Chapter 7 The Barn Armory #2
It wasn’t a large hut, but it was cozy. A single room, with fur pelts lining the floor and glass lanterns strung up at varying lengths from the ceiling, which had the effect of looking like floating stars.
It was occupied by a small bed, a few wooden chairs, and several desks, upon which were myriad items: jars of aquamarine seaweed, crushed herbs, peach-pink seashells.
Garlands of garlic, fat stalks of rhubarb, a large taxidermy squirrel that was eyeing them with suspicion.
Sitting at a desk was the old man, Grandfather Tortoise.
Beside him, swinging her little legs in a smaller chair, was Drezella.
And standing over them both was Bronwen, watching as the old man’s hands mixed a paste with a mortar and pestle.
Drezella spotted them first, giving a little gasp before tugging on Bronwen’s sleeve and pointing.
“Bronwen,” Gueldefore said when she looked over. Gone was his acidic tone. It was warm like butter, righteous like justice. “You’re looking lovely as a woodland nymph amid the cascading lantern light.”
Morfran snorted. Gueldefore smacked him forward, right on the bruise on his shoulder, before saying, “Your father wished me to bring this wad of horse dung to Grandfather Tortoise. He limps like a lame man and can’t see out of one eye.
A session is needed.” He paused, sniffed, and said, “A change of clothes as well. He smells unsavory.”
Bronwen gave an exasperated sigh. Whether at Gueldefore, Morfran, or the situation, he didn’t know.
“I can help him,” Drezella offered, but as to what she meant, Morfran didn’t know.
Bronwen just shook her head, an empathetic look softening her face. “I’m fairly certain his ribs are nearly broken. Better if Grandfather Tortoise does it. We need him fully healed for what we need him to do.”
Drezella wilted.
“Well?” Grandfather Tortoise called out, his gaze settled just a tad bit lower than Morfran’s eyes. “If you want my services, bring the man in. I can’t help him if he just hovers in the doorway, can I?”
Morfran went to sit on the nearest chair draped with a pelt, when Gueldefore grabbed his shoulder with tight, clawlike fingers. “Uh-uh. You pissed yourself, didn’t you? You have to stand. We don’t want anything getting dirty in here, now, do we?”
“Let him sit,” Bronwen replied, and when Morfran noticed the glint in her eye, he knew she was saying it more to spite Gueldefore than for Morfran’s comfort.
She softened her words as she added, “Grandfather Tortoise has to apply the paste to his face, and I don’t want him straining himself reaching up so high.
Besides, I can wash the pelt later.” She tacked this last bit on with a forced smile aimed at the knight. Gueldefore clearly liked that.
“Good thinking, Bronwen. As smart as ever, and growing more beautiful with each passing day.” He leaned against the hut’s doorframe.
Morfran scowled. He’d much rather not be audience to a painfully one-sided flirtation.
Thankfully Bronwen asked Knight Butt Chin to fetch clean clothes with Drezella, which effectively got rid of the man.
Morfran collapsed into the chair, and the seat and pelt were so soft, so comforting, that he had to fight off tears. He was terribly tired, the stress of his situation was overwhelming, and all he wanted was to lie down and let Beni walk over his back to massage his tense muscles.
Grandfather Tortoise turned to him with a bowl full of green sludge.
“So…let me guess,” Morfran asked. “You consider yourself a healer, and this ambiguously green slime is going to go on my wounds, and it may or may not work in two weeks’ time?”
“Why do you say it like you doubt it?” Grandfather Tortoise’s gaze remained below Morfran’s eyes.
“Because in”—my army—“Morfran’s army, we didn’t heal wounds with backwater old wives’ mixtures. We had actual physicians setting broken bones and stitching up cuts. Our men were up and out of bed in just days.”
“Days?” Bronwen had leaned against the desk, arms crossed, something sardonic in her expression. “That’s impressive. Us poor forest folk don’t have fancy physicians, however. You’ll have to make do with paste.”
Grandfather Tortoise waved Morfran closer. He leaned forward, and the man scooped up a wad of the green sludge and smeared it over Morfran’s swollen face. It was cold and stank like mildew.
“This literally is just mud,” he dismissed. “If this is how you intend to win against Morfran and Ravana, you’re—”
The fiery pain in his head instantly died; the throbbing near his eye faded, the aches of his jaw receded, and the bruising along his cheekbone eased.
He could actually feel the broken skin knitting itself back together.
Soon enough he could open his jaw all the way—which he did in surprise—without it hurting.
Seconds later his swollen eye eased, and he was staring at Grandfather Tortoise through both eyes. The old man was smirking.
That stuff is incredible, Morfran immediately signed to him.
Grandfather Tortoise sat up with a grin before he began signing back, his hands moving in elegant gestures. You know how to speak gestural language?
Old language had both a verbal and a gestural form of speaking, and when Morfran was young he’d learned both from his father.
But that might tip the man off that there was more to him than what’d already been revealed, so he lied.
Morfran had all his generals learn. Not many know it, so it is a strategic method of communicating in public when you don’t want the everyday man knowing what’s being said.
Grandfather Tortoise’s smirk returned. He’s a villain, but a smart one.
Morfran grinned back. It was the first genuine one in days. How did a magic healer like yourself end up here?
The old man shrugged. I’ve known for a long time this is where I’m needed.
Bronwen had watched the exchange in shock. “You know old language?”
Morfran regarded her coldly. “Did you think I filled my journal with just gibberish? Yes, I know old language.”
“But—how did you even know Grandfather Tortoise has difficulty hearing? We speak to him orally and he answers fine.”
Morfran sat back. “He doesn’t stare at eyes.
He watches lips.” Grandfather Tortoise was nodding once again, as if in approval.
He faced the man. “Say, Tortoise. Can that paste of yours heal broken bones? I have a few ribs that your men knocked out of place.” He said it in challenge, and was pleased when the man seemed equally as pleased to challenge him back.
“Son, I can heal a detached limb with this paste,” the old man boasted. “Let’s see them.”