Birth

Chapter II: URGENCY

Chapter II: URGENCYThe small manor house nestled within a grove of pine, their prickly needles just beginning the slow turn to autumn auburn glory.

“Talia?” Belamay bellowed, the call rising above the thunder of the horses charging forward through the small dirt courtyard. The soldier pulled hard on the reins at the front arched door, jumping from the bay even before it had come to a stop.

Grunting, throwing off the heavy, encompassing helmet, flushed pale skin revealed, Belamay yelled once more, impatience mingling with insistence. “Talia!”

The door burst open and the young, aproned maid stood in its threshold. Blue eyes round, bulging, held reflections of her mistress covered in blood, of Witon with a bloodier creature flopping in his lap.

Belamay could see the shock writ so plainly on the young girl. For nearly two years, Talia had served in Belamay's home, never knowing Belamay as the secret soldier she was, the only daughter of a deceased, distinguished warrior, a nobleman and his wife, both lost in a fire years ago. Reaching out, Belamay took Talia's hand gently, giving it a shake.

“Look at me, Talia.” She took the girl's other hand, giving both a shake as the maid's loose arms quivered. Dropping her voice, imitating her father with a concoction of command and care, Belamay spoke the girl's name once more: “Talia.” It was all she needed.

The pale, bulging eyes turned to her; in them, Belamay gratefully found recognition, cognition.

Belamay dipped her head, eye to eye. “I need you to make for the Dwarf village. 'Tis but a short distance away, but you must run. You must hurry.”

The willowy girl's jaw dropped, her head shaking slightly. “The D-Dwarf Village?” With each syllable, Talia's voice squeaked higher.

Belamay nodded slowly, patiently. “Yes. But have no fear. Speak my name to any who would question or cross you, and I swear,” here, Belamay took both of Talia's hands and clasped them in hers, as if they prayed as one, “I swear to you, ye will come to no harm.”

Talia snapped shut her trembling mouth. She nodded unenthusiastically, not looking wholly convinced.

“That's my girl.” Belamay awarded her with a smile. “Ask for Pagmav, he is their healer. Tell him a life needs his hands.”

“P… Pagmav?” Talia stuttered on the unfamiliar name, moving slowly, a specter in a dream… a nightmare.

Belamay nodded. “Pagmav, yes.” Raising her voice, a clip of harshness crept its way in. She spun the girl by the shoulders, turned her toward the eastward path leading away from the manor, and gave her a soft push. “Go!”

She gave a command, one not to be denied.

Lifting her plain muslin skirt, Talia scampered away without looking back, a child running from the marauding monster of her dreams, or perhaps towards one.

Belamay huffed relief, spinning round.

“Help me, Belamay.”

Witon perched—trapped—half-way upon his steed, trying to hold the small, battered body in one hand while he attempted to lower himself from the stately beast with the other, the arm so fiercely injured. The added weight threw off his balance and his body jammed, stuck between on and off.

Belamay ran to him, reaching up and bracing Witon's back with both hands. She planted her boot-clad feet in the packed dirt of the courtyard. With her support, Witon made the descent, the body in his arms now completely limp, but not lifeless. The rapid heartbeat pulsed visibly in the slim neck.

“We cannot wait.” Witon ran for the still open door. “We must at least try to stem the bleeding.”

Inside the manor, he paused, blinded for a moment after the brilliance of sunlight in the courtyard, then made for the stairs along the west wall, knowing they were there, having climbed them on many an occasion.

He reached the second-floor landing; Belamay's clopping steps followed behind, thudding on the stone like thunderclaps.

“Which room?” he shouted, loudly, urgently.

“The end on the left.” Belamay pointed over his shoulder.

Witon rushed ahead, reaching the closed door in seconds, using a large, booted foot to kick it open.

The small, simple room contained a single bed, ready should a guest or passing traveler need accommodation. It held little else save a washstand and a small garderobe.

With a gentleness belying his exigency, Witon placed the creature upon the bed with excruciating tenderness, mindful of the horrifically injured limb.

The tall man hovered over the small creature, looking even smaller upon the large bed, and felt a pull on his heart. “We must save him.”

“Him?” Belamay asked from just behind Witon.

Witon brought his broad shoulders up to his ears, nodding. “Yes, I think.”

He turned to her, his face smeared with dirt and blood, yet his silver eyes glistened with tears and a furrow ran deep between his downturned brows.

“Some cloths, Belamay, please.”

At the washstand, Belamay pulled out every cloth from the shelf below and plunged them into his waiting hands, then turned back, grabbing the terracotta pitcher.

“Be right back,” she said over her shoulder, rushing from the room.

Witon stood motionless, cloths clamped in his large hands, looking down, helpless, no notion what to do. But of course, he did. He had been on too many battlefields—seen too many souls die, some in his arms—not to know.

He dropped to his knees by the bed, placing the bunched fabric next to the small body. With a touch as light as a Faerie's, he eased the dangling arm so the ripped ends of flesh abutted each other. The creature stirred; legs thrashing ever so weakly, face crumbling and scrunching with silent pain. Witon turned from it; he could not do what needed to be done if he didn't. There was something in that face… the long, slanted eyes, the small, pointed nose… that begged for his care—and he would give it.

Once the limb was in place, Witon packed it with cloth. Not daring to lift it, he gently covered the wound with wads of material on both sides and on top, material that quickly splotched and stained a strange shade of puce.

With that done—all that he could—Witon lifted a hand, placing it on the creature's forehead; he felt no fever and closed his eyes, feeling another small moment of relief. On opening them again, his face blossomed with surprise, for, even as he stroked the small head, the creature's writhing dissipated. The legs stilled, the face unclenched, as if Witon's touch had worked the magic of some calming elixir. Witon almost smiled… almost.

“Step aside, Sir.” A wizened voice reached him from behind. Witon flinched. “If you please.”

The speaker stood no taller than Witon's hip, yet something in the very manner of this Dwarf demanded obedience. Witon stepped aside, and the grey-haired, elderly Dwarf took his place. Tucking his long beard into his robe of brown wool, Pagmav—for it could be no other—scanned the injured creature from head to foot.

“'Tis his arm that—” Witon began, or tried to.

Pagmav turned, placing a wrinkled, age-spotted hand upon Witon's arm, looking up with eyes of oak brown. “I know, dear Count, how much you care for this life. Leave it in my hands. I will see to it.”

Witon knew nothing of this Dwarf; had never laid eyes on him, yet Pagmav knew him. Witon believed his promise, every word.

“Come, Witon.” Belamay took him by the arm as Pagmav's hand released him, pulling gently. “Let him do his work. He will do it well, I swear it to you.”

Witon looked down at this wondrous woman, her raven ringlets falling about her round face. In that moment, he felt nothing but gratitude to them both.

“See to your man's wound,” the Dwarf healer said without turning round, leaning against the bedside, removing all manner of tools and devices from the large leather bag he had brought with him.

With a nod to Pagmav and a last look at the life he prayed to the Stars to save, Witon quit the room, following Belamay's lead.