Hand of the Wicked

Chapter Nine

It was the translator Ugruz who had grabbed him and pulled him away from the rubble of the bridge. Dryden had been stunned, but he never lost consciousness as he was hauled away further down the street. It only took a few moments for him to begin to recover, but he let himself be carried away by the huge man. His ears rang, his head still spun, and all the light around him seemed dim and hard to see, yet bright and painful all at the same time. Everything ached as well, and his head hurt acutely where it had been struck.

Ugruz put him down on the ground leaning against a wall, “Sit and rest.” Then the big man turned and went to find someone else to help.

Mar knelt next to Dryden, “You okay, old boy?” That was a nasty knock.

“I’ll be okay,” He replied, though he wasn’t sure. Speaking hurt his head.

“One moment, sir.” Mar said, peering around strangely, “I may not be a healer, but perhaps I can help a bit with the pain.” He stood and started looking around. Then he found what he was looking for and walked towards a shop front. Above the door to the shop, hung a sign drawn with a heavily stylised eye. He knew the symbol meant the shop contained the things wizards, alchemists, scribes, and healers might need. Dryden could not read the blocky script below the eye which he assumed was the writing of Ghinai. Mar pushed the door open and went in.

He felt his head. A lump had formed. He knew he was lucky that he had not been killed. He looked around at the wreckage. Others had been hit by the blast. One trooper who had been just near him appeared lifeless, his body unmoved. Others were being helped up or tended to. Ugruz sat another man down next to him, a trooper.

“Bloody hell.” The man groaned, “T’ain’t seen nothin’ loike that in all me days.” His accent was thick and of the south country of Vastrum. Then, he glanced sideways and realized he was sitting beside an officer. “Sir. Apologies.” He tried to give a salute, but his arm was wounded and he winced.

“Be at ease, trooper,” Dryden assured him.

The man did not seem at ease, however, and said little else to his superior officer. There was always a barrier between the officers and the men. It was rarely breached. In point of fact, it was not to be breached under any but the most dire circumstances. A lower-ranking man could be punished for breaching it. They would not breach it willingly, and they would not respect officers who did not enforce the barrier.

Captain Khathan came striding up, “Major, are you hurt badly?”

“I’ll live, Captain, just give me a moment.” Then with a start he remembered Rosie, his horse, “Is Rosie okay?” He asked suddenly and in a way that made his head hurt again.

The Guludan officer looked around frowning through his thick overhanging moustache, “She appears so.” She stood on shaky legs, near several other horses, but she stood.

Havelock came to join them, then. He did not ask after Dryden, “Bloody Hell, they’ve blown all three bridges. We cannot follow after them.”

“Sir, the men must rest. Many were hurt by the blast.”

“Blood and thunder!” Havelock swore loudly, then after a moment, “Captain, find billets for the men and horse. Take stock of our supplies and take what you need from the city.” Then he turned to a lieutenant who was standing around looking lost, “You, Lieutenant Edmonds, find me another way across this damned river, boats, a ford, make a bridge if you have to, just make it quick.”

Shouting erupted from the shop into which Mar had gone. The wizard appeared at the door holding a small maroon cloth bag. A shopkeeper was trying to grab the wizard as he exited. Mar stopped and turned back to the man, his good eye flashing in anger, “Unhand me.”

The man shrank back only slightly and continued to shout.

Ugruz appeared translating suddenly, “He says you need to pay.”

Mar laughed hollowly, “I will commandeer what I need when I need it.”

“He says you are a thief.” The big easterner relayed.

“We are the King’s Own and we are at war. By rights, we take what we require. He is free to petition the Sultan of Ghinai for recompense.” Mar growled.

The shopkeeper finally relented but was no less angry. He stood in the doorway to his shop glaring at the soldiers.

Mar went to Dryden next and reached into the dark red bag. He pulled out a small vial and held it out, “Drink this.”

“Laudanum?” Dryden asked. He sincerely hoped it was not, he needed his wits about him. He’d seen the ill effects of that medicine on his mother when he was young before she passed.

“Better,” Mar winked at him.

“I must have my wits, wizard, do not drug me.”

“It’s a tincture of gris and aethium,” The wizard noted, “It is restorative. It will not truly heal you of course, but you will feel well enough for the time being.”

“I am not a wizard.” Dryden objected, “Will it work on me?”

Mar chuckled, “They work well enough. Worry not, as you have not the aptitude for sorcery, you will experience only their more mundane effects. Drink it, and you will feel well until it wears off.”

“What happens when it wears off?”

“You will need more of it or sleep.”

“I will not be an addict like those who bed themselves down in the gutters of Marrowick or Astonbury.” Dryden continued his protestations.

“I daresay, you’re a man of strong will, that ought not to concern you. Besides, that state of being takes more than a drop or two to achieve.” Mar unstoppered the small vial and thrust it into Dryden’s hand, “Drink.”

He drank the vial down in one sip. There was not much liquid in it. It tasted sickly sweet like syrup, but faintly of roses, and then of sultanas, and finally of terribly hot burning whisky. It was not wholly unpleasant until the last, and he grimaced. He felt nothing at first, but after a few minutes the pain had faded, he got to his feet, and they went about the business of picking through the wreckage of the day.