Book 8: Chapter 58: A helping arm
Winter came and went. Snow fell to cover the city and landscape, and when howling winds rolled down the mountains to tear through the streets and fields, everyone stayed inside if possible. Even Atreus ended his forays into Khivan territory, stating that if they wanted the territory badly enough to invade in winter, they deserved it. Small heating stones in the watchtowers to the south provided a minimum of comfort to the sentinels, and in general, thanks to Martel’s enchantments, nobody froze or suffered due to the cold.
Water freezing delayed the building of aqueducts yet again; instead, Henry and his apprentice built a shelter on the halfway point between Archen and its iron mine, to ensure that if caught out by bad weather while transporting goods, a place existed to provide sanctuary. The miners had the roughest location of all, even with Martel’s enchanted stones to alleviate the darkness and frost. But the ore they provided was a lifeline for the city, providing the main thing they could not otherwise grow or gather.
The workshops stood complete. Weavers and tanners provided clothing as needed, smiths handled all things metal, rope was twisted by ropemakers, and barrels were made by coopers. A cartwright provided the carts that transported ore from the mines and food from the fields, timber from the forest.
Eleanor and Valerius argued in favour of creating a real army rather than the militia they relied upon for their defence, including proper ranks, discipline, and training. The Conclave discussed this back and forth. Martel threw his lot against. Once a city had an army, it would think of reasons to use it, and soldiers might feel loyal to their legions rather than their home. Better they were defended by citizens first and foremost, who had no interest marching abroad to war, but who would fight gladly to protect their home. As often before, the arguments of the sage carried the discussion.
The day came when Eleanor had no urgent tasks. She could not hunt in winter, she possessed no skill in enchanting or elemental magic. The militia and its archers trained, but Valerius acted as drillmaster. Instead, she set upon the children of the city, especially a certain group named after animals, and decided to put her knowledge to use, drilled into her own head by four tutors. An empty building was chosen. Archen had yet to receive magical students for its school to rival the Lyceum, but for now, it would have an ordinary school that taught its citizens the foundations of knowledge. Adults soon joined; many of them had little work during the winter hours, and arithmetic along with writing seemed a kind of magic that even they might learn.
Once winter ended, the snows receded, and the blizzards no longer struck, the first Khivans arrived.
He was a young man. Holding a staff in one hand, he awkwardly prodded the border river to find a place to cross, with no luck. Once they saw him, the Archean sentinels approached and inquired as to his business, shouting from one side of the river to the other. Deciding to help, they led him to a log that Atreus used for his forays into Khiva; an improvised bridge that could quickly be kicked away, should danger threaten. But in this case, they helped the Khivan get across, and one of the watchers took it upon herself to guide him to Archen.
In his home that he shared with Eleanor, Martel was preparing to have a late evening meal; he figured that any moment she would be done with her own tasks and join. But the knocking on the door intercepted him. Outside stood Mouse, one of several children engaged as runners. “Master Maximilian asks for you at the infirmary!”
“Alright, very good. You get home now. It’s late.”
The girl ran off, and Martel went to the building that housed their infirmary. Once inside, he glanced around; the place was mostly empty. Few patients required care overnight; either Maximilian’s healing or a potion and some bedrest at home handled most cases. “Nordmark, there’s a Khivan here. Not one of ours, that is. He crossed the border looking for help.” The Master of Healing gestured for Martel to join him in the corner, where a Khivan lay on a mattress of straw. Coming close, Martel could smell the disease before he saw it. An arm, the skin black and bloated. “Gangrene. But I am waiting for one of ours to come translate, just in case.”
“Very well. Did he come alone?”
“Yes, besides the border guard who brought him here. She knows a few words in Khivan and guessed his purpose, seeking our aid.”
“I see. Are you able to help him?”
Maximilian shrugged. “I have never tried something like that before. We will see.”
One of the Archean Khivans appeared, the apprentice to a glassmaker. “Masters.” He bowed his head. “What do you need?”
Maximilian motioned towards the patient. “Ask him why he has come.”
A rapid conversation in Khivan followed. “His arm got damaged, and none of their own physicians can help him anymore. They want to cut it off, but he can’t work on the docks then, and he’s got children to feed,” the apprentice spoke. “He’s happy to pay everything he got if only we will cure him.”
The sick man held out a pouch of coins in his healthy hand, but Martel waved it away. “Tell him we will help him without cost.”
Maximilian raised an eyebrow but made no objection. “Alright. Here it goes.” He grabbed the sick limb with both hands, eliciting a pained moan from the patient. A powerful glow appeared, and before Martel’s eyes, the skin turned a healthy brown shade, retreating from its bloated state.
The Khivan spoke effusively, and no translation was necessary as such. “Tell him to rest,” Martel said to their translator. “He can go home tomorrow.”
Maximilian stretched his neck. “That went fine.” A moment later, he fell over, sprawled unconscious across the bed.
Martel stayed until Maximilian woke up; it did not take long. Looking around in the bed where they had placed him, the mageknight blinked. “I assume that I performed your little manoeuvre.”
“That’s hardly fair. I’ve only done that like eight or nine times.”
“How is the patient?”
“His arm looks good as new. I gave him an elixir just in case he needs it.”
“I am not sure what we gain by helping him for free. I see the point in doing so for our own people,” Maximilian argued. “We take care of our own. And the faster people are cured, the sooner they can be of use to our city. But this fellow does nothing for us.”
“On the contrary. He will return, and he will tell others of what we did for him.”
“I imagine if he admits to being healed by magic, he will find himself in front of whatever the Khivan word for inquisitor is.”
“He may be tight-lipped,” Martel admitted. “But some will guess, seeing his miraculous change. Or he will overhear someone in need of aid and tell them where to go, just as someone must have told him of what we could do. One way or another, we earned favour today.”
“So you are saying I should prepare for more.”
“We will get you a proper infirmary,” Martel promised. “It’ll be the first building we build.”
Maximilian closed his eyes and lay back in his bed. “With better mattresses, I should hope.”