The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Two

I'm start to think more and more that I'd like to put at least part of this into "The Last Battle", but 'm still not sure how to do that without the story coming to a grinding halt. Anyways, for those of you who forgot in the nine months since I last worked on the Lost History, Cyra was captured, got a big wound in her cheek from Talshak, probably got some other nasty injuries after Talshak left, was rescued by her troops, but is now expected to die from her injuries.

So this is Part 2 of what I figure will be at least a four part story. Since you're all aware that Cyra does survive to liberate Sathyriel, become its queen, have or adopt a child, and continue frolicking with dragons, this story is less about what the ending is going to be than how we get there. For example, I don't think it would really spoil anything if I told you that Joren will be able to heal Cyra, but the more interesting thing is how he does it. At least, I hope it's still interesting.

Comments still welcome.


General Marehnu had sometimes wondered about what his legacy would be. He never allowed himself to think about it when a battle was drawing near, and certainly never during combat. But in the quiet times traveling from one front to the next, he sometimes pondered what the historians would say about him when the war was a thing of the past. Now, however, Marehnu was nearly certain what it was that he would be remembered for. He would be known as the general who was there when Cyra died.

He hadn’t wanted to believe that it would happen. He still didn’t. But as the days and nights passed in the secluded farmhouse where they were staying hidden from any Keltarian troops sent to search for the escaped leader of the rebellion, he started to realize that Cyra was not going to recover. They had gathered all of the local healers they could find who could be rusted not to betray them to the Keltarians. They had worked in shifts, night and day, tending to the most serious injuries first and then moving on to the less grave ones. Ointments were applied, dressings were changed, wounds were cleaned, and spell after spell after spell was cast.

After three days, over half of the healers were too exhausted to do anything more. But there was still no sign that Cyra was going to recover. So Marehnu had sent his troops out further in search of more healers. It was risky. They had no intelligence on whether the Keltarians knew of the raid on Fortress Ullok yet. Soldiers may have been searching for their hiding place. Someone trying to find a healer willing to travel to a secluded location could easily arouse suspicions. The more people who knew about Cyra’s condition, the more likely it became that one of them might talk – not just to the Keltarians, but to the local civilians, or even other rebel soldiers. It had been decided as soon as it was known that Cyra had been captured that only those in the rebellion who absolutely needed to know what was happening would be told. Eventually, though, it wouldn’t matter any more. All of their secrecy wouldn’t be enough to hide the truth if Cyra, well known for standing with her troops on the front lines, was conspicuously absent from major battles.

Marehnu sighed, his visible breath trailing off into the cold night air. He leaned heavily against the side of the farmhouse. A distant flicker of white from the nearby woods caught Marehnu’s attention for a brief second. He sighed again and rubbed at his high forehead. As if they didn’t have enough problems, they still had to deal with the dragon.

Shortly after Cyra had been captured, the white dragon had arrived. Without Cyra there to translate, Marehnu had to rely on one of his troops who spoke a small amount of Rannak. She had been able to determine that the dragon wanted to help them find Cyra and rescue her. Marehnu had fought alongside dragons before and was glad for any aid he could get. The dragon’s help had proved invaluable in the taking of Fortress Ullok. The problem was that she hadn’t left afterwards. The dragon had followed them to the farmhouse and would not leave the area. Long negotiations through the translator, with each side only half understanding what the other was trying to say, had eventually resulted in the dragon agreeing to stay in the woods rather than right next to the farmhouse. Still, a dragon – especially a bright white dragon – was not particularly helpful when Marehnu was trying to avoid attention. They had yet to figure out why the dragon refused to leave. As near as Marehnu’s translator could tell, she simply did not want to abandon her leader.

Marehnu waited a moment to make sure the dragon didn’t come any closer. Then he headed back inside the farmhouse. The couple that normally lived there had left. They had hidden rebel soldiers on their property before, but everyone agreed that a small group of soldiers, any number of healers, the gravely injured rebel leader, and a dragon was an entirely different matter. The couple had left for a nearby town, which kept them safe from any battles that might erupt at their home and allowed them to plausibly deny that they knew rebels were occupying a basement room in their home. Marehnu went from the main living quarters to the storage room, gave the code knock to let his troops know he was coming, opened the secret door on the far wall, carefully closed it behind him, and descended into the basement.

The basement hideout consisted of two rooms that were virtually identical. The front room was currently being used for exhausted healers to rest and recover. The floor was littered with makeshift beds - mostly piles of hay and blankets – squeezed up against each other to fit as many as possible into the small space. Four of Marehnu’s troops stood guard, trying to remain quiet so the healers could sleep. Marehnu waved a hand at them as he came down the stairs, silently signaling that all was well outside. The guards nodded and Marehnu entered the back room.

Before he even got through the door, he could feel the sword. Cyra’s blade, Deslordian, had been retrieved from the battlefield after Cyra fell. It had taken several days for it to get from the soldier who had found it to the farmhouse. They had all hoped that the sword was what Cyra needed to recover from her injuries. They brought it to her room and placed it by her side, but Cyra did not stir. Deslordian had all but pulsed with energies of worry. Over time, Deslordian’s emotions grew more and more subdued. Now all Marehnu sensed from the blade was a low steady hum of mourning, punctuated by the occasional trill of confusion.

In contrast to the front room, the back room had only one bed. It was a real mattress that the two farmers kept in the basement for soldiers hiding from Keltarian forces. That was where Cyra had remained for the five days since they had brought her here. Six of Marehnu’s troops were stationed in the room to guard Cyra in case the guards hidden around the farmhouse and the ones in the front room were overtaken. There were three healers currently attending to Cyra. One was changing out soiled bandages for fresh ones. Another was mixing potions at the small table in the corner of the room. The third healer, the only healer currently at the farmhouse who was actually part of the rebel army, was seated the room’s single chair, which Marehnu had come to understand meant she was resting after casting a strong healing spell. She had become the kind of unofficial head of the healers, taking on the responsibilities of coordinating the various healers and keeping Marehnu updated on Cyra’s condition.

Marehnu didn’t bother asking the head healer how Cyra was doing. He looked down at Cyra and watched for the slow, labored rise and fall of her chest. That told him all he needed to know. If Cyra had been doing any better, he would have been informed immediately. If she slipped closer to death, he wouldn’t even want to have anyone tell him. Better to see for himself than deal with people’s hesitation as they tried to figure out the best way to deliver the news when their somber faces had already told him everything.

“How is she?” Marehnu asked, on the off chance that there was more news than what Cyra’s still unsteady breathing had already told him.

The head healer didn’t even turn to look at him. Her large hands were massaging her temples, fingers moving in slow, small circles.

“No better,” she sighed. “We’ve all but run out of options for her wounds. Our supplies are running low and even taking shifts, we can’t keep up healing at this rate much longer. We’re doing everything we can, but it’s like her body just won’t fight to get better.”

Marehnu nodded wordlessly, though what the healer told him didn’t make much sense. In the time that he had known Cyra, she had never seemed to be anything but a fighter. He had been on the front lines with her facing Keltarian forces far better equipped and supported. A wise retreat was not beyond her, but once Cyra was locked in battle, she fought like a wild beast. Marehnu had seen her bring down fully armored foes almost twice her size. The idea that she wasn’t fighting to heal her injuries just didn’t seem right to him.

Marehnu looked once again at Cyra. She hadn’t moved at all since he had seen her last. Not for the first time, he noticed how small she looked. Without the commanding presence that came from her confident words, her strong stance, or the flash of her eyes, Cyra seemed diminutive, even fragile. At least as far as Marehnu could see, the healers had done their job well. Cyra had been covered in dried blood and unhealed wounds when they had found her. The healers had cleaned her up and the worst of her injuries were either healing or reduced to mere scars. Still anyone who hadn’t seen her in the Ullok dungeon would even now think she was badly hurt. The muscles of her face tensed as they did every so often. Marehnu was certain she was fighting some inner battle, but how could it not be enough to bring her back?

“Is she at least no worse?” asked Marehnu.

With great effort, the head healer rose to her feet. She ambled slowly over to Marehnu’s side. Though there was little point in trying to keep a secret in such a small space, she spoke to him in a hushed tone.

“I have to be honest,” she whispered. “We’re running out of time. It seems like every time we make some progress on one injury, two others get worse. Like I said, it’s like her body just won’t work with us. If there isn’t a major change very soon…”

The head healer trailed off, not even wanting to mention the near inevitable outcome. Marehnu said nothing and the entire room fell silent.

“What’s that?”

Marehnu looked up to see one of his men pointing at a scar that ran the length of Cyra’s cheek. Marehnu wasn’t sure whether the soldier was honestly curious or was just looking for some way to break the silence.

“Some kind of knife wound, we think,” the head healer answered. “We aren’t sure why it left that much of a scar. Infection that we didn’t catch in time, maybe.”

The head healer seemed slightly reenergized and made her way back to Cyra’s side, checking the patient for wounds that needed further attention. Marehnu stayed where he was, lost in thought. He knew the healers were doing everything they could. The head healer hadn’t slept for more than a few hours in the past few days. Soon enough, even she would have to rest. But it wasn’t enough, not even to stabilize Cyra’s condition. Even the head healer had all but admitted it. If something didn’t happen fast, Cyra would die.

“All right,” he said allowed, causing everyone in the small room to turn and look at him. “Clearly what we’re doing right now isn’t going to work. The healers are all working themselves to exhaustion, but Cyra’s still dying. I need you all to think. Is there anything that we haven’t tried yet?”

Silence answered Marehnu. He wondered if he had done the right thing. Trying to hide from what all of them knew obviously wasn’t helping. Marehnu had hoped that openly stating how urgent the situation had become would force someone to think of some idea they hadn’t yet considered. But maybe all he had done was confirm that Cyra was going to die and that nothing could be done.

“Well, there’s a healer.”
Everyone’s eyes went to the youngest of the three healers, who had been mixing a new set of potions at the little table. He looked nervous with all of their attention suddenly on him.

“What healer?” the head healer snapped. “I brought in every local healer we could even consider trusting.”

“He’s not local,” the young healer answered hesitantly. “And he’s a little…different.”

The head healer’s eyes widened and a look of something like disgust crossed her face.

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “No. Not the dwarf.”

The young healer turned to Marehnu as words began tumbling from his mouth in frantic bursts.

“His name is Joren and he’s a dwarf healer. He’s based around Orkanholt. A lot of other healers don’t like him, but he can help us! I know he will!”

“Absolutely not!” boomed the head healer. “I will not have some lunatic dwarf with delusions of healing ability coming in here and making things worse!”

“Joren’s nothing but a sparker,” the third healer added. “I hear he can’t even make potions. He’ll only make things worse.”

“I’ve seen him heal!” protested the youngest healer. “This man was attacked by trolls and Joren healed him! And I saw him use a potion!”

“That’s how sparkers work,” the third healer retorted. “I bet that guy was his accomplice. He stumbles out of the woods pretending to be hurt, the sparker ‘heals’ him, and the whole village starts requesting his ‘services’.”

“Even if we were going to let this….this trickster work on Cyra,” the head healer began, “how would we find him in time? Orkanholt is two days ride at least, and that’s assuming you don’t run into any Keltarian soldiers.”

“The dragon!” Marehnu’s Rannak translator had spoke up. “If we can direct her there, the dragon can get us there and back much faster. I’m sure she’ll help us.”

“Don’t you start,” growled the head healer. “We are not bringing the dwarf and that is final.”

But the argument went on. The rest of Marehnu’s troops joined in and soon enough, everyone was shouting just to be heard. Marehnu strode purposefully over to the small table.

“Enough!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. Potions shook and everyone turned to look at Marehnu, wide eyed and silent.

“I am still in charge here and I will make the decisions on our next move. As I said, Cyra is dying and that’s not going to change if we don’t start doing something different. Unless anyone has a better suggestion, I say we go find this Joren and see what he can do for us.”

Marehnu paused, just in case anyone actually did have another idea. No one said a word.

“I don’t like this any more than any of you, but we are out of options. If the dwarf really does have a different way of healing, then he may be our best hope. If he is just a sparker, then we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“What if he’s worse than a sparker?” the head healer challenged. “What if he does something that makes her worse?”

The thought of Marehnu’s future legacy briefly entered his mind again before he pushed it away.

“If it comes to that, as commanding officer I will assume full responsibility. I know that won’t fix anything, but Joren is looking like our last chance and I’d rather risk it than sit here and watch her die.”

The group murmured their assent, though Marehnu could tell some were less happy about it than others.

“Peren,” he began, turning to his Rannak translator, “take Garel to the dragon and head for Orkanholt as fast as you can. Saman, inform the troops of what we’re doing. And….”

Marehnu stared at the head healer for a moment. She returned his gaze with one of irritation and slight confusion.

“I don’t know your name,” Marehnu admitted.

“Tolla,” she replied shortly.

“Tolla. I’m sorry. Just keep her alive.”