The attack on Burnt Keep reminded Arn even more of Razaad. He could not imagine any other reason for the senseless violence—against even the unarmed servants within the stronghold—beyond a scheme of submission. It was a demonstration of power that would make even the hunters of Razaad uneasy. Of course, there had been plenty of guards. Arn had earned a few gashes, but nothing serious. On Razaad, he had never fought with an ally at both shoulders.
The days afterward seemed dull, as many days before the attack had also. While Drowen always had a dozen things to do—and could often give Arn orders of moderate importance—the rest of the raiders in Saanazar were growing bored. The treasure and valuables of the populace had been plundered, the castle had now fallen, slaves had been taken…. Now only kegs of beer remained to be drunk.
A few evenings after the Keep assault, Arn lounged near one of the cookfires, waiting for his dinner. Often, as the moon began to rise overhead, Arn would look at the dark waves gleaming on the horizon and think of Massema.
It was easier to do so when the harbour grew silent—not while shouts and songs were raising a din.
“That’s enough,” Arn heard one of the sergeants bark.
Arn turned away from the water without getting up and looked down the street toward the group of drunkards. On Razaad, such wastefulness would result in demotion—even harm. But for many of Arn’s present allies, their attack on this city was one long celebration. Arn would have killed for a drop of any drink when he had drifted on the Deep.
One of the drunkards took a swing at the sergeant, but was shoved away by the sober guards at their commander’s elbows. Nonetheless, the fist throw elicited a rise out of Arn, who not only stood from his bench but stepped nearer the inebriated rabble.
The shoved drunkard tripped to the cobblestones. “Ho, what’s this?” demanded his nearest friend. “We’re to be decked for all the blood we’ve shed?”
“Right, right!” barked another. The drunkards milled away from their keg and descended upon the sergeant and his guards. A bar stool—dragged out from one of the gutted taverns—became a weapon, slammed over a warrior’s shoulder. Nose blood and spread palms pattered the muddy cobblestones.
Arn lifted his foot as he approached the nearest drunk. He kicked, hard, and sent the raider sprawling. The next nearest man lashed out at Arn—sloppy and slow. Arn swatted the blow to the side and broke the man’s nose with his fist. He vaguely remembered what having a nose felt like…
It wouldn’t take long, Arn knew. The sergeant and his guards fared well, though one of them was shoved off the cobblestone street and into the muddy slump where the tide had gone out. Arn kicked another of the drunkards down after the poor man—then something slammed into Arn’s side hard. He grunted and pranced to the side, carefully placing his feet around another unconscious body. He winced as he spun his arm, his side pulled against his broken ribs.
The man who had struck Arn was brandishing one of the legs of the shattered bar stool. He swung at Arn’s face for his second try, but this time Arn caught it with his good hand. He kicked the man’s shins out from under him. The drunkard lost his grip on his one, precious weapon, and Arn jabbed the stool leg into his forehead.
“Thanks for your help, warrior,” the sergeant said. They were surrounded by unconscious men and wary onlookers.
Arn nodded, but grimaced. His ribs would take a while to heal—too long, if Drowen’s armies kept growing unruly. He threw the wooden club into the sea and helped the guard clamber back onto the street from the muddy beach below, before finally limping off down the road toward the docks.
Master Vellek spent his nights sleeping aboard one of the moored ships, but fortunately he was still awake. He looked up from his candlelit book as Arn cleared his throat. “Ah, Arn,” he said, quietly. “A little late for one of our sessions, isn’t it?”
Arn lifted his tunic with his arm, until the ache in his side grew sharper. He gestured the bruising flesh. “Drunkards. Broken ribs,” he grunted.
“Take it easy and they’ll heal up fine—”
“Can’t take it easy,” Arn growled. He waved a thumb over his shoulder. “This will get worse before it gets better.”
Vellek sighed and turned back to the bench that he had made his desk. He lay a dark ribbon across the pages and slowly closed the tome. “You drive yourself too hard, Arn,” he said, quietly. “There are others that can deal with the mob.”
“Will that increase my value to Drowen?” Arn returned, sitting down in a chair as indicated by the magician.
Vellek raised his eyebrows. “No, but it might keep you alive longer,” he said. He gingerly touched Arn’s side and closed his eyes to focus.
Arn let him work quietly for a few moments. He knew such healing would take multiple sessions, even with Vellek’s notable giftedness in healing, but he would not sit idly by. Such a thing would be worse, even, than being a dangerous drunkard.
“Our other…sessions,” Arn breathed. “How long will we need to continue them?”
“The longer, the better,” Vellek answered, without opening his eyes.
“Will I see—things—again, if we stop?”
At this, Vellek inhaled and sat back. Arn let his shirt settle back over his inflamed side. The greying man shrugged and said, “Maybe. Maybe not. I have had subjects that were beyond my help even with constant care, and I have had those who, after two sessions, needed nothing more. We are trying to teach your mind other ways to handle the experiences that cause such…delusions. Like training with a blade or tool, the longer you practice, the more reliable the skill.”
Arn sighed and started to lift his tunic once more.
“Do you remember much of what you saw?” Vellek asked.
Pursing his lips, Arn considered the question. “I know it’s been a few months since I’ve seen anything,” he said. Of course, even that knowing was more of a hope. If he saw something new, that was not there, how would he know? He went on: “I remember a name—Gamden. I remember some of the things he did, but his face has faded…and I remember an anger—not my own, mind you.”
“Anything else?”
Arn shook his head. “Just some confusing dreams,” he offered.
Vellek placed his hand back on Arn’s side to continue mending the damage. “How are your dreams now?” he murmured.
“I don’t have them,” Arn said simply. He didn’t mention the warm dreams of Massema that sometimes stirred him during the night. He didn’t mention that the vast city and its strange inhabitants were unlike any world or life Arn had known before.
“Good,” Vellek said, and continued his work.
Arn soon lost track of the time, in the dark quarters of the trustworthy healer—perhaps, for him, the safest place in the city.