That One Time I Went on a Quest
Arkai's Plight

A mere week later, Kathanhiel is back on her feet; not only that, she has started jogging on the ramparts at sunrise. Clutching her chest and staggering from one end of Iborus to the other, she can somehow manage two whole laps without breaking a sweat. Not wanting to look lazy, Haylis and I join her on the third morning. Surely two healthy able-bodied youths could keep up with a one-armed woman who until days ago could not even stand on her own.

Nope.

With the new sun behind us, our shadows draw out long and thin along the inner ramparts, but even they couldn’t touch Kathanhiel’s back. She’s swaying left and right like a drunk yet fifty steps ahead of us.

Haylis, gasping and running beside me, blurts out, ‘She’s not human! How is she doing it?’ Then, completely uncalled for: ’How are you doing it?! In the trials you always came last!’

‘Uh…no idea.’

There is an intense ball of heat in my chest, quite different from the pain exertion; it radiates a disconcerting numbness into my legs, taking away the feeling of straining muscles…and the feeling of having legs. They are so agile; too agile to be my legs.

Why does this feel so weird? Isn’t it good to be able to run so fast?

We pass in front of the waterfall. Here the curtain wall breaks into several great arches that cross over the shimmering lake below. There is a lot of commotion down there. Floating in front of the dockyard, at right angles to the long central pier, is one of Iborus’ ironclads. From up here its hull looks like a black almond with two squat cylinders attached on either side – paddlewheels, all covered up in metal bands. Scores and scores of people are climbing aboard from the pier, their drab grey clothes fluttering in the wind.

‘The mountain folk. Herders, nomads,’ says Haylis. ‘This is the last of them I think. They’ll ride all the way to the Kingdom.’

‘Why would anyone live in the Ranges when dragons are around?’

‘Stupid question.’ Haylis huffs. ‘It’s their home, idiot.’

In front of us, Kathanhiel suddenly stops and looks to her left, at the blasted fields to the south. Haylis and I catch up to her, both panting. She points to the horizon. ‘Do you see that?’

Instinctively, hating myself a little bit, I spend five seconds sweeping the southern sky. Nothing but wispy clouds; no sign of dragons. Then Haylis elbows me in the ribs. ‘On the highway!’

A rider in black cloak, galloping towards the fortress. There’s something…off…about the gait of the horse.

‘To the gate,’ Kathanhiel says.

We get on the outer gatehouse five minutes later. The sentries give us stiff salutes despite the fact that wearing sweaty shorts on these walls is likely frowned upon.

Kathanhiel leans against the battlements, gazing at the approach. Haylis and I do the same.

The rider’s black cloak looks familiar…an Ink Scout? The horse, however, I could recognise anywhere.

‘That’s Killisan!’

Haylis gasps. ‘Really? Then that must be Arkai! But he looks…looks…’

‘Come with me, both of you,’ Kathanhiel says, then to the soldiers, ‘please open the gates. You, may I borrow your sword?’

Haylis and I follow her down the staircase to the squat iron gate that is the sole entrance into Iborus. For walls so high the gates are quite conservative in comparison, only wide enough to fit two little giants walking abreast. There is an expansive mural sculpted upon the gate panels: a scene of humans and giants standing hand in hand against a gnarly-looking dragon. Never seen it before…yet I should have. Did I not walk through these gates? How can I not remember –?

The three obelisks, the crimson sea, the bloated dragon and the little giant with the harness of blades – I remember those things.

The gates open quietly. Killisan is fast approaching; there are actually two people riding on its back. It hadn’t been noticeable from a distance probably because they are both wearing identical black cloaks, and the one in front is weirdly diminished in stature – weirdly, because the smaller person isn’t riding so much as having been plopped upon the saddle like an object.

That gait. Killisan’s stumbling gait.

Kathanhiel gestures everyone else to stand back. Just her and her esquires now, alone in the courtyard before the gates, waiting.

‘Why are we so tense?’ asks Haylis.

I shake my head because my guts have knotted up and are refusing to let out a word.

The horse charges in without breaking stride, kicking up a trail of panicked dust. The small rider in front seems unconscious…wait a minute. Wait a minute. His face –

‘What’s wrong with Arkai?’ Haylis gasps. ‘Is he sleeping? Why does he look like…like…’

The rider at the back – a tall, broad-shouldered man with a plain face and a half-grey beard – pulls up ten steps before Kathanhiel and declares: ‘My lady Kathanhiel, I come bearing grave tidings –’

Kathanhiel dashes forward before any of us could blink, her sword a streak of grey lightning arcing into the rider’s face. A bright clang. Sparks fly. The rider falls from the horse with a glint of steel under his sleeve.

Without support, Arkai begins to teeter on the saddle, which is strange because someone like him could easily ride in his sleep so what…what…

No. It can’t be. My eyes are lying I’m not seeing this what have they done Arkai is falling off the saddle he’s falling off because he has no legs, he has no legs to hold himself up and where are his arms where are his arms he has no arms to hold the reins no arms so he’s falling falling to the ground –

I move, then Haylis moves. We catch Arkai and roll him over. So light. His body weighs nothing (he has no legs no arms and no legs). His eyes are squeezed shut. Feverish air seeps from his nose, his chest heaving slowly, too slowly. His stumps are wrapped in old, blackened bandage that stinks of gangue; must have been days…weeks…

The tall rider scrambles to his feet, laughing at the top of his lungs. ‘I tried to fool you!’ he cackles. ’But I’m the fool for trying to fool the great, eminent, all-mighty Kathanhiel.’

Kathanhiel slashes at his chest, deadly fast. Still cackling, he steps out of the way with loathsome agility – but not quite. Pieces of black cloth fall, revealing his bony ribs.

‘Come, come!’ he taunts, spinning a flat, chisel-like dagger between two fingers. ’Talukiel said I could play!’

In cold silence, Kathanhiel moves. Their blades cross in a flurry. She is a whirlwind, yet noticeably slower than her usual self, and her opponent is dodging and feinting with the nimbleness of a monkey. Her sword slices apart the very air, sending out gusts that scrape painfully against the skin, yet the flat dagger is always there to meet it, always there to stop the sword from moving a hair closer and hitting its mark.

He’s not hitting back at all, not even trying to.

Suddenly Kathanhiel leaps back. ‘Talu taught you well,’ she says.

The rider bows low, head banging against knee. ‘It is the highest honour – the highest! – to be acknowledged by the illustrious, flawless, beautiful beyond words –’

‘I will know your name before taking your life,’ she says.

The rider’s head snaps up like that of a rooster. ‘Palasine of the Vassal of Irisol, at your humble service.’

‘Palasine of the Vassal of Irisol, do you know the meaning of cowardice?’

More cackles. ‘Nay, would you assign such a word to one who has come to challenge you in your lair, prepared to die?’

Kathanhiel raises her sword and points it between his eyes. ’Then why fight only to keep yourself alive? Your blade betrays your heart, brave warrior: you are wishing for a miracle to spare your life.’

The grin freezes on the rider’s face. ‘My resolve is iron-clad.’

‘Of course.’ Incredibly, Kathanhiel turns around and throws her sword to the ground. ‘You may leave, Palasine. Go. No one will stop you.’ She looks around at those gathered in the courtyard. ‘Back to your stations everyone. We’re done here.’

There’s venom in his eyes now – real venom, none of that pretentious half-crazy charade he was putting on moments ago. ‘I did not come all this way to run.’

‘But you did,’ Kathanhiel says without turning around. ‘There is no need for posturing, for this miracle I grant you freely.’ She waves dismissively. ‘Please tell Talu to take this seriously.’

An inhuman scream rises from the Palasine’s throat. With one monstrous leap he lunges at Kathanhiel’s back, his dagger a silvery claw.

She doesn’t even look around. Bending over, her hand shoots up at the perfect moment to grab hold of his wrist. With a half-roll forward she throws him to the ground using his own momentum, wedging her knee onto his folded arm and pressing the dagger into his throat.

‘I despise pretenders like you,’ she says softly, leaning down with all her weight. The flat blade sinks into the rider’s neck, spilling red everywhere.

Gurgling. Thrashing limbs. Sputtered words that sound like curses or pleas. Then dripping silence.

The next hour is a blur. At first Haylis and I couldn’t figure out how to carry Arkai to the infirmary. I end up wrapping my arms around his waist and picking him up like a tailor would a mannequin. Through his cloak I could feel the slow struggle of his heart; so weak, so ready to give up at any moment. Walk. Hurry up, this isn’t a parade.

Rukiel shows up and barks an endless string of orders to whoever happens to be nearby; within minutes regiments of cavalry are galloping through the gates, armed not with crossbows but spears and swords. Haylis is yelling for people to get out of the way, for the medics to get rid of that useless stretcher and to set up a private room away from the others. Out the corner of my eye I see Kathanhiel heaving the bleeding corpse of Palasine onto her back, refusing a dozen helping hands; her shirt, already drenched in sweat, soaks red within seconds.

’Out of the way! Move! Kastor, turn left.’

Under Haylis’ directions I ram through three sets of doors that ignorantly stood in my way and walk into a huge, high-ceilinged room with rows upon rows of beds. The infirmary. Too many people here, too many high-pitched cries and morbid eyes.

Stumbling, Haylis ushers me into a small windowless room with a single bed in the corner. Two physicians are already attending with fresh tools and chemicals aplenty; I ease Arkai onto the sheets and throw myself out of their way. Haylis is standing just outside, looking pale:

‘We can’t help; let’s go somewhere else, anywhere –’

‘Listen to me, both of you.’

Kathanhiel is thundering down the aisle with Palasine’s corpse, paying no attention to the nurses and patients scrambling out of her way. With a groan of effort she dumps the body onto the bed nearest to us, then nearly falls on top of it as her left leg buckles without warning.

Before either of us could move she says: ‘Kastor, stay here and watch the body. Haylis, fetch the Ink Scouts and the head of every regiment; tell them to meet me in the war room five minutes ago.’ From her pocket she extracts a bloody scroll and tosses it to me. ‘This was in his pocket.’

I open it. The writing is neat but bloats with wingy flourishes:

My Lady Dearest:

Colourless are the days without your eyes, my breath joyless and pining for when we shall meet again. To have witnessed you amongst the masses in that star-stricken raiment, to have held your hand after all these years scornfully apart…words cannot describe my ecstasy. Mad, is it not, for your raven-haired prostitute to come between us with his erroneous lust? He will bother us no more.

Each night I toss and turn with the memory of our parting, and I could bear it no longer. We are coming to see you, me and my flock. We know the way. We’re already here.

I hope Palasine was to your liking. An entrée, if you will, to the banquet of our reunion.

Yours, forever and always,

T.

P.S., your plaything looks delicious.

Shivering, I ask: ‘may I tear it up?’

Kathanhiel nods. Shredding that expensive thread-weaved paper offers an iota of pleasure, but no relief whatsoever.

‘We meet here again in an hour,’ she says, storming away. ‘Arkai will be alright by then. He will be.’ Haylis gives me a frightful look and runs after her.

I sit down in the corner that has both Arkai’s room and the corpse within view. Ten minutes pass.

The letter said: We know the way. We’re already here.

Talukiel has to be insane to come here. Iborus has thirty thousand battle-hardened soldiers, little giants, Ink Scouts…it’s certain death.

Which is exactly what Palasine threw himself into.

Ten more minutes pass, and the infirmary seems to be getting quite busy. A large number of soldiers are filing in and out for no apparent reason, wandering the aisles, their eyes lingering over Palasine’s body. Simple curiosity, or…?

I catch the eyes of one strolling this way after a brief exchange with a patient. His is a familiar face – the last few days he had been on canteen duty, piling mash onto waiting plates. Always gave me extra.

He looks right back and bows slightly, then veers off towards the exit. Nothing wrong with that – people would be curious to see the intruder Kathanhiel so brutally cut down.

Then the second soldier shows up. Then the third. Same eyes. None of them go anywhere near Arkai’s room or the body, but they’re looking. They’ve familiar faces: soldiers of the Phalanx, engineers, clerks from the supply depot…

Of course they’re looking; wouldn’t it be strange if they didn’t want to look?

A physician rushes out of Arkai’s room, calling for two more nurses. Curious scuffles ensue: a short blonde woman, standing on the far side of the room, shoves her colleagues aside and throws up her hand; another, a pale middle-aged man fiddling with flasks of clear liquid by the cabinet, immediately drops what he’s doing and comes forward, almost shoving a one-legged patient to the ground.

Both of them are too far away; two nurses close by answer the call and go to the physician. Before the door is shut again a delirious scream escapes through the gap: ’DIE!! DIE YOU BASTARD WHY WON’T YOU DIE –’

In that moment I understand two things: that Arkai is going to live, and that the cultists – just like Talukiel said – are already here.

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