Healer of Sakkara

Chapter 2 - Bruises

By the time Galen left the forest and turned his feet towards home, his relief had long vanished, and his anger turned poisonous. Self-loathing crawled around his gut with insect legs and chewed at his heart.

The man had been a thief, clearly—or maybe worse—and the 'trackers' had undoubtedly been the Guard, hot on his tail. If only Galen hadn't been such a coward, he might have helped capture a criminal, and still have his pendant to boot.

"Or you might be a corpse in the woods, with ants eating your eyes by now," he muttered to himself, and kicked a loose stone down the dusty dirt road.

If the man had wanted to kill him, he would have, and nothing Galen did could have stopped him. Most Thrynian twelve-year-olds were taller and weighed more than he did.

As the high wooden gates of the town of Dern came into sight, Galen sighed again. The words carved into the arch above it reflected Thrynian values, and did nothing to boost his spirits.

STRENGTH IN ARMS. HONOR IN VALOR. VIRTUE IN SERVICE.

Strength and Honor were what Thrynians respected most, and one proved these traits through service in the Guard. As they also believed it was impossible to have the first of each set without the second, someone like Galen, therefore, lacked all.

Not everyone thought that way, of course. Harrald had told Galen there were many kinds of strength, many paths to honor, and virtue in all of them. But his opinions were far from popular.

Not that Thrynians were cruel or uncaring; quite the opposite. They considered it their duty to protect the weak and less capable. In their view, that included most of the other races of Sakkara. In Thrynian society, though, the hierarchy was based on the values inscribed above the gates of Dern, and any who failed to live up to them were looked down upon.

Harrald had never pressured Galen to be a fighter, though; if anything, he discouraged him from pushing himself too hard—especially as the physical differences between him and his Thrynian peers grew more noticeable. He showed such concern any time Galen was hurt, in fact, that Galen had taken to hiding his injuries. He healed quickly, anyway, and he didn't need any extra reminders of his weakness.

Especially today.

Passing through the gates, which remained open until sunset, he made his way down a wide cobbled street, and then up a narrower one, winding his way around the large, round hill on which Dern was built. Thrynian towns tended to be built in such a fashion, with the town's sheriff residing in a manor at the top of the hill, the most valorous of the Guard living closest thereto, and the weakest and least valued living at the bottom.

Fortunately, Harrald had accumulated a great deal of virtue and valor over his long career, and though not wealthy, resided in a small house in a respectable area about halfway up the tangle of sloping streets.

By the time Galen reached it, sweat dampened his undershirt and his heart beat a healthy tempo in his breast. The front door was painted blue, to represent Harrald's retired status and honorable service. Little children left fresh flowers there on festival days, and the street sweeper cleaned the step every morning before dawn.

Galen let himself in through the side gate and paused for a moment. From the backyard, he heard the rhythmic clink, clink, clink of a small hammer, which told him Harrald was at his forge, probably working on a piece of chainmail. At least the old man wouldn't see him returning from the forest with bruises and scrapes, this time.

Stealthily, and feeling not much better than a thief or spy himself, Galen unlocked a far less prestigious door with a small, rusty key.

The cellar was Galen's domain, where he kept his healing herbs and other ingredients, and where he experimented and invented new remedies. Harrald didn't take much interest in it, but let him do as he pleased, for which Galen was immensely grateful.