CHAPTER 15 #3
In a way she was astonished, and at the same time the night seemed to have lasted at least a thousand years already.
We’ve got to stop soon. If I don’t stop soon, I’m going to fall out of the saddle.
The road opened up before them.
Learned Edmund led them forward into an empty clearing as broad as a sheep meadow. Trees lined it on three sides, and on the fourth, it rose up into a hillside, and…something else.
Slate couldn’t figure out what it was. It could have been a building or a statue or a strangely symmetrical rock formation.
It looked for all the world like a man, crouching belly down, with his hands curved in a circle before him. His head was down, half-buried in the ground, his mouth open in a silent yell.
“What the hell is that?” said Brenner.
They rode nearer. Slate pulled up at a safe distance, but Learned Edmund spurred his horse forward.
It wasn’t until she saw the horse and rider approaching the strange statue that Slate realized exactly how huge it was. The thing was the size of a house. Its open mouth could have held a team of horses.
Learned Edmund practically fell off his mount in front of the thing, tossed its reins to the ground and ran forward to touch it.
“Well, it looks like someone knows what it is,” said Slate.
She reined in a few feet from Learned Edmund.
He was stroking the material of the statue, which up close didn’t look like stone as much as it looked like ivory, except that was impossible because you couldn’t get a piece of ivory the size of a house, and if there were any seams, they were hidden well.
“Is it a building? Some kind of temple?” Slate asked.
Learned Edmund didn’t so much as glance back at her. “No. I think it’s a…wonder-engine.” His voice was full of awe.
“What’s a wonder-engine?”
“Nobody’s really sure. Some of them do things.” He stretched up a hand as far as he could, and ran it tenderly down the ivory surface.
I’ve been made love to with less enthusiasm than a celibate guy is fondling a big ivory…thing. Possibly it’s time to rethink my life.
“What sort of things?” Brenner wanted to know.
“Miracles. Marvels. Completely useless things. It doesn’t seem to follow any particular pattern.”
“Learned Edmund,” she said tiredly, “is it going to try and kill us?”
He had to stop and think about it. Slate pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. It was going to come out as a sob if she wasn’t careful.
“I don’t think so, no. It doesn’t seem to be moving.” He frowned. “I suppose it’s remotely possible it might kill us. But no more than a house or a wagon or a windmill might.”
“Good enough.” The bubble went back down. “Let’s set up camp. I’m about done in, and this is as defensible a spot as we’re going to get.”
Nobody argued.
It’s a miracle.
They made camp in the bay formed by the circled arms of the wonder-engine.
The gaping mouth behind them was unsettling—if it had been an open cave, Slate would have insisted on setting up somewhere else—but it ended in a smooth, tongue-like sweep a few feet back.
The only hole was a narrow, drain-like opening at the top, a tiny throat for such a large mouth.
With the horses picketed in a wall across the open side of the bay, they were as well protected as they were likely to get.
It took only a few minutes to get a fire going, which was a good thing, because Slate didn’t think she had more than a few minutes left in her.
“Sit, sit,” said Learned Edmund. “Let me see to your wounds.”
“Slate first,” said Caliban, although he was practically swaying on his feet. “She took the worst of it.”
Bloody chivalry again, but he’s probably right. Slate sat down onto a rock. The shirt pulled where it stuck to the punctures. Learned Edmund knelt in front of her, frowned, and turned to dig through a saddlebag.
All at once. All at once is better. It’s like a bandage. Do it fast.
Slate took a deep breath, grabbed the hem of her shirt, and ripped it off over her head in a single savage yank.
Her shriek was not noticeably slowed by her clenched teeth, but she managed to bury most of it in the folds of the shirt around her head.
“Mistress Slate!”
Slate opened her eyes blearily. Am I dying? Did I just give myself a mortal wound?
Learned Edmund had fallen over backwards, and had a sleeve over his eyes.
Did I hit him?
“Mistress Slate—you cannot—you—modesty forbids—”
Brenner’s howl of laughter tipped her off.
Ah. Yes. Those. She glanced down at herself.
There were ugly bruises across her torso, and several shallow oozing holes.
Blood had painted her skin with a thin, irregular layer of clotted red.
As an object of erotic interest, her breasts currently rated somewhere below a dead flounder.
“Look,” she said tiredly, “I don’t have anything Brenner hasn’t seen before, Caliban’s a paladin, you’re sworn to celibacy, and Grimehug’s the wrong species. Just sew me up.”
“But—”
“Hey Edmund, I hear that if you hold your breath, it keeps your genitals from withering.”
“Shut up, Brenner.”
The scholar rubbed his forehead. “Yes. You’re right. It is shameful for me to be concerned with such things when you are in pain.”
She patted his shoulder absently, too tired to be gratified when he didn’t flinch.
Learned Edmund looked a little green by the end of it—whether from being forced to touch feminine flesh, or the task at hand—but he managed. Most of the antler wounds hadn’t actually penetrated the skin, leaving ugly round bruises instead. Only a few actually required bandaging.
Despite his difficulty in looking directly at the injuries, Learned Edmund did a skillful job patching her up. Slate had been treated by licensed healers with a touch that wasn’t half so delicate.
The tattoo was actually the worst. A thick line of blood had crusted under its teeth and the skin gaped open. Cleaning it was excruciating and Slate had to chew on a knuckle and look away.
“I barely know what to do with this,” said Learned Edmund honestly. “I should sew it so that it doesn’t scar, but—I don’t think it’ll let me.”
“Leave it,” said Slate. “If I get out of this with just a scar there, I’ve been lucky.”
She looked away, and saw Grimehug sprawled out on his side by the fire, like a dog. He smiled at her with all his sharp teeth. Firelight reflected orange in his eyes.
“Should use gnole medicine, crazy lady.”
“Gnole medicine?”
“Lick it till it feels better. Then eat grass. Works every time.”
“As your physician,” said Learned Edmund testily, “I do not recommend that.”
Slate grinned.
The scholar ran his hands over her ribcage to make sure nothing was broken, a process he undoubtedly found more uncomfortable than she did, despite the bruises.
“What do you recommend, then?” she asked, as he finished and began scrubbing his hands furiously.
“Keep your wounds clean. And sleep. As much as we can arrange.”
Slate was only too happy to obey.