The Dragonstone Page 4
“Huah!” Aiko shook her head. “Scour him, you mean. And pumice his teeth and mint his breath and burn his clothes as well.”
“Enough, Aiko,” admonished Arin. “He has but one eye, and we must discover if he is the one.”
“Jikoku,” growled Aiko…then sighed. “If it is your will, Dara.”
With that, Aiko reached beneath the table and dragged Alos by his ankle out from under, ale cups rattling in his wake, the flagon lost to his grip. Then with a grunt she hefted him up and across her shoulders. And with Orri and his raiders looking on in wonder, she followed Arin across the floor and out into the dank night, a thin thread of vomit-tainted drool dribbling from Alos’s slack jaw and leaving a wet trail behind.
CHAPTER 5
It was well past mid of night as Arin sat staring into the flames, trying to
As the lodge boy passed through the room carrying the old man’s clothes out to the greatroom hearth to be burned, in through the door came Thar, the healer bearing a bulging leather sack. He momentarily paused and frowned at the ruckus in the next room, then a look of understanding crossed his face. He stepped to the Dylvana’s side and raised his voice above the howls and said, “Right, Lady, I ha’e th’ herbs and stones and powders ye asked fr, though th’ gettin’ o’ some o’ them were a fair quest i’ itself. Ha’ t’ look through all me goods. Ha’ t’ get old Maev up fr some o’ ’em.” He set the bag on the small table next to the chifforobe.
From the next room there came a sodden thunk! and the yowling ceased.
“Aiko?” called Arin.
“He tried to get away, Dara, but slipped and hit his head” came the reply.
Arin raised a skeptical eyebrow but did not question Aiko further. Thar pointed to the leather bag. “Ye look at what I ha’e brought and make certain I got all that be needed. I’ll go peer at Alos, see if he be truly injured or no. But, Lady Arin, do not start mixing the medicks wi’out me. I c’n use th’ knowledge o’ th’ sleepin’ draught t’ aid them what need such.”
“A sleeping draught and a potion to ease pain, Thar. I shall show thee the making of each.”
Thar bobbed his head and then stepped into the next room as Arin began laying out the contents of the bag: harf root, laka reed, soda stone, oil of cod…
The lodge boy came back through carrying a fresh pail of steaming water. Moments later he stood shuffling from foot to foot at Arin’s side. “Beggin’ y’r pardon, Lady, but”—he swallowed—”she wants th’ chewin’ stick, th’ p-p-pumice, ‘n’ th’ mint leaves, er, ‘right now,’ she said, she did, Lady, beggin’ y’r pardon.”
Arin unloaded the rest of the bag and found the requested items and gave them to the lad.
Back to the other room he sped as Thar returned. “Alos, he be no th’ worse f’r th’ havin’ o’ a knot on top o’ his head, though how it came about from a slip, I nae c’d say.”
Arin sighed and cast a glance toward the room where Aiko could be heard muttering words in her native tongue. As the Dylvana turned her attention back to the goods on the table, soft moans from Alos began as well.
“This is the way of a sleeping draught, Thar,” began Arin.
From the bathing room Alos’s moans became a feeble yowling only to be choked into muted squawks as if something had been jammed in his mouth.
Arin heaved a sighing breath of resignation…and then took up the mortar and pestle. “First thou must grind the soda stone into fineness, thus….”
* * *
Once again Arin sat before the fire and gazed intently into the flames, yet the vision simply would not come to her. Which of these two—the scrubbed and scoured, flatulent old man whimpering in his sleep on a pallet on the floor, or the bandaged younger man in the bed— which of these two was the one-eyed person of her vision, she could not say.
In one corner with her back to the wall Aiko sat in a lotus position on a square of tatami, the woven straw mat from her family home in Ryodo and borne with her throughout her travels. Her hands curled laxly on her thighs; her eyes were closed, though she was not asleep but resting in deep meditation. She was dressed in a black silken chemise, and the tattoo of an ornate red tiger could just be seen glowering balefully out from between her breasts. Her leather-and-bronze armor was racked in the chifforobe, but on the mat before her lay her two gleaming swords. Her hair was still wet from her own bath, and her glowing skin held the sheen of gold, for she had needed to scour herself free from the taint of the old man’s layers of filth.
An anguished groan brought Arin to her feet. Egil began to stir, and then to thrash and shout, his hands clawing at the bandages. She hurried to the bedside and tried to hold him still, but in spite of his weakened state, she had not the strength to do so. Aiko appeared at the opposite side of the bed and grabbed an arm. Egil’s good eye was wide open and filled with berserker madness, and he hissed in muted rage, yet drugged as he was he could not overcome the two of them. Of a sudden he slumped and began to weep and mumble men’s names—“Ragnar, Argi, Bram, Klaen…”—his voice fading as he spoke, and then he closed his eye and fell unconscious once more. Arin felt for his pulse. It was strong and steady.
An unspoken question in her eyes, Aiko looked across at the Dylvana. “Orri said he had ill dreams,” whispered Arin.
“Is it safe to let him be, Dara?”
Arin nodded. “He seems to be sleeping again.” She glanced at the window. It was yet night. “Return to thy rest, Aiko. I will remain on watch.”
* * *
As the first light of day seeped through the lodge windows, Arin stood and stretched, then stepped to the bedside and again measured Egil’s pulse. As she did so she looked down at his face only to find his good blue eye fixed upon her, his gaze now filled with sanity and not berserker madness.
“Am I dead, Lady? Gone beyond the sky?”
Arin smiled. “Nay, Egil, thou art yet in Mithgar.”
Egil put his hand to his bandaged head. “I should have suspected. I am in too much pain to be dead. Though you are the vision of an engel.”
“Engel?” Arin’s face clouded momentarily. Then she laughed. “Oh, I see: one who lives beyond the sky.”
A faint smile crossed Egil’s features, then he grunted and struggled to a sitting position. “Where am I? Who are you? Last I remember, the damned Jutes were pursuing and flaming arrows were thick as flies on a dung pile.”
Arin began preparing a potion, adding tepid water to a white powder in a cup and then stirring. “Thou didst fall to thy fever.”
Once more Egil touched the wrappings passing ’round his head and down his cheek and under his chin only to go back up and ’round and down again several times. “Poisoned blade, I wonder?”
Arin shook her head. “I think not. Unclean, mayhap, even foul, perhaps from grume long past, but not poisoned. Thy comrades did well to treat the gash with salt water, for it washed the wound free of filth, but not ere some of the foulness tainted thine own blood and thou didst succumb to the ill vapors. But thou art now on the journey to wellness, for Thar and I treated thy wounds and thy fever.”
“Thar? Healer Thar? Then, Lady, I am in Mørkfjord?” Egil looked ’round the room.
“Aye. In Blackstein Lodge.”
Egil’s eye widened at the sight of Aiko sitting as still as a statue of gold and of an old man snoring on the floor, his fingers scrabbling at the pallet as he dreamed. “Again I ask, Lady, who are you, and who are your companions?”
“I a
m Arin, Dylvana of Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall to the south.”
For the first time Egil saw what she was. “Elf,” he whispered half to himself.
Arin canted her head toward Aiko. “My companion is Aiko, Ryodoan by birth, past Warrior of the Mages of Black Mountain, but now in service to me.”
Egil started, and stared at the meditating woman. “Warrior? Mages? Black—?”
“The old man thou shouldst know, for he is Alos of Mørkfjord.”
“Alos?” Egil slowly shook his head, then winced with the movement of it. “I would never have recognized him as the beggarly old man who sleeps in Norri’s boathouse. Why, he’s clean for a change.”
Arin smiled faintly. “Scrubbed to a fare-thee-well by Aiko.” The Dara set the spoon aside and held out the cup to Egil. “Drink. It is a potion to relieve thine aches.”
“Good,” grunted Egil. “My head is pounding and my stomach churns as if I’d been on a ten-day drunk; my forehead and cheek are sore to the touch; and my left eye burns as if it has been dipped in a molten pit of Hèl.”
“Thy head pounds loudly for we had to fill thee with brandy ere we could work on thy wounds. Thy stomach suffers for it.”
Egil smiled above the rim of the cup.
“Thy forehead and cheek ache from the sword slash; it is yet a raw wound, though now sewn shut. It will hurt for some days and leave a scar.”
“A handsome scar, I hope,” said Egil. “What about my eye?”
Arin did not immediately answer, but waited until he had downed the potion, then said, “Egil, thy left eye is gone, destroyed by a reaver’s sword.”
Egil took a deep breath and gradually let it out, and handed her the empty cup. “Then it is as I feared: I am now Egil One-Eye.”
Slowly Arin nodded.
* * *
As morning drew upon the land ’neath overcast skies, Egil slipped back into a restless sleep. Arin returned to her seat by the fire, and time passed.
There came a tapping on the door.
Golden Aiko opened her eyes.
Again came the tapping.
Taking swords in hand, Aiko rose to her feet. She looked at Arin staring intently at the flames, for the moment completely oblivious to her surroundings. Aiko padded to the door and opened it. Thar stood there, a serving girl behind him bearing a great tray on which was piled eggs and rashers, tea and toast, jams and butter.
Thar looked at the yellow woman in black chemise, a baleful red tiger staring out, then said, “Would ye break y’r fast wi’ me?”
Aiko stepped aside and gestured him in with her shorter blade.
Thar crossed to the bed and took Egil’s pulse as the serving girl, amid rattling crockery, scurried into the room and set the tray on the sideboard table and distributed the dishes along its length while darting quick glances at the golden warrior and her gleaming swords. When she had finished, she excused herself with a hurried bounce of a curtsey and fled from the chamber.
By this time Arin was on her feet. Aiko glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. Arin shook her head, No, and moved to the side of Egil’s bed opposite Thar.
“Strong and steady,” said Thar, lowering Egil’s hand back to the cover. He felt Egil’s forehead. “Fever’s down and he seems t’ be resting well enough.” Thar looked up at Arin. “But ye, ye look drawn; did ye get any sleep at all, my dear?”
At this familiarity of address, Aiko growled, “Bureina yabanjin,” low in her throat and started forward, but with a gesture of negation, Arin waved her back.
* * *
As they sat in the midst of breakfast, Alos awoke, the old man gummily smacking his lips and blearily staring about. When his good eye fell upon Aiko, he shrieked and scrambled away from her, crawling on hands and bony knees toward the door to escape, only to scrawk and clutch his hands to himself when he discovered he was naked. “My clothes! Someone has stolen my clothes!” he sniveled. Ineffectual in his modesty and still on his hands and knees, back to the pallet he scuttled, where he snatched up his blanket and, struggling, wrapped it ’round his scrawny self, all the while keeping his one good eye on Aiko, as if she would attack.
Thar cackled in glee; Aiko stared in loathing. Smiling, Arin stood, and at this movement the oldster cowered down and threw up a warding hand. “Don’t hit me!”
“I was not thinking of striking thee, Alos, but instead of inviting thee to break thy fast with us.” She gestured toward the laden table.
Anticipation flickering across his face, Alos craned his neck up and peered at the food on the sideboard. “Be there any morning ale? No?” His countenance fell, then perked up again. “Wine? A hearty breakfast wine perhaps?”
Aiko snorted in disgust, but Arin said, “Nay, Alos. Neither ale nor wine nor brandy nor spirits of any sort. Yet there is food aplenty and tea to drink.”
Alos sighed and muttered, “Tea? Just tea?”
“Wilt thou join us, friend?”
“Friend?” Alos looked up at her in surprise.
Arin smiled.
“Well”—Alos struggled to his feet and hitched the blanket tighter about—“perhaps I will have a bite to eat.” He cast a glare at Aiko and ran a hand over his bald pate, wincing when he discovered the sore knot atop his head. “But only if you keep that yellow demon off, her and her torturing ways.”
Aiko bristled—“Inu!”—and started to gain her feet, and Alos cowered hindward, but at a sharp word from Arin, Aiko settled back. Then the Dylvana turned her gaze upon the old man and smiled, and Alos, taking that as a promise of protection, stepped to the table and took up a plate, all the while muttering under his breath: “…like to have rubbed me raw, she did…like to have torn my balls off, too…and gouged loose my teeth…. — And another thing…”
Quiet laughter came from the bed, and then an “Ooo, but it hurts to smile.” Arin turned. Egil was awake.
“Wouldst thou break fast with us, Egil?”
Egil nodded. “Aye, I would at that. But first I’ve got to relieve myself.” He started to swing his feet out from under his blanket and to the floor.
“Egil, wait!” Arin hurriedly stepped to the bedside. “Aiko, aid me.”
“Adon,” exclaimed Egil, clutching the mattress. “The room reels.”
“’Tis the dregs of the fever,” said Arin as she slipped his left arm over her shoulders and Aiko did the same with his right. Together they got him to his feet and slowly led him toward the private bathing room adjoining. Blinking, he looked side to side and down at them: Egil at five feet ten, stood fully eight inches taller than Aiko and fourteen taller than Arin. They were scanty compared to him, though at a lean eleven stone six he was by no means heavy. To the contrary, he was slender and lithe and muscled well enough.
They stood him before a chamber pot on a pedestal and braced him as he fumbled at his breeks. He looked at them. “Are you going to stand and watch?”
Aiko sighed. “Would you rather collapse, orokana ningen?”
Egil snorted and braced one hand against the back wall. “There.”
Reluctantly they released him and turned the other way.
Moments later he desperately clutched at them to keep from falling down. Modesty would have to wait for another day.
* * *
Following breakfast Egil fell asleep again, and Thar was called away by a message from the widow Karl. Shortly after the healer had gone, fresh clothes were delivered to Alos, clothes ordered by Arin last eve: soft woolen brown breeks, a tan linen jerkin, tan woolen hose, pale linen underwear, new brown boots, a brown leather belt with a black iron buckle, a dark brown woolen jacket, and a tan linen pocket kerchief. He slipped the new garments on his gaunt frame and strutted and preened in front of the small chiffonnier mirror, standing in profile and sucking in his tiny potbelly, more sag than fat.
“A fine figure of a man,” he declared, brushing with his palms the long thin strands of straggling hair fringed ’round his bald pate; and he ran his fingers through his scraggly white be
ard and smoothed it. Then he turned to Arin and smiled, his wanting teeth somewhat less yellow coated, though still brown stained. “And now, m’Lady, I must be going. Much to do, you know.”
Aiko shook her head in disgusted disbelief, but Arin said, “Nay, Alos, I would have thee stay.”
“Stay?”
“Aye. There’s a tale I would tell thee, but after Egil wakens, for I would have him hear it as well.”
“But there’s one or two down at the Stag who’ll buy me a mug of ale, I’m sure of it, and I mustn’t keep them waiting.”
“Yopparai,” muttered Aiko, loathing in the word.
Arin took a deep breath and then let it out. “If thou wilt remain, Alos, I shall have ale brought to the room.”
Briskly, Alos rubbed his hands together and smiled his missing-toothed brown grin. “Well, now that you put it that way, I suppose the Stag can wait.”
* * *
Arin stood at the window watching Aiko in the courtyard below. The Ryodoan warrior was now dressed in her armor and she slowly stepped through an intricate drill, her gleaming swords in hand. Across the way the stableman stood and watched, his jaw agape. Likewise, down below stood the cook and the lodge boy, equally fascinated.
In the near distance down the steep slopes Arin could see the deep waters of the narrow fjord. Mørkfjord was well named, for the waters were truly dark, nearly ebon.
“I say again, Lady, my mug seems to be empty,” whined Alos behind.
“Thou hast had three, Alos,” replied Arin without taking her eyes from Aiko’s morning exercises. “I shall have the ‘keep fetch another as soon as Egil awakens.”
Disgruntled, Alos blew his nose into his new kerchief. As he examined the result, he said, “But I’m certain that my friends at the Stag would surely have given me four or five by now.”
Arin turned about. “Alos, thou canst go and chance that thy friends at the Stag will serve thee up with all the ale thou dost desire, or thou canst stay here and take the ale certain to come when I choose to call for it.”
Sighing, Alos rolled up his sodden kerchief and jammed it into his pocket. Then he peered into his mug once again, searching for an overlooked drop or two, drops that were not there.