100 Years pt 2

Darn stared at the rubble of the Cloaktower, wondering what to do now.  He took a few steps forward, peering into the dark hole, eyes stinging from the smoke.  His boot came down on something soft and he almost fell, trying to shift weight back to his other foot.  The body beneath him was too burnt to be recognizable, the robes and flesh melded into a charred mass.  Darn felt his bile rise and swallowed it back.  There was nothing here he wanted to see.

As he turned away, a feeble twitching movement caught his eye.  Darn walked to it, making out a hand, fingers scrabbling at the cobblestone.  He knelt, lifting a piece of timber aside.  The boy beneath it looked up at him, eyes bleeding and sightless.  “Help me,” he gasped.  Darn could not hear him, but understood.  He touched the boy’s hand, clasping it.  “I will do what I can,” he said.  The boy seemed to calm at that, letting his cheek rest on the ground.
 
The rubble around him was a mix of wood and stone, some of it small enough to shift.  Darn began to dig, bare hands grasping hot stone and smoking timbers.  His skin blistered and split, but he didn’t notice or care.  He had a purpose, a focus.  This child - he didn’t even know his name – but he would get him out somehow.  I will save him, Darn thought.  The last stone was huge, perhaps some of the foundation or thick piece of tower wall.  He felt something slip and pop in his arm as he tried to shift it, but tipped the rock on its side with a groan.

The boys’ robes tangled about his legs, fresh blood flowing over the dried blood beneath.  A bit of bone jutted off at an odd angle, feet pointing strangely out.  Darn knelt, scooping the boy into his arms.  With his head close, he could hear the boy whisper, “So . . . thirsty . . .”  Carefully, Darn reached for the flask at the belt, surprised for a moment to find it gone.  “I’ll get you some water,” he said, cradling the boy to his chest.
 
He limped away from the ruin.  He intended to take the boy to the temple, but one look at the crowded street told him that was unlikely.  There was not a watchman in sight, just throngs of panicked people running this way and that.  He turned back down the alley, mind working feverishly.  Where to go, where to go . . . he turned down another alley, heading deeper into the district.  The Mask was this way, he thought.  He could take the boy there and then bring a cleric.
 
The boys’ legs dangled uselessly, scraping and bumping in the narrow alleys.  Darn winced each time, but the child did not seem to notice.  It was hard, and some of the best paths were as crowded as the streets, but he finally got within view of the Moonstone Mask.  The sight nearly brought tears to his eyes.  It still stood, but the flames from it shot high into the sky.  “Water,” the boy whimpered.  Darn leaned back against the wall of the alley way.
 
“Water.  I can do that much . . . just a little longer.”  He slipped back the way he came, this time toward the river.  The child needed healing, but there was no way to get it yet.  Darn would offer him some comfort, and then they could follow the river bank to the bridge, and from there get to the Temple of Tyr.  Thankfully, they were not far from their goal.

Darn set the child down at the river’s edge, the water below churning violently.  He had nothing to carry water with, he realized, picking the boy up again.  He carried him into the shallows, nearly stumbling as the water pushed him this way and that.  Yes, rescue the child from a burning building to drown him, he thought, laughing a bit hysterically.  Darn propped the boy’s head in the crook of his arm, scooping water into his other hand.  

He trickled it into the child’s mouth carefully, but it dribbled down the side of his cheek, pink with blood.  Darn tried again, “Water!  Drink,” he pleaded, “Please . . .”  The boy’s sightless eyes stared up at him, unmoving.  He failed.  He failed again.  The strength in Darn’s legs went out and he collapsed where he stood.  His nerveless arms relinquished the child to the waves as water washed over him, surging violently.  “I am such a fool,” he shouted, choking.  He had not burned, but maybe he could drown.

Darn let the river push him downstream, his lack of resistance the very thing that kept him alive.  Detritus spun around him, crashing into the banks, and before he could be swept into the sea, he was caught on it.  Caught and pushed toward a stony outcropping, the remains of one of Neverwinter’s fabled bridges.  The treacherous river shoved him onto the rock and left him there, frothing waves mocking him.  Insensate, Darn slept there, dreaming of death.  
A scream broke the darkness, stirring the pale, soaked elf.  He opened his eyes slowly, waking to pain and cold.  The water was icy and he had no idea how long he laid there.  The scream came again, hopeless and desperate.  “I can’t save you,” he shouted.  Ominous silence answered him.  “Fuck me,” he sighed, stumbling to his feet.  “I can’t save anybody . . .”  Still, he turned in the direction of the screams and ran as fast as he could toward it, damning his useless legs.

He barely recognized the city.  Few buildings still stood, most reduced to piles of jagged stone.  Gone the gardens, the glass lanterns long smashed, and the people, dead.  He heard low, growling voices ahead, saw the glow of flame against the dark night sky.  And a woman’s voice, begging.  “Please, do what you want with me, just let my babies go.  Please,” she sobbed.  He heard a slap as he crested a small rise.  The scene before Darn did not surprise him.  He wasn’t sure anything would anymore.

There were four orcs camping in what used to be a shop.  Three small children huddled together beside a chimney that somehow survived the destruction.  Their mother stood between them and the orcs, stance defeated.  Tears ran down her face as she looked up at them, recognition of her fate clear.  “Please, please, please,” she cried.  One of the orcs laughed and gestured to her.  The others said something in their brutal tongue and laughed.  The one that slapped her grinned, “You . . . do . . . anything?”  

“Anything, yes,” she gasped, nodding.  He grabbed her head in one hand and wrenched it back, his other hand going to his belt.  Darn didn’t think, he just acted, rushing forward.  He did not realize he had pulled his sword until it parted the orc’s head from his body.  The woman looked up, a spark of hope lighting as her tormenter’s blood rained down on her.  The orcs shouted in surprise, stumbling to their feet.  Darn turned to face them, grinning wildly.  The fire had not taken him, the river refused him, but he could see his death in their eyes.  “Run,” he hissed to the woman, not looking to see if she obeyed.

He held his sword out, inviting them.  There was no way he could win this, he thought, even fresh and uninjured.  There were three to his one, and they were rested and fed.  Not a mark on them, either.  They attacked as one, howling in their guttural tongue.  “You sound like dogs,” he laughed, “Barking dogs!”  He swung at the nearest orc, blade tossed back by its buckler.  Another of the barbarians swung a mace at him, and he ducked.  He had to keep them busy long enough for the woman and her three little ones to go.  He had to try.  Darn laughed, stabbing at the orc’s legs, scoring the coarse flesh.

He tried to side step the next blow, but his leg gave out as he put weight on it.  Instead of missing, the mace crashed solidly into his thigh, bone splintering.  Darn let out a hoarse scream as the pain shot through him.  He fell to the ground rolled to side as another orc tried to stab him.  The monster’s sword stuck in the charred floor boards, and Darn grinned.  His own blade shot forward, taking the orc’s arm off at the shoulder.  It howled with rage, kicking at him.  

The one with the mace raised it high, and Darn watched it arc in the firelight.  It would not be a quick death, he thought, but there would be peace.  His life was a small price to pay for the children and their mother.  He had not lived with honor, but he could die that way, he thought, smiling.  The now one-armed orc shouted something, and the other stopped.  Darn heard the third one laughing as he was lifted off the ground.

The beast held him tightly, arms around his chest. Its fetid breath stank worse than carrion in summer, and Darn retched.  The orcs laughed at him, “Long ear good meat.”  The one that held him licked his cheek.  He bit at the tongue, snarling.  “Kill me already,” he spat, “You useless bastards!  Can’t you kill one gods damned elf?”  The one with the mace snarled, grabbing his arm and pulled it out.  The third leered at darn, pulling a dagger with his remaining hand.  He leaned in close, “I take,” he whispered.

Darn knew what came next, and try as he might, he could not stifle his screams.  The orc slid the blade into his skin slowly, dull knife tearing flesh as he shoved it forward and back.  When it wouldn’t cut through the bone, the orc holding it bent the limb back until it snapped.  His companions laughed when he let it flop to the elf’s side, held only by a thin strip of flesh.  The one armed orc pulled it free, showing it to Darn.  Then he threw it into the fire.
 
The elf could feel darkness coming.  There was so much pain, and he had lost so much blood.  The world seemed distant now, the booming voices of his enemies echoing.  They dropped him to the ground where he lay, sword glinting on the ground near his face.  He smiled to see it there, some fantasy of lifting it in the arm he had left spun into the emptiness.  The orc that had held him nudged Darn onto his back with a foot, lifting the sword to look at it.  He shrugged, and then the blade came down.  It shoved past the chainmail and into his chest.  “Finally,” Darn sighed, drifting into the peaceful darkness.

---

Zara woke feeling hot and sore, skin sticky with sweat.  Isannon slept peacefully beside her, a hand resting on her belly.  She did not need to wonder what he dreamt of, the smile gracing his lips said it all.  She stroked his cheek lightly and then slipped out of the blanket, struggling to her feet.  A wave of dizziness hit her and for a moment she thought she would fall, but it passed.  She went off to relieve herself, and heard Isa get up as she made her way back.  “You’re up early,” she smiled.
 
Isannon nodded, “I wanted to wake before you for once.  It’s been a few months since I could surprise you with breakfast.”  She laughed, “I could lay back down and pretend to be surprised.”  “No, no.  Unless you are still tired?”  Isa looked her over carefully, “Actually, love, maybe you should lie back down.  You look a bit pale.”  “I always look pale,” she replied, sitting on a nearby stone.  Isa sighed, “I will make you some tea, at least.”  He unscrewed the lid of the flask, pouring the water into their small kettle, then made a face and dumped it out.

“The water is off,” he said, disgusted.  “It smells like that cave . . .”  Zara shrugged, “It tasted fine yesterday.  I filled it at that underground lake.”  Isa’s eyes went wide, “You did what?”  “You didn’t seem to notice,” she answered, “I thought it would be better to have something to drink for the walk back.”  Isa put his hands over his face for a moment, suppressing a desire to shout.  “Love.  Everything there was sick, tainted . . . why would the water be ok?”  Zara blushed, “Well . . . cave water is filtered through rock.  It’s supposed to be cleaner.”  “Tainted,” Isa said, voice rising.  “I am sorry,” she pouted, “I didn’t think about that.”  The elf stepped toward her, his expression unreadable.  Zara shrunk back, “I didn’t mean to . . .”  Isannon turned quickly, walking toward the lake.  “I will get us fresh.  Just stay there.”

“He is angry,” she muttered, surprised.  In all the years she knew Isa, he was never angry with her.  Not even when she deserved it.  Zara stood and stretched, still hot and uncomfortable.  She decided to lay back down, though she didn’t feel sleepy.  Maybe stretching out on the ground would settle a few of her aches.  Isa was gone much longer than needed, and when he came back he gave her a little smile.  “I overreacted, love.  I’m sorry.”  He knelt beside her and kissed her forehead.  “It’s ok.  I should be more careful.  I am sorry too,” she smiled up at him.

Isannon gave her another kiss and then stood, going to make tea.  He pulled out some dried meat and infamous Helmshold bread as well.  Zara sat up, taking tea and bread.  It was edible if you soaked it first, so she broke it in two and dipped one end into the hot, bitter drink.  “I was thinking we could start the hike back toward that village today,” she said.  He grinned broadly, “I think that is a great idea.  If you like, we can take the long way down that canyon we passed.”  “Mmm, after breakfast then,” Zara agreed, lifting the bread to her mouth to test it.

She managed to bite a chewy, soaked piece off and swallowed, drowning it with tea.  It didn’t sit well, so she set the bread down and finished her tea.  Isa looked at the discarded bread with a little frown.  “You need to eat.”  “My stomach is upset.  I don’t think it will do me any good if it comes right back up, yes?” she replied, trying not to sound irritated.  Isannon smiled after a moment, “At least you aren’t turning green at every smell as you did the first few months.  You barely ate anything.  Maybe you just need something better than this bread.”  Zara laughed, agreeing.

“The sooner we are on our way the better,” she said, waiting for him to finish eating.  They quickly packed their meager belongings and began the long walk to the village.  Zara did her best to keep up, feeling hot and cold in spurts, body still aching.  She tried to walk normally, but her head felt odd, swollen and disconnected.  Isa kept looking at her strangely, though he said nothing.  I must look as bad as I feel, she thought, setting a hand on her belly.  Zara didn’t want to admit it, but she was starting to feel afraid.
 
The morning crept by slowly, the sun taking its time crossing the sky.  The two elves pushed through brush covered forest, picking their way around thorny thickets and rocky slopes.  Isa finally called a break when the sun was just past its zenith.  He helped Zara to a fallen log, handing her the water.  “Is everything alright love?  You look . . . you look ill.”  Her first instinct was to deny it completely, to tell him she was just fine.  But the weakness and pain in her limbs made that seem a very silly lie to tell.

“I think I am sick,” she said finally.  “I hurt everywhere.”  Isa set his lips to her forehead for a moment, kissing her before pulling back.  “You are burning up, Zara.  I wish you would have said something sooner.”  She frowned, “I wanted to hurry.  We can’t do anything about it out here.”  Isa pulled out their healing kit, shoving the bandages aside to get the clay bottle underneath.  “We do need to get to the village, but it won’t do us any good if you die getting there.”  He uncorked it carefully, pouring a measure into her flask.  “Drink this.  The willowbark will help with the pain and the fever, or it should.”  Isa hoped dearly that the hedge wizard that sold it to them knew what he was doing.
 
Zara looked at the flask with distaste, then downed it quickly.  “It is so bitter,” she complained.  Isannon smiled, stroking her back.  “Let’s rest here until the cooler evening.  You need the rest, and it will be more pleasant to walk then.”  She nodded, too tired to resist his suggestion.  Isa set a bedroll out and beckoned her to him.  She laid down beside Isannon, comforted as his arms slid around her, breath warm on her neck.  She did not think she would sleep, but she did.

“Wake up love,” Isa said softly, stroking her arm.  She was still burning with fever and he no longer thought more rest would be enough.  The tincture of willow bark had done nothing for her at all.  Zara opened her eyes, vision blurred.  “What?”  She couldn’t remember for a moment where she was.  “Can you stand?” Isannon asked, helping her sit up.  Zara rubbed her eyes, trying to clear her vision, but the world remained a greenish blur, little bursts of white light exploding on to it with each blink.
 
Zara tried to stand, leaning heavily on Isa, but her legs gave out at each faltering step.  “Camp,” she said softly, mouth feeling dry and parched.  “We made camp by a – a log.”  Isannon, nodded, trying to keep his fear tightly controlled.  “It’s ok love.  I will carry you.”  He eased her back to the mat and began sorting their supplies, tossing out everything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.  “What are you doing?” she asked, confused.  She could see the white blur that was Isa tossing little dark objects away.  Zara wondered if she was hallucinating.

“Just lightening our packs, love.  I can’t carry all of this and you,” Isannon reassured her.  “Oh, don’t throw out your paints!  Or the sketchbooks . . . or the kettle,” Zara said, sounding alarmed.  “I can replace all of those, love.  I can’t replace you, or our little one.  We will get new things at the village, so long as we get there safe.”  Isa tried to sound certain, but his voice quavered.  Zara knew things were bad.  They were days away from other people, and she was very sick.  It would be all too easy for her to die out here.

Isa strapped the mostly empty pack to his back and lifted Zara to his arms.  He knew they would have to hurry.  His own body was already showing symptoms of the illness.  Isannon was feverish and his body ached, but he refused to think about that.  He had to help Zara and their baby, no matter the cost.  Isa set off determined, the underbrush crunching under his boots at each step.  Zara tried to stay awake, to do what she could to help, but she found herself drifting in and out of dreams.
 
It was daylight, she realized, turning her face to Isa’s chest to keep the brightness at bay.  “Isannon?”  “I am here, love,” he said after a long pause.  She said nothing for awhile after that, just listened to Isa’s heart pound.  He was so hot, she thought.  They were both sweating in the cool morning air.  She was about to ask if he was sick too when she felt her abdomen clench.  Zara did not mean to move at all, but her whole body curled in on itself as the muscles spasmed.  Isa stumbled at her sudden movement, and they both fell.

“Are you alright, love?” he asked, unable to hold back the panic he felt.  “I don’t know,” Zara said, still curled in a tight ball.  “Is it the baby?  Is it coming?”  Zara began to cry, “I don’t know, Isa!  I don’t know . . . it just . . . it hurts.”  Isannon pulled her to him, stroking her back, “It’s probably just . . . protecting the baby from when you fell.  Making you curl up like that,” he babbled.  He laid a hand on her belly, hoping to feel their little one kick or move about, but all he could feel was her belly, hard as rock and hot to the touch.  “Love . . . I am going to check you, ok?”  Zara nodded, whimpering something he couldn’t understand.  She wanted to tell him she had not felt the baby move since yesterday.  Since before they went to the cave.
 
Isa bent down to slide her trousers down, but did not get very far.  There was blood and fluid trickling down her leg.  “The baby is coming,” he whispered, swallowing his fear.  He wasn’t sure if Zara heard him at all.  She lay there whimpering, eyes shut tight.  Isannon took off his shirt, spreading it on the ground and then moved her onto it.  Darkness nipped at the corners of his vision as the illness took its toll.  He could not rest, not now, he thought, sitting beside Zara.  “It will be alright, love,” he said quietly.  There was nothing left, but to pray.