chapter 7

Night had descended upon Duskendale but the day was far from done. The stars were veiled behind the clouds as if hiding from the town’s troubles. To make matters worse, the number of torches had been reduced to conserve oil. The ones that remained were too few to hold the darkness at bay.

Years ago Alaric would have spent the evening in prayer to R’hlor. All those that worshipped the red god did likewise, invoking his return come the dawn. He used to resent the hours spent building bonfires so the chant could begin. Now he longed for it.

By some divine miracle the former acolyte survived to see the great Other return. The only fires being built were the pyres for the fallen beyond the walls. Most of the day had been spent ferrying ammunition. His fingers were cut in several places from reloading crossbows, hurried by impatient yells. His elbow still felt numb when he had fallen clumsily. That was the easy part. Thinking about the rest caused him to heave once more.

When the fighting had finally stopped he had meandered off. The defenders had some respite whilst a temporary truce had been agreed. An alley had offered some respite from the moans of the dying. But the darkness gave no refuge from the images plaguing him. The damp straw underfoot soaked up most of the vomit. The rest he wiped on his sleeve. Alaric could do nothing about the taste.

Alaric fought the urge to sleep despite his exhaustion. His dreams had been dark of late, consumed with death and fire. Now those nightmares were fast becoming reality. He decided to try the tavern. It was the only place that might have something to alleviate his night terrors.

It was not long before Alaric spotted two soldiers carrying a stretcher hurrying from its direction. Upon it lay a body covered by a cloak. Alaric watched as one of the guards stumbled causing an arm to drop over the edge. The skin had already begun to turn a shade of blue.

“Watch yer step.” The one at the back called out irritably.

“You try leading the way in this dark.” The one that stumbled shot back as he steadied himself.

Alaric felt his stomach churn once more and hurried on. Upon nearing the tavern he could see that several others had thought to do the same. They were all Duncan’s guards as best as he could tell. They stood around the entrance as if waiting for someone. One of them caught wind of Alaric as he came into the light and jumped back, startled.

“It’s the demon worshipper.” The nearest to him exclaimed resentfully.

“How did he get free?” Another asked incredulously.

“Witchcraft I’d warrant.” A third spat out.

Alaric ignored them. He just wanted something to ease his troubled mind. He continued as if they were not there. Some made signs of protection as they stepped out of the way. A couple of them sneered but made no move to bar his way. Alaric passed them by without making eye contact. He opened the latch and swiftly stepped inside.

It was clear upon entering that the Seven sisters was now a tavern in name only.The benches and stools had been cleared away to make room for the surgeon. A solitary table was left in the middle with a bench laden with tools adjacent. Some were long and sharp whilst others appeared as pliers and hammers. There were too many to count at a glance but the surgeon seemed to know each of them well enough to swiftly switch between them.

He was too engrossed to notice Alaric’s intrusion. Atop the table was a man writhing in agony. Two women flanked him, blocking most of Alaric’s view.  The taller one was Cliara. He recognised her immediately from spying her embraces with Talon. They seemed hard pressed keeping the patient still, much to the dismay of the surgeon.

“If you do not hold him still I will list you both as the cause of death!” The surgeon lambasted them.

His accent was hard to place which suggested he was widely travelled, likely beyond the borders of Valryia. Alaric continued to scan the room for what he was seeking. There were wash basins scattered throughout and candle holders aplenty. The warmth of the hearth could be felt as soon as he stepped foot inside, stifling the air. Though the room was well lit, it did little to lift the gloom.

There were others being treated also. These sat against the back wall and were seen to by the maester. Ulric appeared to be administering stitches and checking bandages.  Those that were removed were dumped in a red soggy pile at the end of the row. 

In one hand he carried a wooden cup. This he lifted to their lips after finishing his treatment. They were allowed a sip before he pulled the cup away. Their eyes would quickly gloss over and he would move onto the next.

Alaric began to skirt around to ask for the same when the surgeon yelled once more.

“If you want to murder this man, then take this scalpel and slit his throat. Save me the hassle and be done with it!” He shouted at the woman opposite Cliara.

This one Alaric did not know as he watched as she began to shake. She had volunteered to help, but had likely never dealt with anything worse than delivering a calf. The surgeon too was becoming more flustered. He took to muttering to himself as he wiped his brow with the back of his hand. Bloody palm marks could be seen upon his apron. Some of which had stained the leather permanently.

Alaric watched as Cliara tried to console her. She soothed her with words of encouragement despite struggling herself. The surgeon shook his head and looked around, presumably for the maester. The former acolyte was the first person he saw.

“You there. Stop gawping and get over here!” He barked.

Alaric had grown accustomed to receiving orders on the wall. The surgeon’s tone indicated that it was not a request. Hoping to snag some sedative, Alaric walked over. With each step the little confidence he had ebbed away. The smell and sight of blood was not something he was yet comfortable with.

“Butchers and gawpers. That’s all I seem to deal with.” The surgeon muttered resentfully as Alaric neared.

The former acolyte would soon learn that this is how the surgeon acted whilst operating. He would complain under his breath about the world and the people in it. He world occasionally pause to yell at somebody’s incompetence.

“No, not up here.” He barked once more as Alaric went to stand beside him.

Alaric judged him to be one of the older gentlemen in the town. The day’s toll made him look older still. He was slim built and maintained an upright posture despite hunching over an operating table all day. His hair was short and the colour of ash. Dark rings circled his eyes, and the beginning of wrinkles had taken a firm hold above them. He was taller than Alaric, but then again most men were. Thick hair lined his arms, stopping abruptly at the wrists.

 “Go grab his legs and pin them down, quickly now.” The surgeon instructed as he continued to operate.

Alaric could not help but winch as blood ebbed from the wound, reappearing just as fast as it was wiped away. He grappled the man’s legs and kept them down as best he could. It was not long before his arms burned and his brow perspired. The air was stale and warm from the numerous candles nearby and seemed to anchor in his lungs.

Somewhat satisfied the surgeon once more began to slice around the arrowhead, which looked to be embedded deep in the tissue. Doing so caused the patient to call out. The muffle tied to his mouth did little to hide his screams.

“Perhaps he needs more milk of the poppy?” Alaric suggested innocently as he struggled to maintain his hold.

He was hoping to see where the surgeon had his supply hidden, but the idea was dismissed immediately.

“Anymore and he could die. Now be quiet for all our sakes.” The surgeon replied curtly without looking up.

Despondent, Alaric resigned himself to the task at hand. He clamped his hands down with the little strength he had left. He found his eyes drifting to Cliara and he soon marvelled at her resolve. Her brow was a little too long and her eyes drooped slightly at the edges. Her lips were thinner than Alaric would have liked and her brows a little on the bushy side. She was also a finger’s width taller than him. Still, there was attractive in her own way. He could see what both Talon and the sellsword captain saw in her.

The other woman refused to meet his gaze. Unlike Cliara, her face was wide and her nose small. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked like she rather be anywhere but in his company. She had a slight overbite and seemed more nervous since Alaric’s arrival. He soon began to feel conscious so he stopped looking her way altogether. With a satisfied sigh the surgeon yanked the arrowhead free.

“There’s the culprit. Hmm a nasty one to be sure.” He commentated as he held it up for all to see.

The surgeon dropped it in a jar containing other items removed. It landed with a clink next to a nasty looking wooden splinter. Alaric felt the man’s legs go limp in his grasp. He held on regardless. Unperturbed the surgeon began to stitch the torn flesh together.

Soon enough the maester was called over to administer the bandages. Not before smearing the wound with honey and soaking the strips with red wine. The surgeon retired from the table over to the nearest basin. Alaric watched as he duly washed his hands and his tools.

The others were thanked by the maester and given leave to return home. Most of those left were either unconscious already or beginning to doze on straw mattresses. Only a few remained seated. Ulric left the cup he was holding on a vacant stool, freeing him to bend down and take hold of a patient’s wrist. Alaric was about to make his way over when the surgeon spoke.

 “Ah, the gawper remains.” He observed with mild curiosity.

“No further assistance is needed this evening. With some rest and a little luck he should pull through. His butchering days are over for a while. Now if you would excuse me, a nice cup of wine is calling.’ The older man explained as he removed his blood stained apron.

“I suggest you do the same. Tomorrow will be a long day my friend.” He continued as he meticulously checked his tools were in order.

Alaric did not budge. He was about to divulge his reason for coming but the surgeon beat him to it. It was likely not the first such request he had heard during his campaigns.  With a heavy sigh he spoke once more, only more bluntly this time.

“Tell the others outside what we have is scant enough for those that need it. We can spare none and that is my final word. Understood?” The surgeon’s gaze confirmed the warning his tone gave.

Alaric nodded. He decided to forfeit his obligation to explain his disassociation from the guards outside. The surgeon looked too tired to care about such details.

“Besides you will need your wits about you come the morning. Want my advice? Three cups of mulled wine will put you under soon enough. Now if that is all, I bid you good night.”

With those words the surgeon promptly retired up the stairwell. For a moment Alaric considered what was said to him. Part of him felt a little guilty, but then again he only required a sip. He was about to petition the maester when the tavern door crashed open.

 “Leave this place demon worshipper. You’ll not work your devilry here!” A man’s voice cried out.

Alaric turned to see the guards from outside burst into the room. The closest to him had his sword drawn and his eyes firmly fixed. The others fanned out, cutting off any chance of escape.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ulric asked, exacerbated by the sudden commotion.

“This does not concern you good maester. I’ll not have this one contaminate the good folk of this town.”  The man countered, indicating Alaric as the recipient of his wroth.

“Gentlemen please, now is not the time nor place. Constable Damon, if you would kindly remove yourself. These men need rest.” The maester pleaded, though it fell on deaf ears.

They all but ignored Ulric’s protest as they focused on the man they were after. Alaric could sense their lust for blood. Their frustration was palpable and they were looking to vent. Alaric was the obvious target. He looked to the maester, and from the look that was returned Ulric sensed it also. And that sense told them both that if Alaric complied he was unlikely to make it to the cells.

“Is this at the behest of the guard captain, or are you disturbing my patients by your own volition?” Ulric asked accusingly.

Damon hesitated before responding which was answer enough. Alaric watched as Damon’s face turned a shade redder.

“Duncan is busy preparing the defences for tomorrow’s assault. It is the threat from within that causes me greater concern. Kathryn will testify to seeing him place a spell on the foreigners.” The constable clarified.

Behind him the nervous woman from earlier appeared at the doorway. She still looked a little shaken as she pointed at Alaric. When she spoke, her voiced squealed.

“Aye, he’s the one. He gave the blighter a queer sort of stare. A moment later he went limp as a dishrag.”

As all eyes turned towards her she became sheepish once more and hid behind one the guards.

“I saw no spell craft. Besides such practice is nothing but superstitious nonsense. I will be seeing the guard captain about this.” Ulric shot back in a rare display of anger.

“If you must. But I am afraid that I will be needing all exposed medicines as well. There is no telling how far his contamination has spread. Collect them from the maester please.” Damon ordered one of the others, who dutifully obeyed.

Ulric scrambled to protect his stock, using his pockets to good effect. In the meanwhile Damon turned his attention back to Alaric.

“The rest of you, take that one. We should leave the maester to his work. He’ll thank us tomorrow I’m sure.” He ordered with a sneer.

“Off with you all. I won’t tolerate thugs and thieves in my ward!” A voice shouted down from the stairwell.

Alaric looked up to see the surgeon, half naked and brandishing a cane. He appeared to be in a fit of rage and gave no mind to the swords about him.

“Watch yer mouth foreigner. This is our tavern you’ve taken up residence in. Return upstairs if you do not want to occupy the cells instead.” Damon called back as his men took hold of Alaric, dragging him to the door.

Without the strength to resist and his spirit broken, Alric relented. It is what he had always feared would happen, and why he so desperately sought out Thoric. Now he was likely to die without being exorcised of his curse. In days gone his guile would have rescued him. But the ruse was over. Everybody in the town knew who and what he was. He tried to bid the maester farewell but Ulric was distracted, valiantly trying to fend off the guards.

He allowed himself to be shoved outside where the light from the tavern quickly diminished into the darkness of the late evening. Damon led the way whilst two others dragged the former acolyte violently by the arms.

“If you wait here milady I will be back as swiftly as I can to accompany you home proper.” Damon consoled the woman who had sealed Alaric’s fate.

For her part she seemed all too pleased to have an escort. Particularly one that intended to court her on the way back. Tempers were not the only thing running high this night it seemed. Scuffles could be heard from within the tavern. The guards that remained had their hands full with Ulric and the surgeon.

Damon was too caught up in his heroics to care. Looking to be rid of his burden for the promise of fairer company he prompted his men onward. The flickering light from the tavern windows quickly diminished, with it the last of Alaric’s hope.

Each step became heavier than the last. He began to wonder which street they would do him away with. He was fleet of foot when the occasion warranted and was sure he could escape. Then again, there was nowhere to escape to. The sellswords trusted him little more than the residents. Then a voice spoke from the shadows. One that Alaric was extremely grateful to hear.

“Ah, there you are fire man. You’ve been away from your post too long. Now I see you have deserted us for other company.” Talon spoke cheerfully as if oblivious to what was occurring.

The guards were rattled at first for they could not see the man that spoke. They all jumped when he strode into view, as if born from the night itself. Damon, a little less shaken than the rest raised his fist to steel his men’s resolve.

“That is far enough, friend. The prisoner is with us.” Damon warned as Talon came within ten paces of the guards.

The infliction in Damon’s voice suggested he saw little difference between the two. If it were up to the guards they would see both disposed with. Alaric was sure of it. Undeterred Talon continued to press forward with his palms spread.

“Then I apologise for the confusion, for this man serves under me.” He explained calmly.

“Since when? He was imprisoned when I broke fast this morning.” Damon queried suspiciously, drawing his sword further.

A fact not lost on the sellsword.

Talon paused for half a beat and his eyes seemed to narrow. Then as quickly as he stopped, he continued again with an easy going smile.

“Since I conscripted him this very same morning. You have my gratitude for finding him. But I will be taking him back now.” Talon answered as if the matter was resolved.

“Bah, this demon worshipper only wishes to spread his false god’s lies. He’ll see our homes burn in our sleep.” Damon declared as he began to get worked up once more.

He took a step backwards and drew his blade entirely. But it was not Talon’s chest he angled it towards, but Alaric’s.

Talon stopped as he realised his counterpart’s intended target. But instead of addressing the man in front of him, he pointed to one of the guards holding the prisoner.

“You, how many did you kill today?” He asked bluntly.

Unsure of the question the guard turned his head briefly towards his comrade. Alaric could sense the uncertainty radiating from him. The grip on his arm tightened, but not from resolve.

“Quickly. I do not have all night.” Talon snapped.

“T-two... I think.” The guard responded hesitantly.

“Hmm and you” Talon asked the other.

“Only the one. But many more will fall to my blade tomorrow.’ Alaric’s other captor replied resolutely, having anticipated the question.

“I should hope so for many more will come.” Talon warned.

Finally Alaric’s would be rescuer turned back to their chief. He did not ask, instead he simply waited for an answer. From what little of Damon’s face Alaric could see, it appeared to redden considerably.

“What has this got to do with anything? Now make way for I also do not have all night.” Damon almost spat out the words.

Talon merely raised his eyebrows in response.

“Ah perhaps you killed so many you cannot recall the number. If it helps I lost count after my tenth. For you see I only have ten fingers.” Talon emphasised the point by wriggling them for all to see.

“Maybe I could borrow a few of yours. I will need them if you are going to deprive me of my soldiers.” He followed up with a smile that did little to conceal the threat.

Talon promptly stepped forward and for a moment Alaric feared blades would clash or even worse, he would be run through before the sellsword could reach him.

“Just let him go Damon. Makes no difference to me where he dies. Let the ramparts be the end of him. I would rather be getting back to the missus if it’s all the same.” The older of the two holding Alaric spoke out, cutting through the tension.

Damon growled in response before relenting.

“Fine. Take him with you. Just keep him on a leash.” He shot at Talon before skulking off and signalling to his men to do the same.

Alaric sagged to the floor caught unawares by a shove to his back. He waited for their voices to fade into the night before giving his thanks.

“It’s Cliara that deserves your gratitude. It was her I was coming to see.” Talon explained as he looked to Alaric’s arm, concerned.

Alaric did likewise and saw his hand was shaking. He gripped hold of it with his other but it did little to help. Anxiety began to take hold of his chest and he found himself clenching his jaw in an effort to prevent it from doing likewise.

“Let’s get you back to the wall. There’s some stew left that will settle your stomach and calm your nerves.”

“I am not hungry.” Alaric replied shortly through clattering teeth.

“It is precisely why you should eat. We have a long day tomorrow. The shaking will stop once you warm your body. Although I hear it is no easy thing to do to someone that does not burn.” Talon quipped with his usual dry sense of humour.

Alaric followed without argument, still clutching at his wrist. The wall was the last place that he wanted to visit but as it turned out, it was now the safest place for him. He was caught between two armies and a town that would all but see him dead. He looked up at the moon as he walked. The silver sphere was the herald of the sworn nemeses of R’hlor. But Alaric was grateful for its illumination.

“The great Other will have to wait another day to claim me at least.” He consoled himself inwardly.

It was not that he believed in the ancient evil any longer but it was convenient to have something to blame his woes on. As if hearing his thoughts the clouds fanned over head hiding the moon from sight. The darkness returned and Alaric’s heart grew heavy once more. He looked at the man ahead of him. They had only really known each other since the morning. Talon had no reason to risk spilling blood for a relative stranger. For the first time in a very long while he would not have to face the darkness alone.

It was the coming of dawn that terrified him.