Highmage's Plight (Highmage’s Plight Series Book 1) (7 page)

The falc was old, many of its feathers had long ago gone to steely gray. Its wingspan was greater than the length of the tallest man's body, and at the moment it was utilizing every inch to reach the two riders on the Caravan Road, linking the Empire to the southern city-states and through the badlands to the distant Cathart. The winds that held the falc aloft whispered to the ancient bird,
Seek their aid for the prophesied one. All is not yet lost.

So the enemy of the Demonlord followed the urging of the winds, and in turn was noticed by the eight black liveried riders, whose swords and knives glinted with the rays of the late afternoon sun.

Below, Cle'or's keen eyesight noticed the object of the falc's apparent intent first.

“There!” she shouted as the falc dived toward a rider bursting over the brush that hedged the top of the far hill, a rider who suddenly drew to a halt as his companion followed.

Se'and did not know what the falc heralded, but had little doubt as she ordered her patrol to fan out and cut off the pair who might have posed a danger to her impromptu encampment.

Urging her horse to a canter, she blocked their path and drew her sword. She looked into the eyes of the man in a leather cloak, hardly registering the wooden staff in his hand. The next thing she knew there was a tremendous flash of light. Her horse reared, flinging her off her saddle.

The strangers dismounted and rushed to her side. The companion, an elfblood, looked at her and she felt a feather light touch. He took a deep breath and said, “Nothing’s broken.”

“You’re a healer,” Se’and rasped.

“Of sorts,” he said, glancing at his human companion.

“My brother’s dying, please come!”

The falc began circling and let out a caw.

“It looks like you’ve got a patient, Bal,” George said.

Cle’or and the others closed in around them.

“I’m fine!” Se’and shouted, “They’re healers!”

“I’m not a healer,” George replied. “And sorry for what happened to you. I’ve an aversion to people pointing swords at me.”

Cle’or whispered, “Se’and, what happened?”

“I’m not sure but I’ll trust that,” she said, pointing to the falc winging back toward their camp.

Balfour, meanwhile, thought hard at George and the staff, ‘They’ve got to be Cathartans, but I’ve never heard of them leaving Cathart.’

Staff commented, ‘They look rather competent with all those weapons. The array of daggers is rather amazing.’

Cle’or glanced back at the two riders as the horses cantered back the way the patrol had come. She briefly glared at Balfour, dressed in animal skins of all things, yet she sensed his appraisal and felt oddly pleased. In the palm of her left hand, she slipped the hiltless throwing dagger back into its sheath.

As they rode Se’and inspected the man with the staff.

“Who are you?”

“I’m George Bradley.”

“Jee-orj Bradlei, Je’orj?” she said, struggling to pronounce it. She glanced at the staff bound to the rigging of the saddle, which he could easily grab at need, his odd clothing, then carefully examined his features.

“Are you an elfblood?” she asked.

“Uh, no. Although, my friend is on his mother's side,” the blonde haired woman continued to stare at him disconcerted.

"Can you tell us how your brother was hurt?” George asked.

“He’s dying, not hurt.”

“He’s sick?”

The elfblood glanced at his friend riding beside him, who was cringing a bit as he rode.

‘Gee-orj,’ the tentative thought reached him from Balfour, ‘I don’t know what I can do about sickness.’

‘Leave the diagnosis to me,’ staff said, ‘I’ve an impressive medical encyclopaedic database.’

George muttered, “Famous last words.”

‘I’m mortified.’

“You bucket of crystalline chips, don’t get cocky when a life’s on the line,” George muttered.

‘Well, we’ll see who’s more useful, won’t we, mister professor of archaeology.’

George’s eyes met with Balfour’s as they came into sight of the Cathartan camp.

Who are they?
George thought.

Balfour heard it clearly through the computer’s telepathic link. He focused his thoughts and answered, ‘According to the stories, Gee-orj, Carthart is a land southeast of the Great Waste. It's a supposedly a beautiful land with only one thing wrong with it. It's cursed. Apparently, only a few men are born each generation. The women outnumber the men thousands to one. The women are reputed to be among the finest warriors and craftspeople in the world, and they take the matter of protecting the few men in their society rather seriously. It's been centuries since the last Cathartan ventured from their lands. I wonder what brought them here of all places?’

“Interesting,” George muttered, thinking that the Summoning had been leading them here.

Se’and saw the staff bound beside George's knee glistened ever so faintly. Her ears raised and she shouted to her sisters, “He is a mage!”

Balfour quickly replied, “Ladies, that doesn’t quite describe him. He’s pure human without a trace of elvin blood.”

The falc settled upon the brightly painted peaked roof of the largest wagon, a wooden affair, which had wheels thicker than the others. It ruffled its wings and abruptly squawked as George, Balfour, and the returning patrol halted before it. It abruptly squawked again.

All turned and stared at the bird, as a robed man and dark robed older women stepped from the back of the wagon and stared at the falc as it suddenly leapt back into the sky.

De’ohr stared at the great bird as it winged away, the sense of what it implored echoing through her body before she turned to gaze at the two strangers now in the camp. Her heart pounded. This was the sign, one no one could deny.

“Sire!” she called. “This is the moment my visions have been leading us to!”

Gazing bright with hope, Ryff muttered, “I pray it to be true…” He pleaded to the approaching strangers, “Whoever you are please help my son!”

The oddly dressed elfblood and the man with the walking staff hurriedly dismounted and were ushered inside the wagon.

They found themselves being watched across the encampment with suspicion, and another darker emotion by what the computer staff noted as eighty-two black livered women, armed with bows, swords, and a vast assortment of daggers.

“Do you feel it?” George whispered to his companion.

Balfour winced, “I’ve never felt such pain.”

Cle’or headed the curious off and shouted, “They’re healers! The falc led us right to them.”

Se’and bounded up the wagon steps right behind them.

Through the curtain door the Mother Shaman said, “My lord, please come away.”

“I shall not,” Sire Ryff muttered, taking hold of his unconscious son's fevered hand.

With a sigh, De'ohr turned and noted Se'and gesturing to her as the two strangers moved to Vyss’s pallet. The walking staff flared in the man’s hands. “Full body scan,” she heard the mutter as the young woman Fri’il continued to towel cold water on the boy’s fevered brow.

The older woman, Me’oh, who Ryff had taken into his household for her renowned herbal healing skills, looked incredulously at George and Balfour as she heard De’ohr say to Se’and, “The man’s a mage?”

The sandy haired Se’and nodded, “They say not, but—”

Vyss’s body arched in agony.

“What the hell?!” George shouted.

Balfour gasped, “There’s no record of such a thing in the Imperial Healer’s Archive, Gee-orj!”

“We took him to the Imperial Capital to the Healer’s Hall,” Lord Ryff said, “They said they could do nothing to save him from the Curse.”

“But why couldn’t they recognize this for what it is, Gee-orj?” Balfour wondered.

“Would you have?” George rebutted, leaning heavily on his staff. “Let me think. I was half hoping we were dealing with something easy to deal with, like cancer.”

Sire Ryff looked about him, “Can you do nothing?”

“Give me a moment, please. My friend and I need to, uh, consult.” The staff began to glisten and the two stranger grew still.

Fri’il said, “Who are they?”

Se’and said, “He’s Balfour. That’s Je’orj. The falc led us right to them, then made it clear that we were to bring them here.”

Me’oh gave a concerned look to De’ohr. The Mother Shaman understood. The boy had little time. Whatever they were going to do they had best do it quickly.

Gee-orj, staff hasn’t covered this in my lessons
, Balfour thought.

George inquiried in silence,
Staff, what with five thousand years of medical knowledge at your fingertips, there’s nothing that covers this one?

‘George, I’m cross referencing exorcisms now.’

The archaeologist mentally laughed,
Well, we’re here, the boy’s dying as we dither. So, I guess it’s up to me.

‘George…’

“End conference,” the man muttered, “maintain level one rapport.”

‘Acknowledged. I hope you know what you’re doing.’

“I hope so too,” he mumbled as his gaze came back into focus. The young woman bathing the boy’s fevered brow couldn’t be more than sixteen years old on earth. She looked up at him with pleading eyes.

“You’ll need to give us some room,” George said.

“I’m not leaving,” the boy’s father said.

“What I’m about to do may disturb you. I really suggest—”

“We’re all staying, Fri’il over there is Vyss’s wife. We’re his family,” the woman with gray streaked hair said.

“I know my son is dying,” Ryff added, “and that he has little time.”

George gripped Balfour’s shoulder and said, “We need to get those clothes off him. I’ve got some old fashioned surgery to do.”

Me’oh and the young woman Fri’il frowned as they removed Vyss’s sweat drenched clothing.

Sire Ryff, the Mother Shaman, and Se’and however only stared at the blade the man drew from its waist sheath. The blade was almost gray, discolored like none of them had ever seen before. The man brought it close to his staff, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The staff glowed brighter and brighter as did the blade of discoloured, now nearly black metal.

From Balfour’s memory everything he knew of the Cathartan’s Curse flowed through George’s mind. The Curse's onset in its virulent form occurred at puberty. Muscle weakness was the first indication of the disease, which progressed in stages that resembled a wasting sickness. It was presumed that the lads died of the fevers that burn out their human bodies. Little else was known save that there was no cure.

Me'oh looked up at Balfour and said, “Vyss is our lord sire's secondson, something more rare than I dare say you could understand not being from my land. We sought out the Healers in the Empire with hopes in their magery. But they told us the Curse was far beyond even their knowledge and sorceries.”

Balfour frowned, “If anyone can cure him, Gee-orj, can.”

“Bal,” George muttered, “deep probe him, please. Then monitor and keep your barriers up, just in case.”

George then moved to stand over the boy and held his oddly colored dark blade over the boy’s body, then muttered, “Activate emergency sterile field.”

The staff he held in his left hand blazed with blue light. Me’oh and Fri’il felt a tingling sensation, not unpleasant, just something foreign to their experience. The Mother Shaman’s eyes widened as she stared. Her brother, Sire Ryff, gasped, “He’s uttered no spell.”

His sandy haired daughter said, “Je’orj claims he has no elvin blood.”

“And he can wield such magery?” her father asked.

De’ohr stiffened, feeling her visions take her, feeling them whisper to her that this was why her dreams had led them across the world to try to save the boy. Failure to cure him in the Empire was fated. It was this moment upon which the future of their House, the future of her people, rested.

George muttered, “Getting anything?”

Nothing
, came Balfour's mental reply.
His heart rate is steadily weakening. It’s sucking the life out of him.

With an unconscious nod, George passed the blade over the boy’s stomach. Still nothing. He moved the blade slowly toward the boy’s feet.

Shock. The staff flared, throwing up mental barriers to shield George as the boy cried out. Balfour paled, reeling backward with an image locked before his mind's eye.

A moment later, it was as if nothing happened.

"My, my, wasn't that something. You alright, Bal?" George asked.

The elfblood healer shook himself, "I believe you've found it. Now what?"

George said, “Ladies, please hold him down. It’s important he moves as little as possible.”

Me’oh and Fri’il frowned as Balfour whispered, eyes wide, “Gee-orj….”

George took a deep breath, thinking archaeology wasn’t supposed to be like this, then muttered, "Now for the hard part, I cut it out.”