Brother mine

Mace always had a knack for getting into trouble. But, this time, he may be in over his head. Luckily his brother, Caimen, is always there for him.

Mace could taste blood in his mouth. The metallic tang was unmistakable.

They must have hit me harder than I thought, he mused.

He spat and stared at the red liquid staining the rough stonework of the road. As he watched, the red stain spread. He frowned. There hadn’t been that much blood in his mouth. Then, he realised that the blood from his arm wound was also dripping onto the road. The two stains mingled together and trickled away from him. He sighed, straightened up and stumbled down the street. He tried to remember whether he had taken the hit to the head before or after the kick that had cracked his ribs. It was all a bit fuzzy to him. His fights in the arena usually were, but this was worse than normal.

The whack on the head might have something to do with it, he thought grimly.

He could remember his retaliation to the attack. Sharp blows intended to cause pain. Kicks that had broken bones. Strikes that had drawn blood. The three men he’d been facing had been the best challengers Shurik, the organiser of the fights, could find and they still hadn’t managed to beat him.

But winning didn’t mean that he hadn’t gotten hurt. After all, people went to the fights because they wanted blood and their expectations were always met.

He paused and leant against the wall of a nearby building. He forced himself to scan the streets for any threats. He was too much of a target with his injuries, never mind the fact that he was a d’ken in a human city. He wasn’t sure why humans disliked d’kens. Maybe it was because they stood out with their white hair, dark skin and golden eyes. Or maybe it was because d’kens had the ability to control either fire or water. Mace didn’t understand why humans would be scared of that. Any d’ken who used too much of their magic would disintegrate into ash, or dissolve into a puddle of water.  Regardless of why, too often, his heritage meant he was the target of petty cruelties: overpriced food, getting pulled aside by the guards or being given the worst seats in the taverns. But he knew that those petty cruelties could worsen if the opportunity arose. He strained his senses. There was no one lingering in the shadows beyond the puddles of the street lamps’ orange light. There was no one hidden in the doorways with peeling paint and there was no one looking out from a dirt-streaked window.

He pushed himself off the wall and stumbled into another street. Soon, he spotted a familiar door made from thick acacia wood and painted bright green. Like all the houses in Kumali, there was a beaded curtain dangling in front of the door. He staggered over, pushed the curtain aside and rapped on the door.

            No answer.

            He rapped again. Still no answer.

He kept knocking, but the door remained stubbornly shut. He leant against the doorway, breathing hard.

What now?

He was just about to try and drag himself to the nearby tavern, where he might be able to get some help, when the door swung open. A young man - and Mace knew he was young, though his hair was startling grey - stood in the doorway. He wore a beaded waistcoat which caught the light and gleamed. His boots were worn, as was the belt around his waist, though the beadwork was as beautiful as ever. His eyes hardened as they swept over Mace.

The two of them stared at each other for a long time before the man spoke.

“Why are you always covered in blood?”

Mace looked down at his blood-stained tunic - his waistcoat had been ruined in the fight - and then back at the man. “Luck?”

“How much of it’s yours?”

Again, Mace glanced down at his bloodstained tunic. “Some?”

The man looked him up and down and, for a moment, Mace thought he’d slam the door in his face. Instead, he sighed and stepped aside. “I suppose I can’t let you pass out on the doorstep. Just go straight to the kitchen while I fetch the healing bag.”

Mace stepped past the man and continued through the house to the kitchen at the back. He heard the man slip into one of the other rooms behind him, but Mace didn’t worry too much as he took in his surroundings. Not much had changed since he’d last been there. There were new hangings on the wall and new curtains dangling in front of the doorways, but otherwise everything was the same, from the whitewashed walls to sculptures made from wires and gleaming glass beads.

Even the kitchen is the same, he thought as he entered the room.

The kitchen was a round room with stone floor and a large fireplace over to the side. A grill with a bubbling kettle stretched over the hearth. Pots and pans gleamed in the light from the fireplace and the lamps built into the walls. On the wooden table were dozens of papers. Some of them were even spread over the wooden slab Caimen used for setting down hot dishes without burning the wood.

            Mace collapsed onto one of the wooden chairs and winced. His eyes wandered over to the papers but, before he could pick one up, the man returned. He carried a battered leather bag under his arm. He didn’t look at Mace as he pulled out various vials, herbs and salves. A pair of scissors, some bandages and a needle and thread joined them on the kitchen table.

“Caimen . . .”

“Tunic off.”

“What?”

“Take your tunic off so that I can see the extent of your injuries.”

Mace sighed and did as he was told. Caimen grabbed the tunic, gave it a once over and then tossed it straight into the fireplace.

“What did you do that for?”

“The tunic was ripped beyond repair and had more bloodstains than I can count. It’s better off in the fire.”

Mace wanted to retort, but Caimen picked up one of the vials and Mace decided that it was probably better not to annoy the man who was tending his wounds. Especially if that man happened to be your older and already-annoyed brother. Though not many people would realise that they were brothers. They looked nothing alike. Mace had taken his looks from his father and had the dark skin, white hair and golden eyes of all the d’ken whilst Caimen looked like his own Vakarian father. The only thing that the brothers had taken from their mother in terms of looks was a sharp nose and distinctive profile.

Caimen made a disapproving noise, bringing Mace’s attention back to the present. Caimen grabbed a vial and stood behind Mace.

“This will sting. I have to disinfect the wounds,” he said and dribbled liquid from the vial onto one of Mace’s wounds.

He hissed as he heard the liquid frothing and bubbling. Caimen wiped away the mess with a clean cloth and moved to the next one. Caimen repeated the process over and over, but didn’t say anything other than a few clipped instructions.

“You are going to talk to me, right?” he asked as Caimen disinfected the final wound.

“What do you want me to say? We’ve had this argument a dozen times and I’m getting sick of it. . . You put yourself in danger over and over and - ”

“It’s not that bad.”

Caimen laughed - the sound was like breaking crockery. “Yes, this time. But, next time you might get a knife wound to the stomach or the heart and then what? We just lost mother - do you really want us to lose a brother as well?”

“You’re not going to lose me, so don’t worry.”

“Oh, I’m not the one who spent the evening pacing the kitchen and refusing to eat because he was worried about you. That’s Yndigos’ duty.”

Mace tried not to wince. Yndigos was their younger brother - the child of their mother’s relationship with a dwarf of the Nadar clan. He looked nothing like either Caimen or Mace as he also took after his father. He had golden hair, caramel-coloured eyes and long, clever fingers. However, he had also taken their mother’s nose and profile. 

“What did you tell Yndigos?” Mace asked.

Caimen threaded one of the needles as he spoke. “I told him that you were out and that I didn’t know when you’d get back.” 

“Anything else?”

“Yes. He asked me if you’d get hurt again and I told him I didn’t know.”

            This time, Mace flinched. “You should have just told him ‘no’.”

            “How could I do that? He’s a dwarf.”

“Yeah, just our luck that our brother inherited the dwarf ability to detect lies.”

“It’s useful, though,” Caimen pointed out. He moved closer to Mace. “Now, hold still.”

Mace yelped as Caimen stuck the needle into his skin.

“Stop yelping. It won’t make it any better,” Caimen scolded as he deftly stitched the wound.

Mace didn’t reply as Caimen stitched him up. For a long time, silence hung in the air.

“He shouldn’t worry about me. I can take care of myself,” Mace said once he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“Of course he’s going to worry about you. We both do. You’re our brother, what else do you expect?” He tied off the last stitch and tilted his head as he inspected his handiwork. “That should work, for now. Are there any other wounds I should know about? Non-lethal stab wounds, perhaps?”

Mace shook his head. No need to tell him about the cracked ribs; there wasn’t much that could be done for those.

“Very well. All that’s left is to try to sort out the bruising. Then, you can get some sleep.”

Caimen selected one of the vials and the sharp smell of arnica filled the air. Caimen dipped his fingers in the salve and gently rubbed it on the bruises on Mace’s chest.  Mace sighed as the throbbing lessened, though he had to bite back a few yelps as Caimen’s fingers skimmed over his cracked ribs.

“Why do you do this?” Caimen asked suddenly.

“Do what?”

“This,” he gestured at Mace’s battered body. “This fighting. Don’t you realise you could get hurt?”

Mace shrugged.  “I’m good at it.”

Caimen shook his head. “Mama would be so disappointed.”

“Don’t drag her into this,” Mace snapped.

“Why not? You know it’s true.”

“You know nothing. Mama was the one who taught me how to fight.”

“Yes. For self-defence, in case some human bigots tried to kill you.  She didn’t intend for you to turn it into a blood sport.”

They glared at each other until Mace sighed and looked away. He heard Caimen fumbling with something.

“I’m out of clean rags,” Caimen said as he stood up. “Wait here until I get back.”

He walked through the beaded curtain and left Mace alone with the bubbling kettle for company. His eyes wandered around the room, until they landed on the papers spread over the kitchen table. He could see colourful outlines and calculations. Curious, he pulled the papers closer and his eyes widened. They were . . . profit projections? Estimated costs?

“What in Xelonia?” Mace wondered aloud, but before he could read any further, Caimen returned, a damp cloth held in his hand.

“What’s all this?” Mace asked with a wave at the papers.

“It’s nothing.”

“Looks like a lot of work for ‘nothing’.”

Mace waited and, sure enough, Caimen spoke again.

“I was just looking at Mama’s old notes. You remember how she used to speak about how she would expand the business when she got enough money?”

Mace nodded. Those had been some of his fondest memories. His mother would build up the fire and they’d all drag pillows and blankets from various nooks and crannies. They’d pile them in front of the warmth and they would sit around and eat toasted bread as she spoke about all the different trade routes and goods. It should have been boring, but the way their mother described them made everything seem . . .  magical.

“What of it?”

“I’ve been looking over her notes and she had good ideas. Good plans. Obviously, things have changed over the years, but with the right capital, we could do it.”

“What?”

“Expand the business. Right now, we have a market for the dwarvish stonework and Kumali beadwork, but there is so much more. We have relatives in the salt industry and connections to the bee farms.  We could make agreement with food producers in Vakaris, Kumali as well as with the d’kens. We could make a lot of money that way. All we need is capital to start up, but . . .”

“But what?”

Caimen sighed. “But no one wants to risk the large amounts of money on an inexperienced man’s dreams.”

He pushed aside the papers and turned back to Mace, signalling that the conversation was at an end.

Caimen gestured with the cloth and Mace tilted his head to let him wipe away the dried blood on his head and neck.

“Thank you.”

“It’s fine. Just take it easy for a few weeks, all right?”

“Yes, Healer Caimen.”

“Do not call me that,” he said, flatly. “The last thing I want is to be the one patching you up.”

“Then, why do you do it?”

“Because I’m your older brother. It’s in the job description. Now, go get some sleep.”

With that, he dumped the rag in the leather back and left the room. Mace knew that he wasn’t coming back.

 

***

 

“Are you awake?”

The voice sawed into his head. Mace winced and tried to roll over, but pain exploded in his body. He went still. Moving seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.

“Mace? Can you hear me? Should I get Caimen?”

“No,” Mace said and cracked open an eyelid.

He squinted. Even though his curtains were drawn, the bright light sliding in through the crack told Mace that it was late in the day. The light fell on the clothes he’d strewn about and the various weapons he’d collected over the years. There were daggers lying beside his machetes on the table and broadswords mounted alongside axes on the walls. His brother, Yndigos, sat on the only free chair in the room. His usually impeccable braids stuck up awkwardly and a few were tangled together. There were black circles under his eyes and his vest was buttoned up wrong. Mace’s fingers twitched with the urge to re-button it, though Mace knew Yndigos was far too old for him to be fiddling with Yndigos’ clothes like he was still a toddler.

“Are you sure?” Yndigos asked anxiously.

“Yes. He just fusses like a mother hen.”

Very slowly, Mace tried to sit up and hissed as pain shot through him.

“Mace . . .”

“I’m fine!” He snapped and winced.

“Of course, you are,” Yndigos said, sounding far too much like their mother. Mace rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be a pain.”

“Then let me help you.”

Mace nodded slowly. A moment later, Yndigos’ gentle hands were on his body. Yndigos worked him into a seated position and propped him upright with pillows. Mace smiled weakly at him and Yndigos smiled back. He reached for the pitcher on the side table, poured a cup of water and handed it to Mace. Mace sipped at it and the cool liquid eased his throat.

“Thank you.”

Yndigos sat back down in the chair next to Mace and tilted his head.

“How are you feeling?”

“As if I got trampled by a bull. A nasty-tempered bull.”

            Yndigos’ mouth twitched. “W-Was . . . was it a bad fight?”

“I’ve had better; I’ve had worse too.”

“Are you going to go back to the fights?” Mace sipped at his water and didn’t answer.

“Well?”

“No?”

Yndigos sucked in a breath and glared at him. “I’m a dwarf, remember? You should know better than to lie to me . . .”

“I’m sorry . . . Yndigos, I’m not sure . . .”

Yndigos clenched his jaw. “At least now you’re being honest.” He sighed.  “Can you at least wait until you’re healed before you go back? Please?”

“I can do that.”

Yndigos’ shoulders sagged in relief. Mace scanned the room, looking for anything to change the topic and he noticed the papers laid over the arm of Yndigos’ chair.

“What are you reading?”

“It’s not reading. I’m writing some letters to my cousins amongst the dwarves. I wanted to ask about the kind of things they produce and the quality and quantity.”

“Why? Does this have anything to do with Caimen’s trading scheme?” Mace asked as he reached for the letters. He scanned them, picking up odd words about “carved sculptures” and “jewellery”.

“Yes. He was talking about it, and it sounds really good. Wouldn’t it be great to travel around, find all these amazing things and then share them with the world? I’m sure there are so many places to go, foods to try, people to meet.” His eyes were shining.

“ . . . you’re really excited about this, aren’t you?”

“Yes . . .” then, the light in his eyes snuffed out. “But I shouldn’t be.”

He slumped back into the chair.

Mace raised an eyebrow and Yndigos continued. “It’s not going to happen. We just don’t have the means to get it running.”

“How much do you think you’d need?”

“I’m not sure . . . we’d need a lot of gold pieces.” Yndigos chuckled. “Why? Are you hiding some gold under your bandages?”

“Maybe,” Mace said teasingly. “Come on. Tell me what you think is the most interesting product you can source.”

“Well, there is some of the dwarvish leather that I think  . . .”

***

 

A fortnight later

 

Why am I here, again?

He stared around the cramped room that served as Shurik’s office. The man had pinned notices from his best fights to the walls and never removed them, even after they faded and became yellow with age.  The desk was devoid of anything except a bowl of shelled nuts on the table. Mace knew better than to try them: Shurik liked his food spicy enough to scald even the most hardened palate. There were no windows in the office and reeking oil lamps lit the room. Mace tried not to breathe too deeply while he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door opposite Mace opened and Shurik walked into the room. He was a short man with mismatched eyes and a shock of grey hair that stood up, despite his attempts to flatten it into some sophisticated style. Mace couldn’t determine from which part of Xelonia the man was, though if he had to guess, he’d say Vakaris. Shurik tended to wear tunics with the single patterned stripe running down the front, like most Vakarian men. 

Shurik’s eyebrows rose when he saw Mace sitting at his desk. Behind him were two bodyguards, though Mace didn’t recognise their faces.

Shurik motioned for the guards to stand outside as he closed the door. Then, he crossed the room and settled in his plush chair behind his desk.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you back so soon. How’s my prize fighter healing up?” He grinned at Mace as his eyes inspected him for any injuries.

Mace tensed, but allowed Shurik his inspection. “Your prize fighter is fine. I should be ready to fight within a week or two.”

“Sounds good.”

“And, that’s what I want to discuss with you.”

Immediately, Shurik’s expression went blank. He leant back in his chair and his eyes searched Mace’s face. 

            “All right, I’ll hear you out.”

“When I first started fighting for you, you agreed to give me a percentage of the profits. I want to increase it.”

“Oh, do you? Then, you can walk right out of here. I can easily find someone else to replace you.”

Mace smirked. “No, you can’t. I’m a novelty - a d’ken who’s willing to hurt others. To go against his people’s oath of pacificity. It draws in the crowds for you, I know it does. Without it, you’re stuck peddling the kind of street brawls that can be found throughout Kumali.”

He saw something spark in Shurik’s eyes. “What do you want?”

“A larger percentage of the profits.”

“I got that. How much?”

Mace named a figure. Shurik laughed.

“I’ll give you a quarter of that.”

“A half.”

“A third.”

“I’ll take it. But, I get paid as soon as the fight’s over.”

“Done.”

Mace reached over and shook Shurik’s hand. A calculating look slid into the man’s eyes and he grinned. “In order for this to work, though, we’re going to have to make the fights more . . . interesting.”

“Do whatever you want . I can handle it.”

“I have a few ideas. I’m sure that you’ll like them.”

Something uneasy slid into Mace’s stomach, even as he said, “I’m sure I will.”

 

***

 

Mace looked around the arena. It was as familiar to him as his own home, maybe even more so with the amount of time he’d been fighting in it. He knew every crack in the wooden stands that surrounded the sandy circle. He knew the smell of the reeking torches that lit the area and how it mingled with the scents of roasted nuts and stuffed breads that the hawkers peddled to the audience. Although the faces in the crowd changed, there were familiar categories of people: the rebellious nobility with their rings glinting in the torchlight; the frustrated commoners with grime-splattered clothing and flasks; and the calculating middle class with their embroidered coats. The crowd was bigger than usual with people packed tightly together as they shoved and elbowed each other for the best view.

He spotted Shurik near the front, standing on a raised pedestal. If that wasn’t enough to attract attention, then his clothing certainly was. He wore a suit and coat in a garish shade of orange with red accents and a large gold pendant that was easily the size of his fist. Mace hoped that someone would burn the outfit after the fight because clothing that ugly really didn’t deserve to exist. Shurk tapped his pendant and it glowed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen.” The pendant projected his voice throughout the arena. Mace didn’t know how much the simple spell cost, but he was willing to bet that it cost more than he’d ever earned in a single fight.

“Welcome, welcome, and thrice, welcome,” Shurik continued,  “to the fight of the decade. I know you’re all excited to see what I have lined up for you. Our first fighter is . . . a ferocious fighting d’ken!”

Mace stepped out from the shadows, his fists raised. The crowd cheered, but he was sure it was more from the novelty of his presence than any genuine support. He wore traditional Kumali clothing: a knee-length robe over trousers and ankle high boots. His waist was cinched with a patterned sash and the traditional beaded tails fell from his shoulders. The cheering died down as Shurik waved.

“And, on the other side we have, not one, not two, not three, but four opponents, each armed with a weapon of his, or her, choice.”

Mace’s eyes widened and his head snapped towards Shurik. The man smirked and cold settled in Mace’s stomach.

Four opponents. He’s never set me against four opponents before . . . he doesn’t want me to survive.

Mace took a deep breath and looked at his opponents. Three men and one woman. The one man was armed with a sharp broadsword. The other wielded twin axes and the third had a club. The woman had a glaive held firmly in her hands. The four of them looked him over with cold assessing eyes. His heart pounded in his chest.

“Now, as we all know, the only rule is, there are no rules. Last person standing is the victor. The fight will begin in  . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

Mace moved before the countdown ended, trying to place as much distance between him and his opponents. If they managed to surround him, he was finished. His opponents realised what he was doing. The men lunged forward, while the woman hung back, just far enough for her to reach him with the weapon, but not the other way around. The swordsman stabbed at his stomach, which Mace sidestepped and he ducked as the axeman tried to decapitate him. He barely dodged the follow up from the second axe and his dodge nearly sent him straight into the clubman.

I need space.

Mace dodged again and then spotted his chance. He ran forward, yelling, as though he was going to tackle the axeman. The axeman’s eyes widened and he raised his weapons. At the last moment, Mace dove into a break-roll that sent him past the three men and back into the open. He smirked but cried out as something slammed across his back, forcing him onto all fours.

He’d forgotten about the woman.

 She stabbed at him with the glaive and he threw himself out the way. She tried to stab again and he dodged and wrapped his hands around the shaft of her weapon. He tugged and she stumbled forward, close enough for him to kick her in the knee.  She dropped, but wrenched her weapon free of his grip. It gave him the opportunity to scramble back onto his feet, just in time to leap away from the clubman’s clumsy attacks. He backed up to the edge of the arena. He surveyed his opponents again as they tried to circle him. He needed to take them on one at a time. It was the only way to win this.

Yes, now how are you going to do that?

He didn’t have time to plan as the swordsman charged forward. Mace guarded his lower body, leaving his head exposed. The swordsman took the bait. He slashed at Mace’s head and he ducked under the sword and stepped forward, ramming his fist into the man’s stomach. The swordsman gasped and doubled over but something slammed into Mace before he could follow through. His arm went numb and he leapt backwards, barely avoiding a second blow from the club. He hadn’t seen the clubman re-enter the fray. He noticed movement in the corner of his eye and jumped as the glaive sliced through the air where his legs had been a moment before.

This is going to be a lot more difficult than I thought . . .

 

***

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Caimen blinked blearily as he looked up from his papers. The oil lamps were low and the few candles he’d lit were little more than stubs.

I’ve been working too long.

Bang! Bang!

He sighed as he stood and cracked his back. There was only one person who would be banging on the door so late. He sighed and grabbed the leather bag he kept in his desk. He pushed aside the beaded curtain and headed to the front door.  He yanked it open. It took him a moment to make out the figure standing in the dim light from the torches. It was Mace, as he’d suspected. Mace grinned at Caimen. Then, the grin wavered and he crumpled to the floor.

“MACE!” Caimen yelled.

He dropped the bag and fell to his knees beside his brother. Caimen rolled him onto his back. He pulled out a knife from the bag and cut open his brother’s short robe. Mace’s chest was a mess of purple and blue bruises and there were several large cuts that sluggishly leaked blood. His eyes travelled down his brother’s body, noting the rest of the cuts and bruises until they reached his leg. He’d broken it so badly that it was twisted into an unnatural position. 

By the gods, how did he walk here with those injuries?

He heard a strangled sound behind him. He twisted around and saw a pale-faced Yndigos standing behind him.

“Go fetch a healer! Run!” Caimen yelled at him.

Yndigos jumped over Mace’s limp body and raced into the night. Caimen heard him yelling for help, but tried to focus on the injuries in front of him. He swallowed hard. He wondered where to start. This was so far beyond his skills. It was a scene from his own nightmares. 

Bleeding. Stop the bleeding or he’ll die before the healers arrive.

He rummaged in the leather bag for something, anything, that could help.

Willowbark, ginger root, turmeric . . . why do I keep such rubbish?!

He grabbed some clean bandages and pressed down on Mace’s wounds with one hand. With the other, he continued rummaging. Then, his fingers brushed against something: a metal stylus. He’d bought it years ago from a wandering tistian - despite being averse to her odd grey-skinned, bald appearance. The tistian had told him that the stylus could be used to cauterise small wounds. Caimen had been sceptical, but the tistian had demonstrated by burning words into a wooden tablet. His fingers closed around it. Should he use it? Would it make the situation worse? He felt sick as he pulled the stylus out and placed it on the ground next to him.

“Pocket . . .” the word was so soft, Caimen thought he was imagining it.

He looked up and saw that Mace was awake, though his gold gaze was unfocused.

“What?”

“My pocket,” Mace repeated as he tried to reach for it and cried out.

More blood spilt from his wounds and Caimen swore.

“Hold still, you idiot!”

“Look in the pocket.” He squirmed again and hissed in pain.

“All right, all right.”

He reached into Mace’s pocket and felt leather against his fingertips. He pulled it out and blinked. It was a leather bag. He held it up for Mace to see and the movement made it clink.

“Look inside it,” Mace said.

“Later,” Caimen said as he dropped the bag.

“Look in the bag,” Mace repeated. He squirmed beneath Caimen’s fingers as he tried to get to the bag himself.

“Fine. Fine,” Caimen said quickly.

He yanked on the bag’s drawstring. It fell open. Gold coins skittered across the floor, gleaming like miniature suns in the torchlight.

Caimen’s jaw dropped.

“Mace, what have you done?” he asked as he looked back at his brother.

Mace grinned weakly. “Never say that my fighting isn’t good for something.” 

“This-this . . .” Before Caimen could finish his sentence, Mace slumped and his face went slack.

“No!” Caimen shook his brother. “You idiot! Come back, you can’t die! I won’t let you die!”

His brother was still breathing, but he wouldn’t be for much longer. Caimen snatched up the stylus. He had no idea if this was a good choice, but he had to do something or -

He stopped that thought and tapped the stylus three times. A moment passed and then its end glowed dangerously red. He pressed the end to one of Mace’s flowing wound. Smoke rose from the flesh with the smell of roasting meat. Bile surged into Caimen’s mouth. He ignored it as he moved onto the next wound and the next. He didn’t think about the blood pooling around him or his brother’s shallow breathing or the tears leaking from his eyes. He focused on stopping as much of the bleeding as he could. Then, he heard voices and there were hands pulling him away from Mace.

“No!” He struggled and twisted in his captor’s arms as they hauled him away.

“Relax, we’re here to help.” Caimen went limp as he recognised the voice: Healer Orlin.

He twisted and looked back at the older man. Healer Orlin was dishevelled and looked like he’d run across town to get here.

“Thank you for coming.”

“It’s our duty.” Healer Orlin patted Caimen on the shoulder. “Now, if you don’t need anything, I’d need to help the others.”

“Please, go.” Caimen realised his voice sounded odd.

Healer Orlin gave him a sympathetic look, but left his side to join the healers surrounding Mace. There were healers all around Mace, so many that Caimen couldn’t see anything of his brother. Then, a whimper caught his attention. Yndigos stood over to one side, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. Tears ran down his cheeks and his eyes were stuck to the healers. Caimen scrambled to his feet and pulled Yndigos into a hug, blocking his view. Yndigos clung to him and sobbed. Caimen gently rubbed his back, murmuring comforting nonsense, until he quietened.

“Let’s get some tea,” he suggested softly.

“All right.”

Caimen wrapped his arm around Yndigos’ shoulders and led him into the house. He moved swiftly to the kitchen and seated Yndigos in one of the wooden chairs. He fed the hearth with a few sticks and then set the cast-iron kettle upon it. Then, he took down two cups from a shelf and placed one in front of Yndigos. He didn’t seem to notice. Caimen bit his lip and opened the cupboard where he kept his tisanes. His eyes fell on a small bag filled with dawnflower tea. It was usually only served on special occasions and during prayer rituals.

We’re going to be doing a lot of praying tonight, he thought as he took out the bag.

He dropped it onto the table and then went over to lean against the counter. Yndigos’ eyebrows rose.

“Dawnflower tea?”

“Yes.”

Yndigos didn’t say anything further as Caimen set the teapot down on the stone slab. The teapot had been in their family for years and the clan pattern was faded. But, seeing it on the table was . . . comforting. Almost like those evenings when their mother had been alive and kept them up with her stories and good tisanes. He put three heaped spoons of the dawnflower tea into the tea pot. He then found the small jar of honey and set it down next to the teapot as he took his seat opposite Yndigos. Caimen watched the steam from the spout as they waited for the tea to draw.

“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?” Yndigos asked quietly.

Caimen wanted to say yes, but Yndigos would see through the lie. So, all he could do was sigh and say “I hope so.”

 

***

 

Caimen stared out the window for several moments before he registered what he was seeing: the first glimmer of dawn in the eastern sky. He blinked slowly and stood, taking the two cups and placing them in the sink. He’d lost track of the number of cups of dawnflower tea they’d drank, and the number of prayers they’d said as they did so. Yndigos was asleep on the table, his head pillowed on his folded arms.

I should probably tell him to get to bed. Maybe he’ll listen to me this time?

Then, he heard a cough and his eyes jumped to the door. He leapt to his feet. He noticed Yndigos jolt awake out of the corner of his eye. Healer Orlin stood in the doorway, his surcoat covered in grime and dried blood.

“Healer Orlin? How is Mace?” Caimen’s heart thundered in his ears.

The healer smiled tiredly at Caimen. “He lives. And, he’ll recover well, provided that he stays in bed and rests. We moved him into the first room we could find, so that he can recover. I hope that’s all right?”

            The healer walked over to the sink and cleaned the gore off his hands as he spoke.

“That’s fine. And, don’t worry, I’ll make sure that he gets the rest he needs,” said Caimen.

“You do that. And, try to make sure that he doesn’t go back to those fights.” Healer Orlin looked him in the eye.  “Another beating like this and all the healers in Kumali won’t be able to save him.”

Caimen shuddered. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t go back.”

Even if I have to lock him in the house to do it.

“Thank you for helping him,” Yndigos said as he stood up and held out his hand for the healer to shake.

“It was my pleasure.”

“Why don’t I cook breakfast for you,” he said, “as a thank you for all your help?”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

Yndigos smiled. He grabbed the skillet from one of the hooks and set it over the grill on the hearth. He added a few small logs to the fire, just to keep it going. Then, he took some eggs from the basket on the counter. 

“I hope that none of you mind eggs and potatoes?”

Healer Orlin huffed a laugh. “Young man, I’d eat crickets right now if you gave then to me.”

Caimen tried not to laugh at his brother’s disgusted expression. “I’ll fetch the other healers.”

Caimen went to the first bedroom in the house: a guest room with a blue, beaded curtain over the entrance. He peered inside. The healers were all there, some leaning against the walls whilst the others slumped in the chairs. Each was covered in gore. Caimen took a deep breath.

Healer Orlin said Mace was all right.

            He pushed back the beaded curtain and the healers immediately looked at him.

“Thank you for all your help,” he said. “My brother suggested that we cook you breakfast to show our appreciation.”

The healers perked up.

“That’s fantastic,” one said and tired laughter rippled around the room.

“It’s in the kitchen, just down the hall.”

He stepped aside as the healers slipped past him in search of the promised meal. Caimen swallowed hard and finally let his eyes rest on his brother. Mace looked . . . awful. Even in the dim light, Caimen could see he was pale. Bandages peeped out from beneath the blankets and Caimen was grateful that he couldn’t see the worst of the injuries. But, as he looked at his brother’s chest, he could see it rising and falling steadily. Relief washed through him.

Strange that a healer can tell you someone is all right, but you can’t quite believe them until you see it with your own eyes.

He walked over and straightened the blankets on Mace’s bed. Then, he lightly kissed Mace’s forehead.

“Heal well, brother,” Caimen whispered. “We’ll talk about your spectacular idiocy when you’re better.”

 

Author's Note

So, here's another short story, set in the same world (Xelonia) as my other one. As always, I'd love to know what you think.

I've included it in my short story collection, so if you liked it, you can find the whole collection here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1157168