Death After Death

Chapter 393 - A Long Road Back

The two of them lingered at the first inn they found, not because it was luxurious, but because Simon’s leg worsened. The healer in town tried to prescribe him a number of herbs that would have cost much, but done little, so Simon did the next best thing, and had the town’s smith melt and hammer a few coins into a small silver disk, which he spent days carving into an amulet of lesser curing.

Healing might have made more sense. In his feverishness, he almost made that mistake when he started the project, but there was no serious wound to be healed, merely a serious infection that had come in through the large and particularly ugly wound.

“Healing too quick would only make people talk,” he mumbled as he worked. Even sending Varten out on errands to keep him busy wouldn’t stop all rumors, and the last thing he wanted when he returned to the Unspoken was to give them another reason to think that he was special.

This amulet he chose to power with light instead of heat or life. So, he tied it to the outside of his bandage like a holy icon, and lay in the sun as often as possible while doing his best to avoid other travelers. His fever was, by turns, suppressing his sight and distorting it, and he had no idea if the things he was seeing in the auras of strangers were real or imagined, so it was best to look away entirely rather than endure that horror show.

For the first few days, all he could do was nap, but after that, he was able to eat and, more importantly, drink a few beers for the pain. Once whatever invader that had been ravaging his body was expelled and he felt somewhat human again, Simon updated his journal with everything that had happened in the last few days, leaving out only primitive artifacts he’d crafted.

Still, while he lay there in feverish purgatory, any number of worries flashed through his mind. What if the Jinn had crawled inside him and was burning him from the inside out? What if everyone had a curing amulet and the light of the world was converted to health instead of heat, and they all froze to death? What if a troupe of Unspoken showed up demanding to know why he was using witchcraft? Why did speaking a word of power obliterate his sight, but using a hunk of metal did not? What was Freya up to right now? How old was she anyway?

Only the questions about the metaphysical nature of magic followed him back into lucidity. How many photons are in a unit of mana? How many amps are in a spell? Simon didn’t really want to invent the entire edifice of magical science himself, but he was pretty sure that eventually he was going to have to do just that. He wasn’t just going to write the book. He was going to have to conduct every experiment to derive every constant and equation.

Just thinking about it was enough to give him a headache. He was in no way smart enough to do all that, but in the long term, it was the only answer he could imagine besides, just-fight-my-way-to-the-end-of-the-Pit-and-do-whatever-Helades-wants-me-to, which wasn’t happening.

Throughout all of that, his squire was obviously worried, but didn’t make himself a bother, at least until Simon’s appetite returned. It was only when things were somewhat back to normal that he asked uncomfortable questions about the amulet that had obviously been key to his recovery.

“It's just a holy symbol,” Simon explained, giving him the same answer he might give anyone, but the persistence and innocence of children made such an answer incomplete at best.

“If it’s so powerful, why don’t you always wear it?” the boy asked. “Can I have one?”

Varten and Simon had a long conversation about how not all prayers were appropriate for all problems, and so not every symbol was appropriate either, on the ride north. Eventually, Simon made him a medal, and scribed a delicate pattern of a dove on it with a patterned border that looked intricate enough that it might contain some secret magic, even though it didn’t. It wasn’t the best use of Simon’s time night after night by the campfire, but it felt good to make something beautiful again after so long, and it would make a good fig leaf if any awkward questions came up when they reached their destination.

They were going back to Broken Tower finally, and though Simon told his squire that much, he didn’t tell him anything else. Like the fact that they might execute you if they decide you’re unworthy. He felt bad about that, but he knew he shouldn’t. He’d already saved Varten’s life twice for this purpose, and things would probably turn out fine.

Instead of worrying the boy unnecessarily, he focused on trying to make him the best squire he could be in their last few weeks. Every night around the campfire, he told him stories of important knights or saints, and every day while they rode, he asked the boy questions about various monsters. How can you tell if a woman is a witch or a man is a warlock? If you find a body on the road, what do you check for to figure out the kind of monster that killed him? It was probably a little much for an eleven-year-old.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Above all, on the way back, Simon kept his eyes open for an opportunity to see the boy blooded. He wasn’t exactly a blade master, yes, but Simon was fairly sure that Varten could trounce a goblin in a one-on-one match, and he was sure that the masters of the order would look well on such a feat.

So Simon bought his charge a real short sword as soon as one became available, and then spent a week wandering back and forth through the countryside looking for a den of any size. “It’s ironic,” Simon joked around the campfire. “The one time I’m actually looking for goblins, I can’t find them.”

Varden didn’t think that was very funny. While he acted brave, he was smart enough to put two and two together, and the fact that Simon was finally letting him practice with a real steel weapon obviously meant that he was going to have to use it soon.

Simon could have used his dousing rod again, but he didn’t want to remind Varten of its existence so close to their return. Children bragged about the weirdest things, and he had no desire to be burned at the stake because his young squire was describing deeds that sounded an awful lot like witchcraft.

Besides, Varten wasn’t used to the weight of his new blade yet. So a few extra nights did him some good. It wasn’t long after that that he heard a farmer complaining in a bar about a few of his sheep going missing three nights running. That was all Simon needed to hear. Outside of the badlands, he would lay ten to one odds that it was goblins; a troll was always possible, too, of course, but beastmen didn’t tend to hang out in lowlands.

So, after a brief conversation with the man, the two of them were on their way, and though Simon immediately spotted the trail, he made Varten go through the painful experience of tracking them back to their source.

The boy tried to give up in exasperation more than once, complaining, “You said there’d be fighting!” but Simon wouldn’t let him take the easy way out. Instead, he just pointed out a well-clawed tree or a small pile of goblin shit to send him the right way again. It didn’t matter, not as long as they made it inside before sunset.

On the way in, they lit several torches and scattered them around the entrance, saving only one for each of them. Then they entered as quietly as they could. Simon could see the fear rippling off of his squire as the first goblin charged from the shadows with a spear, but Simon parried the blow and took its head with one clean motion. After that, the battle was joined.

Simon took point, and any time there was more than one enemy, he took care of them, but each time there was only one, he held back and tried to give Varten a chance. The boy was very reluctant to take charge in those moments, but being charged by a greenskin had a way of putting urgency into you. Simon stayed close to intervene, but he was admittedly distracted by thoughts of Gregor when they’d done this together so long ago.

Can a wretch like Varten grow up to be a man like him? Simon wondered. He supposed that at this rate, he’d find out. However, all he’d find out tonight was whether or not Varten could fight.

Well, Simon knew that he could; it was just a matter of letting his squire find that out for himself. He did, too, first reluctantly, and later with enthusiasm, and battle cries that echoed through the small cave system. After his first kill, he stopped shying away, and after his second, he was energized.

After that, all Simon had to do was keep an eye on their flanks and make sure Varten didn’t get overwhelmed. By the time the last goblin fell and silence returned to the cave, the boy was shaky and splattered in green blood, but he was alive and unharmed, which was better than Simon had managed in his first few attempts. “Great work,” Simon said, making the kid smile sheepishly.

“I… That was the last one?” he asked, looking around.

The dark could have hidden a thousand more greenskins, but Simon didn’t need the torch to see when he was focused now, and he knew there was nothing else in here. It had been a small nest, but that was exactly what he wanted. The smaller the nest, the faster it could be purged.

“That’s it,” Simon agreed, wiping the blood off of his squire’s face with a rag. “Now we just need to let everyone know what a great job you did and get ourselves a bath.”

That was the last real obstacle. Once that was done, Simon only stopped long enough to get his squire cleaned up and buy him a celebratory feast, letting the whole bar toast to his bravery while Varten withered in embarrassment at the attention. After that was done, they made a straight shot for their destination, and after only three more nights under open stars and one miserable evening in a damp tent, they’d finally arrived.

“It doesn’t look like much,” Varten complained as they approached. “Why don’t they fix it?”

“Because if no one knows something important is here, they aren’t going to look at it very hard,” Simon answered. “If you have big, strong walls, you’re only announcing to the world that you have something to hide.”

“But if you’re weak and vulnerable, can’t your enemies just crush you?” he asked. It was a fair question.

“The… order I belong to isn’t weak, but even if it was, you’ve seen the deference that everyone offers them,” Simon answered. “Lords and lowlifes alike. Only the King would attack them, and I don’t believe he would dare.”

“But why?” Varten asked.

“Because we’re the good guys,” Simon answered, flashing the boy a smile. That wasn’t the real reason, but it was good enough for a child. The real reason was probably somewhere between ‘The Unspoken are the power behind the throne,’ and ‘If you go against them, you’ll quickly find yourself denounced as a witch or worse.’

Simon hadn’t yet decided if he was going to have to co-opt or cull the order in some future life. They were helpful at keeping the monsters in check. Comparing the relative safety of Brin to the mountainous wilds of Montain made that clear enough. They helped to keep the Murani at bay, too, but if he really wanted to use magic to change the world, they were going to have to go one way or the other.