Chương 44

Healing is a duty. But not all can be saved. Harker stood with a groan. His arms hung heavy from his shoulders and his breath came tight and shallow. He rolled one then the other, enduring the sharp stretch of his shallow wounds. Eight lacerations. Superficial damage at best. He flexed his hands around his dagger and knife. Low concern. Almost worse was the sticky mess his sweater had become. It hung in tatters around his aching shoulders and the back was split in two separate places. His cloak… Harker sighed.

It was beyond ruined.

"Check this area," he said, pointing at the dead Aberrant.

"I don't know if there are more of them further inside. I'm going after the bandit leader." Adhira grunted, leveraging herself up to her feet. She rolled her neck.

"Better run. He's got a head start on you."

"I know. He—" Someone whimpered and Harker turned toward the inner tunnel.

"I know that voice. The merchant!" He hustled forward, finding a chamber just on the inside of the tunnel. It was barely more than a nook, and it had been half filled with barrels. Where it wasn't, a pile of stained clothing cushioned an older man bound hand and foot. Portly and wearing a belted inner robe that had clearly seen better days, his white beard and wild eyebrows trembled as he tried to chew through his gag. Harker knelt down and removed the gag.

"You saved us." The merchant coughed, a rough sound that wracked him with small tremors. He gasped, clutching at his right arm.

"Did the mayor send you?"

"No." Harker pulsed his Talent.

"Your arm is broken. I'll need to set it."

"Ignore me," the man demanded.

"I'm fine. But please! You must save her!"

"Save who?" Harker looked around. There was no one else in the room.

"She's in the back. They put her there after they—after they shot her." Harker remembered now.

"Your wife?"

"Yes. She—""They said they shot her in the heart."

"They're idiots! They couldn't find their own feet with both hands and a map," the old man spat.

"They shot her too low to be the heart. It's a foul wound, but I can treat it!" Harker glanced back at Adhira. She'd come up behind him, leaning against her axe. She shrugged.

"Please. It's only been a little while. Bring be back there," the merchant gestured to the tunnel where the Aberrants had emerged.

"My Lydia is still alive, I know it."

"Alright." He reached down and cut through the man's bindings in two smooth strokes. In seconds he had the old merchant on his feet. He was unsteady at first, but soon he was stumbling down the tunnel as fast as his half-numb legs could take him.

"Go on then," Adhira said.

"I'm right behind you." Rocky debris filled the tunnel where the ceiling had been ripped open by the largest Aberrant and the rest was hard-packed soil. Like the main cavern, there was no fire here to illuminate the way, but the further they passed the more light seemed to gather along the walls. It shone from the stone itself—tiny flecks of glowing mineral that gathered in rough, sporadic veins. Some sort of Sea-touched mineral? Is that why the Aberrants were here?

The merchant led him into a much larger cavern, one loaded down with crates, barrels, and even a few wagons full of ill-gained goods. Spiced scents accosted Harker, new textures that prickled against his pulsing Talent, the faint weight of hundreds of pounds of food, metal, and more tickling at his awareness. Harker paused, taking it all in. This couldn't have all come from one merchant, which meant these bandits had been active for a while. How come no one had stopped them?

The Gnarl was famously ungoverned, despite the rule the Sunken City claimed to exert over the mountain. But this… The merchant sped onward, but Harker's attention was captured by the shattered path through the left side of the space. Crates had been trampled and shattered by immense feet, all leading back toward a series of cages against the far wall. Those were opened, the doors bent free of their hinges, as if their occupants had simply burst out all at once.

Chunks of fur clung to exposed wood and metal, interspersed amid heavy claw marks in the stone. They had the Aberrants caged? Why in the world—?

"Over here!" Harker shook himself from his study. He followed the merchant's voice to a further section behind a stack of ceramic pots and series of stacked drawers. The merchant was already rummaging through them, flinging aside pieces of waxed paper and thin, wooden dividers. Beside him, laid out on a pile of stained rags, was a woman. She was older, a match to the merchant, her face lined and sagging as much as her bloodstained clothes.

Her eyes were wide and her chest seemed to be unmoving around the bolt stuck through her ribs. A tremor. He pulsed Sovereign Sight, letting his awareness coat the surface of her body… and peered through her chest as if she were made of glass. No resistance. She's Untalented.

"She's alive," he muttered, though he couldn't believe it. The merchant sobbed and kept scrounging through the drawers. The crossbow bolt had come perilously close to her heart and punctured her lung. Her left side was already collapsed and her right wasn't faring much better. Contusions spread all across her torso, along with a fetid taste that made Harker recoil. Whitecowl and scarrow. It was a combination familiar to him, though one his mother had banned from use around Vale.

Extracts of the two plants would create a powerful paralytic, one that could easily kill if it wasn't applied judiciously—hunters had liked it for taking down the bigger and more dangerous boars and elk. The problem was that it lingered in the meat after, making all who ate it suffer bouts of paralytic fever that could last days.

"Her heartbeat is thready and her lungs are almost gone. She's been poisoned as well as injured." Harker gave the merchant a steady look.

"She won't last long."

"She lasted until now. That is all we need." The man pulled something free of his chest of drawers.

"If we give her this, it doesn't matter what ails her. It is a panacea." The vial in the man's hand was small, no bigger than the top phalange of his pinky, and it was sealed with a dollop of thick wax. Inside the glass was a gray-green liquid surmounted by a dot of bright crimson—and as he watched, the dot dropedt through the vial toward the bottom, shoving the gray-green liquid upward as if repelling it. The action repeated every two seconds, like a heartbeat of its own. Harker frowned. Panaceas were cure-alls…

and almost always a scam. What cures all cures none, after all. Yet Sovereign Sight detected a rush of potency that reminded him of the Sea in storm, only fare more pungent.

"What is it?"

"This is Last Grace. Designed to cure a Second Depth Talent of all ailments in case of a botched Descent." Harker pulled back from the vial.

"That's worth a fortune."

"Cost me twenty pounds of scaled rhidion and a favor I don't like to think on—but it doesn't matter. If it saves my Lydia, then it would have been worth an entire kingdom." Harker licked his lips. He was not familiar with Last Grace, but if this was a true panacea then it may well heal the woman. Except, all such cures had a cost. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"If that is meant for a Second Depth Talent, then it's of no use to us," Harker pointed out gently.

"Your wife is Untalented. She won't survive its strength without—""Without refinement, I know," the merchant finished.

"There is no other choice. She is dying, stranger. With this there might be hope." Harker considered the vial and the merchant in equal measure.

"What's your name?"

"Denar. Please sir. My hands are not steady enough to administer it." The merchant pressed the vial into Harker's hands, and he reluctantly took it. It thrummed in his palm, a tiny vortex against every bit of his senses. Harker looked down at the woman, felt the shudder that wracked her diaphragm and strained throat. There was not telling what the panacea would do to an Untalented…but she was almost gone. He had to try.

"If I can titrate it, perhaps we can bring it to a level that she will survive." Harker slung his pack onto the ground.

"This is poison to an Untalented, but the cure is in the dose, yeah?" He patted the merchant on the back and offered him a smile.

"I will need a few things." In moments, Denar had gathered all that Harker required. A bowl, fresh water, a cheesecloth, a series of empty vials, and his thaumic cauldron. Harker got to work. Saptooth and bluewort were both common reagents he'd snagged on the road.

Simple staples for salves and ointments, a proper extract of them had an effect on inflammation and migraines, they were often used in small amounts in mixtures due to their tendency to absorb and retain other reagents, thus reducing the efficacy of whatever they were added into. Harker only wished he had more. Crushing them with the flat of his harvesting blade, Harker added them into the cauldron along with a splash of fresh water.

The heat of the cauldron brought them to a boil and he agitated them continuously as they cooked down, adding more fresh water until the stalks were limp and pale. What remained was a thick slurry that smelled faintly sweet. Perfect.

"Cheesecloth, Denar." The merchant layered it in the bowl, holding it secure as Harker lifted his cauldron and poured it on top. The slurry splatted onto the cloth, soaking through instantly while the chunkier bits remained on top. Once it was empty, he set aside the cauldron and took the cloth from Denar's shaking hands. Harker squeezed. Liquid, thick and yellow-orange, oozed out from the cloth's loose weave and into the bowl.

Harker squeezed several more times, until all that remained inside the cheesecloth was a compacted blob of dried pulp. He discarded it. Inside the bowl was the real prize—an almost translucent oil nearly an inch deep. First step complete. Harker looked over Lydia, pulsing his Talent. She was still breathing, but it was slower than ever, and her heartbeat was dangerously low. He reached out for Last Grace. The merchant put it in his hand, but didn't let go.

"Please, lad. Save her." Harker gave him a nod. Denar released his grip on the vial. With steady hands, Harker added Last Grace into his extract. Just a single drop. There was an immediate effect. The yellow-orange oil rippled as if he'd dumped a bucket into it, rolling waves toward the bowl's edge before rebounding inward. Veins of bright green threaded through it, spreading in three blinks until the entirety of the oil was colored a deep emerald. Harker watched it for a long moment, trying to judge the titration.

Had he used too much? There was no way to be more accurate with the equipment he possessed, but he'd used as little as he could manage. Still, Harker wasn't certain. He set the lot of it into the thaumic cauldron, bowl and all, which remained at a steady boil of fresh water. For two minutes, he cooked down the oil, until the emerald tincture was barely more than a mouthful.

"Is it ready?" Denar asked, holding gently onto his injured arm.

"Yes." A dozen other things wanted to leap out of Harker's mouth—how risky this was, how uncertain—but he held them back.

"I'll give it to her now." He lifted the bowl and poured it directly into her wound. The thickened oil sizzled as it hit, like grease on a hot pan, but immediately the woman seized up.

"Hold her down!" Denar threw himself onto his wife, trapping her arms and legs against his body. Still the woman bucked, nearly throwing the much larger man off herself, and a ragged gasp tore from her lips. Harker only had eyes for her wound. The flesh around the bolt rippled, the wound pulsating, but it still remained inflamed and riddled with dark veins. Quickly, Harker ripped the bolt free, and a scream slipped loose from the woman.

"What's happening?" Denar demanded.

"Is she—?" Harker ignored him.

"Sovereign Sight." He focused it into a line and directed all of his attention onto her wound. The titrated Last Grace had penetrated the woman's chest and it was traversing through her torso at breakneck speed. Harker sucked in a breath through his teeth. It was as he'd feared—the potent medicine was too much for Lydia's body to handle—it wasn't healing, it was tearing through healthy flesh as it burned across her bloodstream. Depths! Think, Harker! There was a way around this. What did he know?

The Last Grace is a panacea meant for Second Depth Talents. A refined body would handle this with little issue. That means… He snapped his fingers. It was designed for Talents… it needed Water. Hope this works! A gurgling rumble preceded a flood of untempered Water from Harker's right palm. It sprayed across the old woman's wound, soaking her robes and flesh alike. Yet moments later, all evidence of moisture was gone. It hadn't evaporated as often happens with aimless Water of Life.

Instead it had been absorbed fully into the woman's chest. Harker pulled a handful of blue ripperweed petals out of his pack and swiftly set them against Lydia's open wound. They clung to the inflamed flesh, all but gluing themselves into place before Harker released another wash of the Sea. His Water was pulled inexorably toward the blue petals, their very nature drawing the power toward the wound, and Harker traced the results with his senses.

Water flowed through Lydia faster than the reduced panacea could manage. It caught up almost instantly, a deluge of power soaking its advance. For a moment, Harker was unsure if it would work, then the medicine began to gleam. Light poured from Lydia's wound—from her mouth and nostrils as well—enough that even Denar exclaimed. Harker watched the panacea do its work. The Last Grace rolled through her bloodstream, bringing with it his Water and leaving behind pristine flesh.

The infection vanished, dissolving into light. Like a bubble popping, a dizzying lack of pressure accosted Harker's senses and Lydia's flesh rippled inward. All at once, the inflammation vanished and the dark veins of poison were broken apart. The bitter taste of them was supplanted by the rush of a metallic tang—coppery blood flowed through newly healthy flesh as muscle, bone, and fat knit back together. It was done. Denar leaned in, breath held.

"Is she—?"

"Both lungs are working and her pulse has risen to a steady level." Harker fell back, massaging his palms.

"We'll need to keep an eye on her but…she's gonna survive." Denar tackled him, arms squeezing at Harker's shoulders.

"You brilliant boy!" Harker could do little else except endure it as the old merchant shuddered, sobbing quietly into his shoulder.

"It's, ah, she's gonna be fine. Impurities might build up and cause minor aches for a while until she passes them naturally." Slowly, Denar mastered himself.

"That…that's just fine, my boy. Aches and pains are the way of the elderly. We're used to 'em."

"Make sure to drink a lot of liquid—preferrably fresh water. It'll help clear blockages in her system." Harker was happy he hadn't had to push more of the Sea through her—and that Last Grace had absorbed so much of what he'd offered. If the full effect of the untempered Sea had settled into the old woman, her joints might well have locked up entirely. Salt and silt were no laughing matter, especially for the Untalented.

Denar himself was far easier to deal with—his arm was broken in two places and Harker set it with a couple of firm adjustments. It was far simpler lining up the bones when he could all but see through his patient's skin. He crafted a makeshift splint from nearby debris and strapped it tight with bandages before tying the lot of it against Denar's chest.

"Keep that immobilized and don't strain yourself." He handed the merchant some willowbark from his pack.

"Chew this. It'll help take the edge off." Denar did just that, grimacing as he chewed the bitter bark.

"I don't suppose we can give me a dose of Last Grace too, eh?" Harker frowned, but Denar chuckled.

"Only kidding, lad. I see the storm for what it is; I'll not risk drowning twice in one day."

"Smart man." Harker patted the vial, ensuring the seal was once again keeping it shut.

"Here. This is yours."

"No. Keep it." Denar shook his head.

"The moment I opened it I knew I wouldn't be able to sell it—alchemists are picky to a fault."

"This is too much," Harker pushed the vial toward the man.

"I can't accept it."

"Consider it a reward. Besides, I can't make use of it myself, but a clever boy like you… Well, you've already proven yourself to me." Harker curled his fingers around the vial.

"I—Thank you, Denar."

"No, thank you. Lydia is alive." Denar laughed, and for the first time his voice was light.

"She's alive, lad. That's worth all the gold in my coffers." Adhira stomped through the room, her gait strange as she picked her way through the crates.

"Harker…"

"Oh good, you're here." Harker carefully put the Last Grace into his Seed Quiver.

"Did you get the bandit leader?"

"No…"

"Really?" The old bandit's Talent had been a strange one. Catching someone like that in the woods must have been a terror. Harker wiped his hands on his trousers.

"These two need rest, but I can go out with you. Finding him isn't—" Harker stopped, noticing how pale she looked.

"Adhira?" Some sort of pale liquid poured across the armor at her hip. Harker shot to his feet.

"I may…" she shook her head, eyes unsteady.

"I may have taken more than a scratch." She collapsed.