Chapter Nine #2
When his stomach felt fit to burst, Isaac slowed his
attempts at eating. He took stock of his injury. The bulk of his wounds seemed
concentrated around his chest. Fortunately, none of the punctures were very
deep, and Zaria had done an excellent job staunching the blood with a layer of
bandage. His range of motion was not overly affected. With a good night’s rest,
he should recover swiftly.
He realized, absently, that it was likely night on the surface.
Only a little more than a day had passed since he had slept in the open sand.
In that time, they had evaded a skulking ship, travelled to the tomb, dealt
with the shibboleth, certain other things had occurred, and then they’d fought
through an army of bones.
He was exhausted. Sleep called to him.
But when he closed his eyes, nestling his head against the
canvas of his pack, his focus drifted to the wounds on his neck. The slit left
by Zaria’s dagger gave him a slight discomfort every time he swallowed. Teeth
marks ached on his neck. Lying on the floor as he was, he also began to notice
a tinge of her musk on his skin, which had apparently seeped in through their
repeated contact. He grabbed his robe, took a tentative sniff, and grimaced at
the fierceness of the odor.
A snort came from his side. When he looked, the hyena was
grinning down at him, her teeth peeking out. “Thinkin’ of fond memories?”
Was that a joke?
Was she really going to play it off?
“I’m going to burn my clothes,” he said, seriously.
“Uh-huh. Betcha five silver you’ll
pop a stiffy every time you catch the scent.”
He tossed his robe away, grimacing.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“I just wish, for once, we could have a normal
conversation.”
“Are we normal people, all of a sudden?”
“I just want to state, for the record, that it would be
nice.”
She folded her arms, sliding down the battlement. “You wish
to speak serious about our fucking, then?”
Isaac glared up at the rib cage.
“Didn’t mean much by it,” she said. “Didn’t cross my mind
you’d think different, neither. Fucking’s as basic as breathin’ to me. Everyone
does it. Everyone wants to.” She paused. “You seemed like you did.”
Isaac got back to his feet, fast enough that his legs
wobbled beneath him. He went through the mnemonics of his warding spell,
gathered a purple light in his hands, and spread it over the open ladder. It
remained as a solid film. He could have cast the spell over the entire
perimeter of their tower, but that would’ve been far too taxing for his current
state. The most obvious ingress would have to suffice.
He stayed where he was, looking through the membrane of his
spell. He realized he was waiting. He was waiting with fear and expectation.
Waiting for what?
“Seems you took it different than I intended,” Zaria
continued, her voice almost probing. “Seemed half a world away, afterward.”
His breath caught.
Isaac stood and walked to the opposite end of the
watchtower. He gazed out over the city. It stretched far past what he could see
with the faint cartilage light. All the streets were paved, all the buildings
close and ordered. It was quite an efficient design. Isaac could easily grasp
the layout of several districts, just at a glance. He imagined that space was a
limited commodity, here in the chest of a dead colossus. If he had to say one
thing for a slaving empire, it was that their zoning laws were worthy of
praise.
Further ahead, he could see the suggestion of skulls, rising
above the roofs and towers. They were utterly massive, stacking one atop the
other. Each of them gazed to the sky.
Those were not the necromancer’s thralls.
Was that a building?
“Isaac?” Zaria asked.
He flinched.
“If you want to speak your piece, now’s the time.”
He gripped the battlement.
“It weren’t my intention to hurt you,” she said. “Not
permanent-like, anyway. If I did so . . . I’m sorry.”
He turned, ready to say something rash. He stopped. For the
first time, he noticed she was injured. He hadn’t seen it very well from the
side, but a long gash had been torn through the thigh of her trousers, and the
blood was drenching the spotted fur of her thigh. Various lacerations adorned
her right arm, which was unarmored compared to the left. When she shifted
position, the way she moved suggested painful bruises.
He had known she was hurt. She had told him as much. She had
shown him the tortures she’d sustained as a prisoner. Even still, the thought
hadn’t crossed his mind. . . .
“Ahem,” Zaria said.
Isaac blinked.
“Typically,” she said, “young sir, when you want a second
round, you use your words.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. His chest was fluttery with
nerves, and he could not figure out why. “You’re still bleeding. Why didn’t you
bandage yourself?”
“Used ‘em on you, love.”
He ran a hand down the white fabric wrapped around his
chest. She’d had to use most of the roll just to apply the barest layer.
“Thanks,” he said, quietly.
“Nothing to it. You had the greater need. Just . . .
triaging. That’s the word, right?”
“Yes. That’s—” He looked at her
wounds again, both the new ones and the spots where he knew the old ones lay.
He made a decision. “I can make you a poultice.
Soldier’s Rest. It’ll ease the pain, accelerate the healing.”
She blinked. “You can do that?”
He went for his pack, already measuring the herbs in his
mind. “Like I said, I can do many things. Some would say useful things.”
“No, Isaac,” Zaria said. “What I mean is—I told you of the
torture and horror I went through before we met.”
“You did, yes.”
“You could see evidence of this plight splayed across my
body.”
“Of course.”
“And you knew enough pharmacy to see that these wounds were
causing me great sufferin’.”
“Definitely.”
“And you did nothing for this.”
“No,” he said.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I thought you deserved it.”
She blinked up at him with a mixture of surprise and anger.
He opened his palms. “I’m sorry, but it didn’t seem smart to
aid my enemies.”
“Didn’t seem smart to admit that, neither.”
“Look, do you want to die of infection or not?”
She waved a hand, lying back fully on the floor. “Aye, aye.
Better late than never.”
He pulled out the alchemical supplies from his pack,
carefully laying out a mortar, pestle, and various phials of herbs. The Soldier’s
Rest would be difficult to craft with his travel kit, as the recipe called for
a very precise measurement of ingredients. In fact, with his dwindling
supplies, crafting enough of the poultice to heal Zaria would likely exhaust
many of his vital reagents.
He would need potions in the battle ahead.
Did he want to take the chance?
He glanced back at her. She was lying on the floor with her
eyes closed, taking shallow breaths. It seemed like she could do little else.
Isaac crafted the poultice gingerly, storing the excess
reagents and tossing used vials over the watchtower edge. By the time all the
components were applied, the solution had thickened to a dark green emulsion,
still boiling upon itself. As he waited for the liquid to evaporate, he gazed
out over the necropolis, thinking of crafting elixirs in his uncle’s
laboratory. Without warning, he found himself aching for the sound of clinking
beakers, the pour of distilled liquid, the heat of the flames. He had always
thought he hated working in the lab. Always, it had been a chore, a series of
repetitive tasks to brew non-essential potions, which his uncle sold for
profit.
He missed it terribly, all of a sudden. He missed the
certainty of each reaction.
He felt very far from home.
The poultice was ready. A coagulation of Soldier’s Rest sat
in the bottom of his mortar, still steaming hot. After repacking his phials, he
crawled over to Zaria and tried to determine the worst of her injuries.
It was difficult. There was a lot of fur, and a lot of
blood.
“Which one hurts the most?” he asked.
In response, she rolled onto her front. Across the canvas of
her back, a long, diagonal slash went from her shoulder blade to the opposite
hip, cleaving straight through the vest and the backing of her leather
plackart. Chips of bone poked from the skin.
“Gods,” Isaac said, startled.
“It’s a bit of an ache,” Zaria mumbled.
“Yes, clearly.”
After picking out the splintered bone, he took a pinch of
poultice and applied it to the laceration, packing the wad as tightly as
possible. The reaction was immediate. Flesh steamed and spasmed. Zaria gasped
in surprise.
“Fuckin’ cunt!”
“Let it work,” Isaac said.
The reaction slowed. A pale green seeped into the
surrounding tissue. When the restorative had fully entered her blood, Zaria
released a long, cooing sigh.
“Oh, gods. Oh, there’s this—this rushing coolness.”
“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Isaac asked.
“It’s fuckin’ divine, Isaac.” She raised her head, sighing,
as he applied another wad. “Ohhhhhhhhhh, fuck. Right
there. Keep doin’ that.”
He kept applying the mixture along the length of her wound.
Each pinch of the poultice left a similar spasm and suction. By the time he’d
packed most of the laceration, Zaria’s exhalations were fluttery and weak.
“You know,” Isaac said, making sure the Rest was evenly
spread, “you could’ve said something. You never gave any indication these were
bothering you so much.”
“Would you have aided me if I’d bent
your ear about it?”
He thought about it. He didn’t answer.
“Exactly,” she said. “Not that I blame you. Just how it is.
You show weakness to someone, and they take advantage.” She gave another cooing
breath as he moved on to a puncture at her hip. “You hole up in the sick ward
while underway, and someone will pilfer your bunk. You do sloppy deck work
‘cause you got burns and bruises, and the first hand’ll
just call you idle. Might be another crewman that’s got your number decides
it’s their time to strike.”
He helped her undo the leather plackart, peeling open the