Blood of Quartz

Chapter 11

The uncomfortable wood bench bit into the back of Erik's legs as he leaned against the stone wall in the infirmary. The sound of Cerrin sleeping, his breathing in and out regular and deep, was a sound he needed to completely relax after a trying day. The healers had done wonders for him, giving him tea that had broken the fever, and placing bowls of steaming water near his head, the aroma of strong mint emanating throughout the building.

Erik closed his eyes, the soothing scent of lavender also reaching him from the pot of the grease on the sideboard, steeped with dried blossoms. The healer and his assistant had smeared Cerrin's chest and back to ease his muscles from all the coughing.

He had left Niall and the rest of the men in the stable that afternoon after they had participated in drill practice, to check on Cerrin. He'd then been required to again describe Cerrin's condition the winter before, and then Cerrin had awoken with another fit of wheezing and sharp coughs. Erik had sat with Cerrin propped up on him so that the healer could listen through his skin with a cupped horn, make tutting noises, and direct his assistant to brew more mint tincture.

Erik had left, then returned with bread and cider for the two men ministering to his friend, as a gesture of thanks. They had gotten into another conversation about wheat and the best way to dry it to prevent mold spores as they ate. The candles had burnt low in the house by then, and after Donegal had looked in on them, Erik had decided to stay a little longer, in case Cerrin needed him.

In truth, he was exhausted, and the quiet of the healer's home was wonderful. In the whirlwind of discovering his relation to the Earl or Berrigan, becoming a Captain, dealing with learning to drill, take commands, and being fitted for ungodly uncomfortable, heavy armour, of which he wore the new-to-him leather cuirass and belted skirt while the breastplate was being hammered to measurements. The chain mail, braces and shoulders were back at the stable, and a helmet was coming, apparently. It must have cost what would be more than a year's profits from their farm, but he was told it was paid for by the earl. Thankfully his cloak would fit overtop of it all, and he had vehemently refused a new one. Some vestige of who he was needed to remain, this world foreign and overwhelming.

He just wanted to curl up in the corner and sleep for a day. The rest of the men had shared similar sentiments, most of them lancing blisters, scratching at bites from the various bugs in the straw that was their beds, muscles aching from the constant formations and charges, shooting bows and learning sword defenses. By nightfall, most of them were snoring, with no energy to sit up and talk around a fire, drink ale, sing, or dance.

They couldn't get on the road soon enough, and then home. Perhaps in time to finish the harvest. He had been given paper and a quill from Commander Harrt, and had carefully scribed a letter back to his mother and Ylaine, describing everything that had happened, and to spread news of the men to the rest of the families that they were well. He did not want to alarm Cerrin's family, so left out the severity of his condition, only saying he had a mild cough but it was improving. Commander Harrt had seen to it that it was dispatched the moment Erik had asked how to send it.

He also left the meeting where he had discovered his mother's parentage out of the letter. That was best discussed when he was home again.

His friends, except for Niall, had happily taken him on as their Captain, and Erik was given more men from a neighbouring village. They were twenty men strong staying in the stable, and it was crowded. Niall bristled at the commands, and Erik, in desperation to bring him around, had given him second in command. It was frustrating them both, as Niall would rather jump into the middle of anything, rather than stand back and give orders. He often wondered if their ancestor's roots from across the North Sea weren't a stronger influence in him, his wildness and lack of fear a true testament to the adventurers and explorers that had settled their village.

He still worried their friendship had changed.

he shifted in his seat, his sword hilt glinting in the low firelight along the wall beside him. He wore it on his hip still, after trying it on his back and hating it, missing the hum from the pommel when his skin touched it. He'd shown it to the officers, but none could identify the crest, the runes, nor could they remember ever seeing such a weapon. Rex had even been stumped, and he had been close to the former earl. Erik had relayed the story to them about how his mother had given it to him, but Rex was doubtful that Matthew had owned the sword, having never seen it on him in battle, or with the other weapons stored in the Keep's armoury.

So the mystery remained.

Cerrin snorted and shifted in the chaise he was propped on, and Erik opened his eyes, looking over. The doorway on the other side of the small room darkened at the same time, and he sat up, rubbing at his eyes.

"Someone here to see you sir," the assistant whispered, eyes darting to his patient. "Said you must come."

Erik nodded, lifted his sword up, buckled it, and wearily stepped out of the room, letting the curtain drop behind him. He should head back to the stables after this. Cerrin was in good hands.

As the assistant held the outside door open for him, he stepped out into the twilight, stooping to go through the door. Standing in the small courtyard was a man, in what looked to be Kingsman armour, two swords crossed over his back. He blinked, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, the recognition hit him square in the chest.

"Father?" he asked, emotions overwhelming him. His father stood before him. It was not possible. "Is it—"

Orrick reached him and enfolded him in his arms, holding him close, and Erik held on for fear he was dreaming. "Erik."

"Five years, father," he muffled into his father's shoulder. Five long years. With no word. "Where have you been? Where is Craik?"

His father let him go, and wiped at his eyes. "Let's go back to the stables. I have much to tell you."

"As do I, father," Erik replied, letting out a long breath. "So much has happened."