him,” said the healer, “If he gets better he’ll get better, if not… Well, it’s out of my hands. There’s no point hanging around for him. I suggest you head on home. Give me your address and I’ll make sure you receive news if anything happens.”

Matthew winced as yet another cough shook the room next to them, “I’d feel awful leaving him, but I don’t know if we have much choice. We can’t afford to stay here much longer. What do you think Stillow?”

“I disagree.”

“You have more money than you’ve let on.”

“Less than you’d think my boy, less than you’d think,” Stillow said, tapping his nose, “No. We should leave from here. In that I am in agreement. But we should not head home. How do you think Adal succumbed to this illness in the first place? Too much time spent indoors, and not enough time spent moving about. I suggest we leave this place and never look back. Let us become fishermen by the sea, or cutthroats in some far away land. What is the point of being free if you do not exercise your freedom?”

“If I may?” asked the healer. Her face grew stern and she put her hands on her hips. “You would abandon your friend?”

“It’s what he would want. The man likes nothing better than an unbound book.”

The healer’s face had now become truly frightening. Matthew was glad her attention was fixed on Stillow and not him.

“What’s stopping me from slapping you to the ground, old man? What if I feel like exercising my freedom against such a faithless friend?”

Stillow seemed quite unaware of his precarious position. He clapped the healer on the shoulder, “And so you should! What better way to convince those who have wronged you that their words terrify you? Yes, strike me down and prove to me what your words cannot!”

At a loss for what to do about the philosopher the healer turned her glare on Matthew.

“We would never abandon Adal!” he rushed, cowering back. “Ignore him, it is just his way of speaking.”

The healer’s expression did not change.

“Um… I suggest a compromise. Stillow and I will return home, but we shall do so at our leisure. Make a vacation of it. Head south, I’ve always wanted to visit Moldeth. Stillow is right, we’ve spent far too much time bent over books in the archive,” the healer’s gaze continued to bore into him, “And… um… we’ll leave the horse and cart here. That way Adal can catch up to us if he gets better. When he gets better.”

This seemed to satisfy the healer, though her fee was somewhat steeper than what Matthew remembered. He and Stillow left shortly after settling with her. They travelled light, taking with them only a day’s food and water and the remainder of their coins. Stillow remembered an inn along the road that he had stayed at many decades ago which they hoped to reach before nightfall.

They had been walking for less than an hour when it began to rain. They spent the next hour hiding under a large oak tree. The rain didn’t let up. If anything, it rained harder. As water dripped through the leaves and onto their heads, the two gave up on staying dry and decided to press on.

They had just come alongside a river when Stillow burst out, “This is a punishment! I know it!”

He had to shout to be heard over the rain. Matthew shouted back at him, “What are you talking about?”

“The healer took everything I own! I admit it,” he held up an empty coin purse, “every last weight is gone!”

“How many weight did you have?”

“None! That’s what makes her crime so horrendous. Oh, miserable me.”

“So when we pooled our money to pay the healer…”

“I lied! I cheated! I stole from your purse and gave her nothing of my own! That is why I am tormented by the rain!” Adal threw his hands up in despair, “You, with your weight, cannot understand the pain which caused me to stoop so low. Even a hundred weight is enough to afford friends. Ten coins and at least you may find a place to stay for the night. A man with a single weight has no friends. If he loses that coin he loses everything. Now I ask you to imagine, if you dare, the infinitely more profound tragedy of the man who has nothing to lose! He may not even rail against cruel Fate which has robbed the other men. Where none have gone, none may follow. Only that which exists may draw others to itself. Much as your existence has drawn to us this companion.”

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

It was then Matthew noticed the third man. He could only make out his silhouette in the rain, but that dark outline set Matthew’s heart racing. The man towered over both Matthew and Stillow. All his limbs were at least twice as large as an ordinary man’s. Despite his size he stalked alongside them as graceful as a huntsman. Matthew couldn’t even hear him in the rain. Fears began to whisper in Matthew’s ear. Was he a highwayman? A murderer? Look, there, beneath his cloak, was that a sword?

“And yet, Fate torments me still—”

“Stillow shut up,” Matthew clutched the hilt of his dagger. He stopped and turned on the stranger. Stillow continued on walking. “Who are you?”

The man’s voice was a low rasp, “Broken Sword.”

“That’s a funny name, what are you, a mercenary?”

Broken Sword snorted, “Lucky guess, but I don’t take kindly to you mocking my name. I earned it. An earned name’s always better. What’s yours?”

“Mine’s Matthew. A name I earned at my birth. That’s enough for any man.”

The mercenary chuckled, “Heh. I would have agreed with you, once upon a time. If I’d made the right choices I might still. Or maybe I wouldn’t. A century is a long time for mistakes.”

Broken Sword started to walk again. A moment ago Matthew would have been relieved to have him walk by, but now he ran to keep him. He’d never met one of the ageless before. Adal claimed he had, and the archives contained a few records, but it was all hearsay. Some said they never stopped growing. Other said they never started, but were born fully formed in mind and body. Adal claimed they were less intelligent than the common man, yet had written they were far wiser.

“You’ve lived a century?” Matthew gasped as he fell in beside the mercenary. Broken Sword walked exceptionally fast, even for his size.

“Years and seasons blur together. I may be far older, or far younger. Keeping track of time is a game for the young.”

“Time is more than a game,” said Stillow as they caught up to him. The philosopher’s short legs forced him to skip to keep up with the other two, “it is a metric by which we may measure morality. Should a woman of twenty years steal, she is a criminal. Should a maiden child of four, she is not. A forty-year-old may well understand the physical laws, but cannot be castigated for inherent cruelty. One of seventy years knows how much pain their lies have caused and may finally be punished.”

“The law is the same at any age, old man,” said Broken Sword. “When I was young I threatened one who should not have been threatened. Forty-seven people died for my youthful ignorance. There is no justice.”

“Justice? Ah. It would take an older man than myself to understand justice. Older, even, than you who call me old.”

“This world doesn’t need justice. It needs smarter men. I learned my lesson the day I threatened that chieftain.”

Matthew nodded, more to himself than Broken Sword, as he doubted the mercenary could see him in the downpour. It was important to know when to stand aside.

“I learned I needed to devote myself to becoming stronger and faster than any who would stand against me. Only then may I follow through on my threats.”

Matthew stopped nodding. Stillow cackled.

“What a man does by nature always becomes his virtue.”

Matthew ignored him. Broken Sword’s words had reminded him that the mercenary was more than an ageless. He was a dangerous and unknown quantity.

“You said you’re a mercenary, who do you serve?”

“I’m a commander.”

“A commander without an army?”

“We’re headed in the right direction.”

“Why aren’t you already with them?”

“I don’t yet lead them.”

“You seek to become the High Commander of The Chosen.”

Broken Sword grunted, “Another good guess. What do you know of The Chosen?”

“I studied them with my master. They are a source of historical interest and philosophical debate. They were involved in nearly a quarter of the pivotal battles of the last two centuries and are responsible for wiping out the Black Dread. Philosophers are most interested in their command structure, for they might be the only working kratocracy ever. All positions are won in the arena or on the battlefield. If you defeat a higher up, you inherit their position.”

“Impressive. I did not realize scholars could learn so much of the world from their books. You two have a destination in mind? You could stay for the show.”

Stillow scoffed, “Violence is no more a show than is tearing apart mattresses. It is horrific to behold, things spill out everywhere, and people die senselessly.”

“This is Stillow,” Matthew apologized, “He’s as likely to spew insight as madness.”

“Often both are considered the same by those who are afraid to have their understandings shattered,” replied Broken Sword.

“I think you’ll find with Stillow it is primarily madness.”

“Nonsense! Did I not tell you of my exploits? I have taught tsars, educated empresses, prophesized with penguins, spoken soliloquies to sordid serpents sullenly surrounding several soft—”

Stillow spluttered to a halt, “Sticks? Stones, swords, no… swords aren’t soft. Sharp! Several sharp swords!”

He took a deep breath, “Ordered around orchestras, metabolized maple syrup…”

Matthew was thankful when the rain increased yet again, drowning out Stillow’s words.