Day 3 - Continued
Sana awoke with fire in her side and a clay bowl pressed against her lips.
"Drink this, my child," said a kindly voice. "It will dull the pain." She did as she was told, then lay back, cool hands guiding her head down into something soft.
"Now, bite this," the voice instructed. A splinter of wood, rough with bark, was thrust between her teeth. She bit down, screaming, as the fire in her side seemed to twist and tear. But at last it lessened and she fell back. Then sleep took her, and hot dreams. Here mistress was there, sometimes, sometimes not, but always the men of Ise were there with their slashing swords, killing her sisters. "Where is your mistress?" came the question, endless with pain, untill finally she cried the answer. "The sea! She fled to the sea!" Having no more use for her, they flung her into the river where she floated among the green slime, the severed heads of harpies biting at her wounds until she sat up screaming, in a brown room full of the sun.
A man appeared by her bedside. An old man, with a long beard.
"Hush child," he said. "You are safe and mending. I am a physician," he added, answering her questioning look. "You have many questions, I don't doubt. Let us see if I may save your strength by answering some of them ahead of time. These are the forests of Tyrndon. My servants found you floating in the great river some nine days ago by my count. You have been very ill, but your fever finally broke last night. The wound in your side is healing. You will carry a very pretty scar with you to the end of your days, but you will be otherwise unimpaired."
He placed a tray of food on the ornate wooden stool beside her.
"My mistress," she began, eyeing the bowl of broth, the sliced cheese, the olives, grapes, dates, and meat with interest.
"The Princess Sylpha has vanished from the face of the earth, at least as far as the eyes of men are able to tell. Yes, my child. You spoke much in your delerium," he said gently. "Many men would give much to know the answer to the riddle your mistress left in her wake. I will give much to see to it that you are well again." His fist clenched. "And to keep you free of those who think you know the answer."
Sana had crammed two dates and a block of cheese into her mouth, and was chewing rapidly.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked.
"Because I swore a holy oath before the gods when I became a physician," he explained. "And also . . ." he hesitated. "Also, I have seen your face many times in my seeing bowl. Eat now," he urged, resting a hand atop her head. "We will talk more later."
* * *
Tascela clawed her way through the battlefield towards the South Gate. A fallen man with a spear through his gut tried to grab her; she finished him with her one remaining blade and moved on. All around her the dead and dying lay scattered, crushed seed-pods in the wake of a monsoon.
The carnage intensified as she neared the gate, where knots of struggling men still moved to and fro on the sand. Three of Occanse' spearmen surrounded her just as she reached the gate, but she killed them one at a time. Even weakened, she was still more than a match for them.
She found him at last, surrounded by a mound of foes. His left leg was gone at the knee; he had clamped the leather straps from his shield around the stump to keep from bleeding to death. He smiled when he saw her.
"I knew . . ." he said hoarsely. "Had to stay awake . . ." he coughed, bubbling. "Stay awake to speak with you . . . one last time."
Tascela went to her knees beside him, tears streaming down her face.
"Gods curse you, Porus!" she whispered. "You speak as though you were already dead. It's not too late, I'll . . ."
Porus' rough laugh became a gurgling wheeze.
"You're living in dreams, girl. I've been a warrior . . . long enough to know my death wound." His hand twitched on his side. Tascela saw the gaping cut that he had been hiding from her and screamed a soft scream. Porus lifted his gore-streaked hand to touch her face.
"We make quite a pair, eh? My leg, your arm. Now, don't grieve girl. We will meet again in the Seventh Hall." He coughed again, pushing himself up. "If your life ever crosses with that pox-ridden cur Alexander, give him a poke from me for setting fire to the world." He gave a wry thrust with the spear still gripped in his other hand.
"I will hunt him," Tascela sobbed. "I will track him, and kill him, but not quickly, no, a slow creeping death for Alexander. I will . . ."
Porus gripped her wrist. "Peace, Tascela. Rest easy girl. The god of the underworld takes us all in the end." His voice rasped, dry. "I would . . . quench my thirst, before passing." he said. "Find . . . water . . ."
There was a camel-trough, blood-stained but still standing, a few paces inside the city gates. Tascela ran to it stumbling. A western warrior was crawling towards it, blood trickling from his mouth. She thrust him aside; he rolled on his back in the dust, whining. Tascela tore at the laces of her boot. With one hand, it was no easy task to remove it and fill it with water. She hurried back to Porus, the bloody sand hot and sticky under her bare foot.
"Porus," she called, putting the water to his lips, bathing his head. "Porus!"
But he was already dead.
* * *
"Drink this, my child," said a kindly voice. "It will dull the pain." She did as she was told, then lay back, cool hands guiding her head down into something soft.
"Now, bite this," the voice instructed. A splinter of wood, rough with bark, was thrust between her teeth. She bit down, screaming, as the fire in her side seemed to twist and tear. But at last it lessened and she fell back. Then sleep took her, and hot dreams. Here mistress was there, sometimes, sometimes not, but always the men of Ise were there with their slashing swords, killing her sisters. "Where is your mistress?" came the question, endless with pain, untill finally she cried the answer. "The sea! She fled to the sea!" Having no more use for her, they flung her into the river where she floated among the green slime, the severed heads of harpies biting at her wounds until she sat up screaming, in a brown room full of the sun.
A man appeared by her bedside. An old man, with a long beard.
"Hush child," he said. "You are safe and mending. I am a physician," he added, answering her questioning look. "You have many questions, I don't doubt. Let us see if I may save your strength by answering some of them ahead of time. These are the forests of Tyrndon. My servants found you floating in the great river some nine days ago by my count. You have been very ill, but your fever finally broke last night. The wound in your side is healing. You will carry a very pretty scar with you to the end of your days, but you will be otherwise unimpaired."
He placed a tray of food on the ornate wooden stool beside her.
"My mistress," she began, eyeing the bowl of broth, the sliced cheese, the olives, grapes, dates, and meat with interest.
"The Princess Sylpha has vanished from the face of the earth, at least as far as the eyes of men are able to tell. Yes, my child. You spoke much in your delerium," he said gently. "Many men would give much to know the answer to the riddle your mistress left in her wake. I will give much to see to it that you are well again." His fist clenched. "And to keep you free of those who think you know the answer."
Sana had crammed two dates and a block of cheese into her mouth, and was chewing rapidly.
"Why are you helping me?" she asked.
"Because I swore a holy oath before the gods when I became a physician," he explained. "And also . . ." he hesitated. "Also, I have seen your face many times in my seeing bowl. Eat now," he urged, resting a hand atop her head. "We will talk more later."
* * *
Tascela clawed her way through the battlefield towards the South Gate. A fallen man with a spear through his gut tried to grab her; she finished him with her one remaining blade and moved on. All around her the dead and dying lay scattered, crushed seed-pods in the wake of a monsoon.
The carnage intensified as she neared the gate, where knots of struggling men still moved to and fro on the sand. Three of Occanse' spearmen surrounded her just as she reached the gate, but she killed them one at a time. Even weakened, she was still more than a match for them.
She found him at last, surrounded by a mound of foes. His left leg was gone at the knee; he had clamped the leather straps from his shield around the stump to keep from bleeding to death. He smiled when he saw her.
"I knew . . ." he said hoarsely. "Had to stay awake . . ." he coughed, bubbling. "Stay awake to speak with you . . . one last time."
Tascela went to her knees beside him, tears streaming down her face.
"Gods curse you, Porus!" she whispered. "You speak as though you were already dead. It's not too late, I'll . . ."
Porus' rough laugh became a gurgling wheeze.
"You're living in dreams, girl. I've been a warrior . . . long enough to know my death wound." His hand twitched on his side. Tascela saw the gaping cut that he had been hiding from her and screamed a soft scream. Porus lifted his gore-streaked hand to touch her face.
"We make quite a pair, eh? My leg, your arm. Now, don't grieve girl. We will meet again in the Seventh Hall." He coughed again, pushing himself up. "If your life ever crosses with that pox-ridden cur Alexander, give him a poke from me for setting fire to the world." He gave a wry thrust with the spear still gripped in his other hand.
"I will hunt him," Tascela sobbed. "I will track him, and kill him, but not quickly, no, a slow creeping death for Alexander. I will . . ."
Porus gripped her wrist. "Peace, Tascela. Rest easy girl. The god of the underworld takes us all in the end." His voice rasped, dry. "I would . . . quench my thirst, before passing." he said. "Find . . . water . . ."
There was a camel-trough, blood-stained but still standing, a few paces inside the city gates. Tascela ran to it stumbling. A western warrior was crawling towards it, blood trickling from his mouth. She thrust him aside; he rolled on his back in the dust, whining. Tascela tore at the laces of her boot. With one hand, it was no easy task to remove it and fill it with water. She hurried back to Porus, the bloody sand hot and sticky under her bare foot.
"Porus," she called, putting the water to his lips, bathing his head. "Porus!"
But he was already dead.
* * *
posted by Paganini at 9:51 PM
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