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rigit surmised they were underground and grew mildly alarmed as Armand drew her deeper into the gut rock where the workings of humans gave way to the natural gnawing of water and earth. He clutched the torch that had burned outside her cell and was holding it before him as they wove through narrow cracks in the sweating limestone. He slipped a few times and she reflexively arrested his fall by grasping the tail of his jacket.
“Where are we going?” she asked after a long period of scrabbling and wordless quiet. Their breathing was loud in the confined space between the rocks, and judging by the way the torch trembled in the man’s hand, he teetered on the brink of collapse.
“We have to go somewhere dry,” he rasped.
“Good luck with that,” Brigit murmured for the stones bled moisture. The oppressive darkness and the narrow slant of the coarse passage was unnerving. The shape of the natural corridor put her in mind of an evil grin and she feared the rocks might crush them at any moment.
“Not much farther,” he replied, “Come.”
He staggered on ahead of her and at one point the crack became so narrow they had to sidle through it. Armand moaned in pain as the rugged wall snagged the wound on his back. The uneven floor caused her ankles to ache as she variously crawled and climbed down after him. Then at last they began to ascend and the passage became littered with sand. The torch fluttered as a cool wind thrust down the throat of the chasm. Armand thrust the brand into a sandy crevice, extinguishing it and plunging them into darkness. Brigit gasped and blinked frantically. He was mad. How were they going to find their way around without light?
And then she realized there was a soft gray glow above them, daylight perhaps. Armand scrambled up ahead of her, his booted foot nearly striking her jaw as she hurried to keep up. There was an unpleasant odor upon the gusts of chill air: dung and smoke and a fishy fetidness. Armand hauled himself up onto a ledge above her and extended a trembling hand back down to her. Fat chance, she decided. That was his wounded arm. She could manage. Biting her lip, she kicked and clawed at the rock until she hauled herself onto the shelf beside him.
The low cavern was riddled with small openings that revealed the gray sky beyond. The limestone had been worn smooth by the passage of rain and a little of it was pooled around the periphery, a ready source of potable water. The fetid odor came from a crude circle of gathered stones below the largest of the natural slits. Armand was burning bat guano which lay in thick chunks nearby. There was also a mound of shattered crab carapaces and a tattered pack and blanket. She wondered how long he had been hiding here.
“Three days,” he murmured. He crouched above one of the puddles of rainwater and drank thirstily.
“Have you found a way out?”
“I know of two. The problem is finding a way off of the island without being attacked by hounds or Ashekoroth.”
Brigit warmed herself beside the smoky fire, admiring the man’s resourcefulness. Then she grew alarmed as he groaned exhausted to the floor, shivering beneath the blanket. The last of his strength expended, he gazed up at her with dull blue eyes, his face strained with pain and cold. Brigit shuffled toward him but he recoiled from her touch, his brows turning downward in anger.
“Let me have a look at the wound,” she said gently.
“I’m fine,” he grumbled but his fevered trembling contradicted him.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, “I doubt you’ve worked this hard to survive just to die from an infection. Let me have a look at you.”
What an odd man, she decided. So proud and foolish. Why save her and now treat her as if her touch were unclean? Still, fever and sickness did funny things to the mind and she decided upon a direct approach. Rising to her hams, she scooped him into her arms and ignored the horrifed look on his face as she bore him closer to the fire, blanket and all. She laid him out carefully, all business as she peeled away the damp edges of the jacket to reveal the rip in his flesh. The red, pus-laced wound flowed from his right shoulder down over his scapula and spine. It was deepest over the shoulder blade and she cringed to think there might be exposed chips of bone.
“May I rip your shirt and jacket away?”
He had to be in a great deal of pain. He needed a monk, and failing that, someone needed to sew the wound closed so that it could heal cleanly. As it was, it was merely accumulating filth.
“Knife in pack,” he said quietly, resigned to her ministrations.
“What happened?”
He swallowed and closed his eyes. For a moment she sensed his relief that he was no longer alone after three long days of merely trying to survive. Brigit fetched the blade and took a moment to ponder the contents of the bag. She retrieved the bowl and frowned at it for it stank from a recent meal of crab.
“While he was busy, I explored,” Armand murmured, “Two new toys? You and one other?”
“Yes,” she murmured, holding the wooden bowl face down over the flames to purify it. He was speaking of Ashekoroth and she was mildly vexed that he referred to she and Pendaran as toys.
“The one who was screaming, is he a friend?” Armand asked.
“His name is Pendaran. I ward him. And yes, he is a friend.”
“I’m sorry,” Armand said, sensing her pain, “I did not mean to be so callous. This has been a long ordeal for me and I have been alone for a while.”
“I see. Do you know what he will do to Pendaran?”
“I sense that he is alive but lies in enchanted sleep. Ashekoroth does not go in for quick deaths.”
Brigit frowned, realizing that Armand was not being sarcastic but brutally honest.
“What is in these other two bottles you were carrying?” she asked, eager to change the subject now that she was assured Pendaran was in no immediate danger. It would not do to dwell upon his peril, not until she understood more about this strange man.
Armand hesitated and looked mildly embarrassed.
“Urine.”
“Do I want to know why?”
“Yesterday while I was hunting for crabs in the sea cave, his dogs finally found me. He must have finished securing the two of you or dealing with whatever else was distracting him, for he began to search for me again in earnest. It seems he can only focus on one thing at a time. One moment there was just sea foam and waves coming through the grate and the next hideous beasts formed of water and rotting corpses bounded fully formed from the waves.
“Naturally, I tried to run. The walls were slick and I was carrying a pack of bludgeoned crabs. I narrowly avoided becoming trapped. They were not trying to kill me, merely keeping me at bay until their master arrived. At some point I reached a ledge and one of them leaped up and caught the tail of my jacket. I fell to the rocks below and that is how I was hurt.
“I was not in my right mind. I fought in the mad desperate way of a wounded animal. At some point I spat at one of them and it recoiled as if it had been stung. Don’t ask me why, but this inspired me. I climbed back up the ledge again and endeavored to… urinate on them.”
Armand blushed a deep shade of crimson and Brigit bit her lip, trying to keep the image of the man’s actions from her mind and failing miserably.
“Yes, you smirk,” Armand grumbled, “but if they recoiled from mere spittle, I assumed correctly they would find urine more objectionable. They seethed away from me as if my body’s pollutants set them on fire. Unfortunately, I did not have an endless supply and was only able to destroy two of them.
“I reasoned that if Ashekoroth’s dogs were so weakened by this act, he would also prove vulnerable. Wounded as I was, it was time for desperate measures. The passages Ashekoroth cut into the rock are patrolled by his hounds and hired help. This morning I climbed back toward those passages and waited for an opportunity to strike. I believe Pendaran is being held near Threnody, but she grows weak and has not sung to me again.
“You, however, he has kept isolated from the others. When I heard your screams I surmised he was using you as he had the other warrior. If that were the case, it meant he was weak and hungry and his mind was focused entirely upon feeding. If there were ever a time to test my theory and strike, it was then. I hoped that by freeing you I might obtain an ally. Yes, I know I am in danger of becoming infected and I need help.”
“You have a funny way of expressing your need, Mr. Flinch,” Brigit said grimly, “Did you think I was going to burn you or something?”
Armand closed his eyes wearily.
“I am not accustomed to being touched. It grates on me. And I don’t like pity.”
“I don’t pity you,” she said, “Not many people would have survived this long in such a bad situation. I’m not sure I would have.”
“I plan to survive long enough to send that monster back to whatever hell he comes from,” Armand replied coldly.
“He can’t find you here?”
“He hasn’t succeeded yet. I think he can travel through water. At least his dogs can and I think somehow they are part of him. The rain water in the puddles has proved innocuous enough -- perhaps because it is detached from other sources. I don’t really know why, I’m just grateful there is something to drink and it’s safe in here.”
He grew silent, his shivering growing less severe as the small fire warmed him. She gathered water into the bowl and sat beside him, her thigh and hip braced against the small of his back.
“Alright, hold still now.”
Taking up the knife, Brigit carefully cut into the fabric until she could tear it cleanly away. She ripped his sundered blouse into squares and soaked them in the bowl of water. He stoically bit his lip and tried unsuccessfully to stifle his moans of pain as she worked fragments of bone, dirt, and rock from the jagged gash.
“I’m almost done with the cleaning,” she soothed, “It would be nice if I could sew it shut, but I think it will scab over and heal up as long as you do not put any strain on it. I’m going to wrap your right arm against your sides to limit movement. Let me help you sit up.”
He obediently did as she asked and she was able to remove the remainder of his heavy jacket and blouse. Old scars marred his lightly muscled breast and shoulders and sigils had been burned into his lower back. He flinched as she fingered them and she apologized quickly, aware that to some degree her touch was unwanted and violated him. Without further ado she cut his jacket and blouse into long strips and wadded cloth around the wound to form a cradle around it so that as she wrapped the makeshift bandages in place, none of them clung directly to the open gash. It needed a chance to scab over. Soon the upper portion of his right arm was bound to his side and she draped the blanket gently around his shoulders and urged him to lie down on his left side facing the flames.
“Have you slept at all since coming here?”
“No, not intentionally.”
She made a pillow for him out of his pack and propped his head upon it. A mixture of annoyance and confusion played over his face as she absently stroked his brow and shoulder.
“Sleep now. I’ll keep the fire burning and watch over you. I promise not to touch you again.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, sounding mildly embarrassed, “It’s alright if you touch me now.”
Brigit smiled at him and moved to sit with her thigh against his back so that he would not roll over onto his injured side. The tension eased from his body and sleep claimed him at last.
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