Theurgy: The Journey's Dawn (Book One)

Chapter 12 The Fated Choice

Edlund felt as if every bone in his body was magically transformed into lead. Moving them was a pain, far greater than he usually gets from pulling wheat and straw all day. He hadn't realized exactly how sore he was after tussling with the man with glowing armor till he was sat on one of the physician's wooden tables that rose to his stomach. The soft wool cloth was a relief, but still, he moved like a wooden doll. Half of the large room was filled with these beds tucked as close to the walls as possible, and an opening running the length of the chamber. Near the entrance, the physician's tools hung and dangled from hooks and latest in bags, a sink permanently stained in blood, and several herbs, flowers, and roots he never saw before. The room wasn't really packed.

Besides himself and Gray, about five others laid on spare tables with varying injuries. One was bandaged over his arm, kept strictly straight out with long carved sticks. Another had his left eye covered in white clothe, his shirt dampened with blood. Gray laid beside him, still unconscious but breathing steadily. The physician was preparing balms and ointments to treat the blisters that appeared, humming as he did so. The ceramic mask shaped like a bird's beak covered everything but his eyes bobbed to an invisible tune as if the song in his eyes drowned out the groans of pain. Two beady black eyes poked out just above the mask, seemingly focused on everything at once, nothing really leaving their sight.

"This is only the lighter days," he swiped his hands across the wide room lazily, the dim candles seemingly flickering as he did so. His voice was deep, but hushed like he was talking from down a well. "Once day breaks, there will be more than I'd know what to do with alone. Going to have to call some of the local doctors for assistance."

He brought over a small red ceramic jar fill with a dull red paste. After carefully removing Gray's armor and shirt, he began applying it to all the redder parts of his arms, chest, and face.

"Exhaustion," the doctor said when he saw all of the soars. "Interesting. Usually, only mages have to worry about such things. Must be quite a weapon if it did this much damage to his soul."

"You know about mages," Edlund asked him, and the beak wobbled up and down.

"Aye," he closed the rubber cap on the jar and returned it to the shelf he grabbed it from. "Back during the war, I roamed the fields along with countless others. Back when those of the empire and Torlak shed the same blood. Those dark days, when the empire nearly tore in two. It seemed then as if all our enemies had turned their heads at once. Including ourselves."

The doctor returned with a black bag of instruments, clanging against one another as he set them on the stool next to Edlund's bed. He gulped and chuckled nervously as he took out small knives, creams, and instruments for examination, the kind he feared the most.

"Hey, is that all for me?" He asked the doctor cautiously, who was already searching every inch of Edlund's body for injuries. "I'm honestly flattered, but I don't believe such implementation is needed-"

"Nonsense my boy," as Edlund tried to rise, the doctor's stiff hand was placed on his chest and forced him down with surprising strength. Edlund could feel fear taking hold of him. There was only one physician in BrokenArrow, an older woman. He remembered when he was young when plowing the field, playing outside with Lyse and other kids, he would accidentally cut himself, or others somehow. The doctor was comforting. She did not have the long beakish mask, but a face mask resembling a doll's smile. It was comforting, her large black eyes looking upon him with care and love. He tried to hold onto those feelings as he was undressed, and the cold fingers of this doctor trailed his body like he was preparing to dissect him.

"I never caught your name," Edlund told him, trying to take his mind off of the moment.

The beak cocked to the side, but his eyes were not taken off of his diligent work. "Why is it important?"