Chapter 2

I screamed in pain when the scorching metal came straight from the burning flame or brazier pressed on my open wound. My body arched from the sting of the procedure as my handmaiden caressed my head in hopes of providing comfort. She knew the great pain I suffer at the moment and being knowledgeable in just the household chores but nothing of healing treatments, she was left to do the consoling.

I cursed aloud repeatedly and rather heatedly. No one in the room minds my brazen tongue. They are all concentrated on attending to the open wounds and injuries. Commonly, they would sew the flesh to close it, preventing the foster of bacteria on the wound. But the healer, after a fleeting moment of examining the flesh when the Maestra had personally escorted me to his infirmary, had deduced an infection and called for his underling to aid his procedure.

I was on the brink of literal death when I set foot at the city gates, carrying the unconscious coachman in my arms weighing almost twenty pounds. I would've easily reached the city if I had not been too much of a samaritan. But my poor conscience called for me when I saw him succumbing to death, muttering his love for his children and so after I have shifted back to my skin - the process excruciating just as great as before- and I scoop his waning body into my arms. The clothes I have worn were torn to pieces but luckily, the cloak I removed was not damaged and covered enough parts of my body, if one would call it modest. The two horses had run off, but two of them remained though weary and in terror. Still, I had made use of them until they were too weak to function, one dead in fatigue and the other, lack of water.

The two nights of booze and leisure had been replaced by a dreary trek through the wood, with no food to fill an empty stomach nor water to replenish my dry throat, and of course, the burden of keeping the old man alive was a great challenge for me. It was about four hours of walking barefoot when I realized my dreadful dilemma and started to make excuses to quit being a Samaritan and leave the man to his death. Something inside me turned, disagreeing completely with my morbid thought. I was a serving swordsman to anyone with a coin, and here I am, driven by goodwill to save what I could in this old man. It does not make of a good knave, does it?

Yet, the time has long passed - an endless cycle of self-argument- before I could make a decision. I assume it was my beast who bid me to do acts of kindness completely out of my intention and was forced to submit to this dreadful sense of charity, for I know to myself that such kindness was never in my nature.

After a while of walking tirelessly, slipping past through the thick line of trees- the main road was not safe to cross considering what we have encountered - I noticed my incisions and claw marks had not healed. Much of the cuts are still fresh, blood oozing out of them, and eventually, it gets harder to bear as it went denser and heavier, weighing me down to a slow pace of stride, halting me from moving further without mending it first. My clothing - a single cover of cloak to hide my bare body- had been torn to wrap it around the wounds to temporarily stop the bleeding.

The misery had lasted for a day or two if my mind was serving me right. On the second day when the sun was on the heights of the sky, I found a wheelbarrow, abandoned near a discarded shack, and placed the old man on the flat wood. His lips were pale, but I could still hear his heart beating, though slow and faint. The weight of the wagon added to my plight, but the journey will be faster. My mind was hazy with each moment passed like a whirl of the wind due to the loss of blood, or so that's what I believed.

When I reached the grand gate of Dardau, the gatekeepers were startled to their feet upon seeing my state, offering me their pity but not so much as to let me freely pass. They halted my entry, baring the gate and asking for my identification - an act in compliance with the law to not grant an entry without presenting an identification marker - which had made my blood if there are any left, boil. Truly, I was enraged by their unfamiliarity but could not blame them for doing what they have been tasked to do and so I requested the presence of the Maestra with the last thread of my patience and strength, which of course she decline duly, and sent for Adel - the closest to what would I call a friend - to fetch me. They had covered me with a warm and thick cloth made of wool to hide what was not meant to be seen by the folk. Two guards were ordered to secure us to the house and there, the Maestra with her rolled tobacco has begun her hysterics.

"By the gods, what had happened?!" The Old lady was beyond bewildered to see me in my state when I entered the hall. She frantically called for a healer to aid me. "The reports said you were unharmed!" She went on and on, not out of compassion for a battered daughter, but of what burden this would toll the organization. All the years of training costing them a fortune, - a hefty expenditure, if one should ask me, considering what came from it; a dozen of feeble-minded dames but five unrivalled and valued for their extraordinary aptitudes - this incident should've never occurred in the first place. She concluded that my condition is a result of failure on my part in the task, which I opposed wholeheartedly, though my words were sluggish as my mind was. I remember not if I had stood my argument on the matter, not even my words to Adel after I collapsed into darkness.

My condition was so bad that the first touch of the hot metal did not wake me from my sleep. But when the red-hot metal made contact with the largest and deepest wound on the left of my shoulder, I bellowed in agony, cursed even at the helpful attendant who in return shushed my crying. My beast had arisen, almost flipping my skin into fur had I not subdued her. Good thing they were too engaged in their task, otherwise I would've been caught and instead of healing, they'd rather butcher me.

The procedure soon ended, much to my delight, finishing off with gauges wrapped around almost the whole of my body. I asked Adel about the coachman I travelled with. She was with me the whole treatment and some of the servants. The Maestra had visited me - if a short peek through the door is considered visiting - a few times while I was being treated.

"Was he alive?" I asked, panting. The procedure had taken too much of my strength. "I left him on the wheelbarrow."

Her silence had struck me. I glanced and saw her strained face she seldom uses, and when she does, one could guess it was not something pleasant. She shook her head "He was given treatment by the local healers down the wet market. Maestra refuses to let him inside the house." She informed me.

"I had one of my apprentices escort him to one of my acquaintances. The courtesy of Lady Falga extends only to compensation for the damages. But, she had yet to conclude whether it is to be done or not if you'll be in your best comfort to tell the story." Sudan, the healer spoke.

"He was on the brink of death when they treated him. You should not be expecting any good news from it." Adel said.

Adel has a hand in these situations. She was not part of the operatives but a direct aid for the Maestra. She runs her errand if she is too occupied, but mostly she serves her tea and hangs around at her quarters waiting for her commands. She was very well educated in art, and arithmetic, and could understand and speak fluently in five native dialects of eastern origin which made her quite a help for the old lady.

"Do not fret. He may live, by the will of the First Son," Sudan said, gesturing his hand from his lips to his forehead - a holy act of sanctification for the One God - and uttered a short prayer.

I snickered silently at that. Adel and I locked gazes and probably have the same thought in our minds. But I cut it off before annoyance embed itself on my nerves.

The fate of that man was not my burden, truly. He knows what this job will bring him, and he took it, not because he was given the will to choose, but because he knows the Hand will not take lightly to anyone who declines him a payment for the favours he did on their behalf. I threw the sentiments clouding my mind out of the window. I could not afford to be burdened by anything other than my dilemma.

The treatment itself was petrifying. I should be able to be at ease yet, the relief was far from being obtained as the healer had requested an audience with me on my privy. He was cleaning his tools and putting them back where they were stored when the crowd left us on our business.

"Am I dying?" I asked, for what else should we talk about privately that nobody shan't hear if not for my last will? Years of serving the Hand had filled my hold. Perhaps the good-doer might want some bit since we have shared a moment from our tutelage.

"No," he answered quickly which made me sigh in relief, "Not so soon."

"What does that mean, Sudan?" I asked, impatiently. My tone was a bit intense and rightly so. Considering the brewing trouble.

"Perhaps, my lady, you recalled a bit from our lesson. A simple wound as such could be stitched and let the nature of the body heal itself." Sudan said, still shuffling his tools. "But yours was infected. The reason why we opt for fire is to kill the infection." He turned to me, his glassy eyes were a bit red through the circle of his specs that hung lowly on his crooked nose. He continued, "The wound will close but the marks, I'm afraid, will remain forever."

"Then, do praytell, where did you lack such skills that you are unable to cure an infection? You had been the best in all the free cities. I would not believe you don't have the competence to heal it." I said, voice hoarse with all the screaming and dead tired from all these dilemmas and now, by the gods, I have yet to face another.

"I am a proud scholar of Antuan, there is no doubt. To live is to give life was our sworn oath and this I took to heart, living by those words for most of my life, extending what was given to us to those who need it without ever expecting a return. This a rare generosity for our profession, as you can see." You may take him to be sincere, but he knows the man. His skills in concealing his true self make him a master. "But the question of my whether or not my skills had abated is out of the subject."

Antuan, centred at the heart of Ha'iri Taimun, west of the continent, had been the most prominent school for healers and all practitioners all over the Continent. Yet, the Human kingdoms have laid a claim to the institution on the grounds of it being on the outskirts of their lands. Sudan Agral was an alum of the school and just after he finished his education, he decided to take his mission on the road leading him to the great city of Dardau where he met the renowned Lady of the House Falga who, after she had seen his natural talents, offered him a place in her house. The reason for his acceptance was clear to me. His drive to obtain power is very obvious, and he has many blades at his disposal to achieve that. And as disdaining as he is, his remarkable talent in medicine kept his feet on the boat.

"This caused the infection," he pulled out from his pocket of leather trousers the tiny vial. In it, a black liquid like that of flour mixed with water that I often see at the bakery. I held it with my hands, examining the liquid when the smell struck my nostrils. Backing away, I crunched my nose and covered it with my palm out of plain disgust.

"What is this?" I asked the old man as I return it to his hands. "Smells like rotting,"

"A dire wolf is a rare sight in these lands. Their natural environment is within the slope of the mountains of Anquioar. If they happen to migrate, it will not be in the east where the sun burns the most. This is known," he said.

"Those wolves were bigger. Twice the size of a common wolf." I informed him. The pain on my shoulders throbs, as though my body responded upon remembering.

The old man shot me a glance. His brows knitted and confusion adorned his wrinkled face. "Those? A pack? And you had managed to cut them down?"

I stilled for a moment. I bit my cheeks. If I told the old man the story of a girl, although skilled in combat and blade, fending off almost a dozen raging wildings twice the size of a common wolf, would that story be believable? I don't think so. Even a great mercenary would not be able to keep up with the raging thirst for blood from those wolves.

"Not a pack, Sudan. I would've been left to die had it been true. Just one, wild, like a raging bull."

He laughed, seemingly cynical while staring at me which made me uncomfortable on my bed. He seem to be in deep thought for a minute before he spoke. "Those were shifters."

I stilled. "Shifters, you say?"

"You might suspect me a liar, but I am not. I have talked with Adril and some healers from around the free cities. They encountered a case of animal attacks, claws, bites, torn and shredded skin, and broken and ripped bones. Those could be cured, if not for one common illness that comes with it. And eventually, these victims grew mad, and madder each day pass until they have either been killed by the virus, or by their own hands ripping their throat."

I listened only, trying to wrap my mind around what he had said. These stories are spoken in the streets of the wet markets, bringing horror and panic to the common folk. I thought it was just false stories meant to stir the people's fright, especially the children who roam the danger of the night.

"The practitioners at the Tower had identified this as a virus after a careful extraction. It is called Rot. Deadly, on that note as it attacks mainly our brain, spreading through every part of our body until all was left to rot and decay. The terrifying aspect of this disease is that it drives the infected person to absolute insanity." He had told me. "This is what now cursing through your veins,"

My brows creased as my breath hitched at his statements. Shivers of fear ran down my spine. I have heard of these viruses wreaking destruction on the south of borders, driving the person to total madness before killing it from the inside. The stories tell that the torture will span a one-cycle - if no one has the mercy to kill the man before then - and eventually, the insanity will drive the person to murder in cold blood anyone he could get his hands on.

"You mean to say..." I could not finish my conclusion. I blinked my eyes repeatedly, confused as to where my headaches come from; my wound or my annoyance, or both.

He nodded, seemingly knowing the answer to my unspoken question. "But not dwellers of the sacred lands. They are strays, a lone wolf they call it. These creatures are travelling without a pack or a tribe - they had either ran off from their family or simply have made the mistake of choosing a lone path, thinking they could do it - and a wolf alone in the world would sooner see themselves lose to insanity and madness. Eventually, the Rots fosters inside their body. And there are drives them even feral."

"But then, if they have the disease, should they be dead now?"

"That is a mystery even to the Grand Master of Antuan. We had just recently been receiving these kinds of cases therefore, there are not much of records to transcribe,"

I had always been defiant. Of people, of the society, of the order, and even to myself. Certainly, this vermin inside my body will not make me yield. "If I die, then what is the importance of this conversation? You can simply say it in the presence of others. You asked for confidentiality because you have something for me that others can't hear,"

His face was shadowed by certain sobriety, one mask that I never saw coloured his long, brooding face. He sniffed and all that was gone, "See, that is what makes you the most promising out of your sisterhood. Arrogant, yet sharp." He taunts.

"I assume obtaining the cure was not an easy feat," I said, paying no mind to his false flattery.

"Aye," he pulled a stool from the corner to sit beside the wooden bed I lie in. "They call it Acoenite assi in the old tongue. Most of the common folk residing in eastern lands called it wolfsbane or monkshood."

I was stone, yet again, in my position. I took my time to process what he had said. "That is rare of a herb," was the only thing that came out of my haywire mind.

The name itself suggests it. The plants bloom only at the heights of Anquioar, under the light of a full moon. The spikes of blue flowers glimmering under the nightfall are enticing, according to the myths. Yet, beauty as it may be, it brings death near its carrier. The effect of it is not much to the humans, faces, and other races but to werewolves, a mere touch could be fatal. I know not of the extent of fatality to the shifters and I would not dare to explore it.

The plant is a rare harvest. Only by the full moon, does it blooms. Once the sunlight touches the petals, it wilts away. The procedure of keeping the plant intact should be performed with utter care or it will quickly wilt before they could make good use of it.

He nodded, "So rare that only the mountain of has it Anquioar. Truly, accumulating a single stem from this plant could cost a fortune."

"The Maestra would not sacrifice that much for a herb. She could easily dispose of me if I had taken too much from her treasury, instead of refilling it." I said, coughing from the dryness of my throat. I gestured for him to fetch me warm water and he obliged.

"That, I know, my friend. Even a month of wage could not make you rich enough to buy a dozen required for your healing."

I looked at him with knowing eyes. My hunches were right. Even if the old man claims he is charitable, his nature compels him otherwise as all the predecessors before him. "You want me to steal for you," I presumed. "Why would you think I will do it?"

"You and I have the same understanding of what it takes saviour. This effort will save many lives at stake without a drop of the coin from anyone's pocket, especially from the people who had barely to give yet, will do anything to save their loved ones. "

"And also save you a seat for the grand council." I spat, voice strained from pain and resentment for the man.

"Say what you will, Wajan. That old man and you would not survive this ordeal without that herb. Surely the Maestra will compensate the family, eh? Perhaps, she might need a little persuasion,"

She would not and he knows it. I greeted my teeth and balled my fist, had I not been under his care, I would've landed it on his wrinkled face. "What should I do?"

He smiled cunningly. "A shipment. Down the Argilao Port from the Isles. The treasure is to be sent to Fuendel Argilao, that is if it will be delivered."