Chapter 14: A Mute and a Cellmate

The door to the cell popped open and let in a blinding light from the outside world. Three figures stood in the doorway: the guards Cairn and Brough with a prisoner between them. The prisoner was limp and could not keep his feet, so the large guards carried him across the room. They placed the man on the room’s only cot as Krumpus moved to the ground. Cairn simply let the man go as Brough lowered him with a gentle hand.

The new prisoner was visibly sick. He moaned and groaned as the guards set him down, and turned on his left side with his face to the wall. A sickly sweet smell emanated from the stranger, faintly familiar to the shaman. From his seat on the floor, Krumpus frowned at the guards.

Brough shook his head. “Non, old man. This one was sick when we found him.”

Old man? Krumpus thought and his frown deepened.

“This one gon’ keep you up all night,” Cairn smirked.

The two guards made their way to the door. “Come get yer stuff when yer ready,” Brough said over his shoulder as he left the door open.

Another man stepped into the cell. Unlike the guards, Krumpus did not know this man. He was short and soft with a nervous air about him. “I am told you speak Ministrian,” the stranger began in a quivering voice. “Or at least, that you understand it when others speak?” he amended.

Krumpus gave a nod.

“Good!” he grinned and stood straighter. “I am Celt, surgeon of the Empress’ Own! This man suffers the sweet rot of the waokie. We cannot heal him. Can you?”

The waokie… Krumpus thought, and turned to the wounded man on the cot. Suddenly, he recognized the smell. It was bugger rot! So that’s what they mean by waokie! Krumpus turned back to Celt with wide eyes.

Celt frowned at the Trohl. “I dare say, you are not inspiring much faith...”

Krumpus signed at the man, but Celt shook his head. “I do not know the Hand,” the surgeon stated.

Krumpus shrugged. There was bound to be one that didn’t know it. He wrote in the dirt for the man to read in neat Ministrian letters. I will try.

“Try?” Celt frowned. “I ask only for a little certainty...”

Krumpus wrote some more. Only fools are certain.

Celt glared at the witch doctor. “Do you call me a fool, for I am certain I cannot do it! Nor my men!”

Krumpus refused the bait. He glanced at the Saot. He could hear fatigue and discomfort in every breath. He resumed his neat letters. If you leave him, I will do what I can.

“Then it is decided!” Celt smiled. “You will treat him, and we will observe! In this way, the surgical corps of the Empress’ Own will learn to fight this insidious infection, and thus, we shall overcome the waokie’s greatest weapon against us!”

Krumpus frowned at the man and shook his head. He was not interested in giving away his secrets, especially for nothing in return. Besides, his magic would be stifled by their doubting hearts.

“What do you mean, no?! This man is dying!” Celt snapped.

Krumpus scribbled on the floor. You watch. I go free.

“You go free...?!” Celt huffed. “By refusing, you fail your human brothers!”

They fail me by locking me in this box, the shaman replied.

“Behave, or we will put you in a much tighter box,” Celt threatened.

Krumpus shrugged, unintimidated.

“You’d let this man die!?” Celt raged.

Go away and I will heal him, Krumpus wrote. Indeed, he might still fail. He’ll die if you stay, the shaman thought to himself.

“We will watch. You will teach us, for the good of mankind,” Celt insisted and stood as tall as he could, in a proud way.

I am man’s kind, and you refuse to do me good. Krumpus wrote. Stay, and he dies, he added, rephrasing the concern with his hand.

“If you allow us to watch, I will personally argue for your freedom,” Celt pleaded.

Krumpus shook his head. If they should stay, he would fail. They’d mock his pretentions, and likely punish him. Besides, such arguments usually amounted to nothing—especially if he revealed his secrets first. He felt if he revealed his operations and they happened to work, not only would they keep him locked up, they’d make a study out of him too!

“You must heal him, and we must attend!” Celt snapped at the shaman.

Bored with the conversation, Krumpus shrugged and turned away.

“There will be consequences!” Celt snapped. “I cannot say what will happen if you do not do as you’re told!”

Krumpus drew lazy circles in the dirt as he ignored the pompous little man.

Celt leaned over and peeked at the shaman’s work. His face grew dark as he realized the prisoner was doodling. For several seconds, the surgeon glared at the shaman’s back.

“Have it your way...” Celt began. “If this man dies, I cannot guarantee you will live,” he said in a huff as he turned and stamped from the cell. He slammed the door shut, and with a righteous fury, the lock clacked into place.

After a couple of seconds, the lock clicked again. Krumpus knew he was expected to gather his implements and attend the dying man—even if he would not allow an audience.

Krumpus turned to the man on his cot, a true Saot by all appearance. There was a long slit in his shirt. He lifted the foreigner’s shirt and was astonished to see the man’s entire side was webbed with rot. No wonder the surgeons turned the man over. Cairn was right: this would indeed be a long night—unless the man should die. Then it would all be over in the space of one long breath.

Krumpus pushed aside his doubts. If this man was meant to die, nothing could stop it. If the shaman himself was meant to die at the hands of the Minitrians, nothing could stop that either. Worry certainly wouldn’t do the trick.

And so he pushed aside his inconvenient thoughts; of being a prisoner, of death threats; even thoughts of wyrms, the distress, and Melmorahn. A man suffered and died before his eyes, and though it served his enemies, he knew it was right to try and save him. He knew somehow it’d help bring him to his escape. First, Krumpus would need his medicines. He turned to the door and pushed it open. He made his way down the hall and past the other cells. He wondered who occupied these rooms as he heard the occasional cough or groan. He wondered how many deserved their treatment, and how many had simply run afoul of their Ministrian captors. He assumed it was an even mix. His heart went out to these unknown retches as he wished them comfort.

In the guard’s room, Cairn stood from the table where he played cards with Brough and Leverkusen. He was hostile and obnoxious as he blocked the way. “What d’ya want?!” Cairn snapped as a troublesome smirk split his lips.

Krumpus made a scissoring motion with his hand.

Cairn snorted and refused to move, “Non, fool! Use your words!”

Krumpus waited for the guard to step out of his way, but Cairn only glared at him expectantly. He tried to step around the guard. The guard cut him off.

“Speak, I say!” Cairn roared.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Krumpus obliged. “Sublies,” the word tripped from the shaman’s mouth. “Wahder,” he added and blushed, embarrassed by his rough tongue.

Cairn harrumphed as a grim smile stretched across his face. He turned to Brough and Leverkusen. “Didn’t I say he weren’t no mute?”

Unimpressed, Brough nodded his head, “Sure did.” He looked at Krumpus and pointed to a closet, “It’s all in there, now be about your business.”

Krumpus turned to the closet and grabbed his pack and cloak.

“Only take what you need!” Cairn yelled and grabbed at the shaman’s pack.

“Olofit,” Krumpus said as he hugged his possessions close.

“Let ‘im ‘av it!” Brough said as he stared daggers at Cairn. “I swear, if you keep blockin’ ‘is efforts, I’m calling off our bet!”

“Come. Let us play,” Leverkusen petitioned. “You’ll know in due time if this emissary dies.”

Cairn snorted. Slowly, he sat down and picked up his cards. He eyed the shaman with suspicion as Krumpus filled a kettle and a pitcher of water. He set the kettle on the stove as Cairn continued to stare, though the guards did not interfere any further.

Krumpus returned to his cell. He’d come back for the hot water when it was ready. In his cell, he searched his bag. The majority of his stuff was still there, though they took his long knife and a couple of his medicines. The grave mushrooms were gone, which was a bit worrisome. He used them to escort the fatally wounded from the world—but they’d take a vital and healthy man all the same. He wondered who had them and what they intended. He assumed whoever took them knew what they were. They must, or they were fools.

Sweet conicle, Krumpus thought as he packed a pipe with the pungent herb. Having no fire or flint, he channeled his inner energies and focused them to his fingers. A slight flame popped and danced between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. With this flame, he lit his pipe, took a long drag, and flicked the fire from his fingers.

Krumpus blew the soothing smoke in the injured man’s face. It would alleviate a bit of the man’s pain and could do him no harm. There were more potent drugs to come, but few were for the shaman.

Krumpus took a few more drags of the flower, and blew smoke over the wound. He stood, and stepped out of the cell that the soothing smoke be allowed to obscure the dark history of the room.

Krumpus returned to the guard room and fetched the pot of boiling water. As he collected two cups, he noticed a pile of copper, peppered with silver, languishing between the guards. They barely paid any mind to the shaman. With cards in hand, they concentrated only on each other.

Let it be a long and absorbing contest, Krumpus prayed. Let the cards be fickle this night, that favor may ebb and flow between these men. With hot water and cups, Krumpus returned to his cell.

Back in his cell, Krumpus made himself a cup of peppermint tea. For several minutes he let the tea steep. He hummed songs to his dead kin and called upon them for inspiration. If there was any hope of curing this stranger, he’d need a good bit of their assistance. He sang until his tea was ready.

He drank the tea in silence and listened to the quiet sounds of his cell as the conicle smoke continued to settle at the top of the ceiling. For a time, he studied the man’s affliction. For several more minutes, he sat and breathed and paid a keen ear to the air around him, then, finally he could hear the voices of the deceased.

Well, well, well... his Granana began. You’ve certainly got a stinkfest before you!

For a moment, Krumpus worried. What if Granana didn’t know a cure? What if none if his ancestor’s had ever encountered it? The man seemed incredibly weak to last a slow investigation.

Among this riot of angels, we have six cures that may do the trick, Granana assured him. I’ll give you the one I like best, she promised. But you are correct. He’ll not last much longer. Indeed, the one that brought him this far is to be commended.

As Granana revealed the first things he’d have to do, Krumpus stretched and mentally prepared himself for long, meticulous, smelly work.

First, he needed to kill the pain. He needed something strong that would last for hours, that wouldn’t bother his blood or breathing. Krumpus prepared some dragon’s tongue tea and added several herbs to the brew, items to give strength and help purify the blood of the sick man. He added a heavy dose of blue honey to make the tea more palatable, knowing that if the blue should take the stranger’s mind further from here and now, all the better. It’d also give the man a better chance to survive if he happened to be one of those with a doubter’s heart. The dragon’s tongue itself would numb the man, but there was no damage in overdoing the blue for the patient. Who knew what fever dreams he might experience? If he should die, why not let him die far from the ravages of his sickness and happy perhaps? If he should live, let him wonder at the strange dreams that saw him through his disease.

Krumpus added a bit of blue honey to his own tea—enough to crack his eye wide open—and hoped it would not be so much that he might be distracted by the ethereal plane. Unlike the conicle, blue was a thing he might easily overdo. He should not want to do it at all, but Granana assured him, With such an advanced case, you’ll want to call the little doctors to assist. Though he’d met a few that could call the little doctors without the help of blue, Krumpus was not so blessed.

Gently, the shaman lifted his patient’s head. He offered the man tea mellowed with cold water. The man was ravenous and took the tea without complaint.

Krumpus sipped his own tea while he waited for the dragon’s tongue to take effect. He continued to hum songs to his beloved Granana as Granana shared her knowledge of the rot. She slowly materialized and came into focus as the blue took effect. She was something of a pale shade of her former self, projected from the head down. Her face was easily readable, and her arms and hands almost seemed substantial, but her stomach and hips were hazy, and poorly defined. Her legs disappeared altogether at about the knee, with her feet being completely invisible. She beamed dotingly at her cherished grandson. It is so good to see you, my sweetness, she told him as he blushed.

Before long, the patient’s eyes grew far away and unfocused. There was an easy smile on the Saot’s face and his breath deepened and slowed. Krumpus grinned. The patient was ready.

Draw your knife, boy. It is time for the cutting, Granana told him.

A deep calm and clarity settled over the shaman. He stared at his patient and wondered at this chance to stick metal in another living man. He was fascinated by the human body and marveled at its inner workings. It was one of the great thrills of surgery to poke about a living man’s tissues—but he swore to remain delicate. There’d be no imprudent cutting, which was the great temptation of every surgeon.

Krumpus pulled the man’s shirt and pants away from the rot. The wound stretched to his chest and back and covered most of the right half of his body. It ran from his underarm down past his hip, a knitted webbing of infected blood vessels that tied in knots where they crossed and bulged from the skin.

Krumpus located the initial wound, a large sac of dark rot near the center of the infection. He took up his surgical blade in one hand and a clean cloth in the other. He braced himself against the coming onslaught and gently lanced the boil.

Thick black puss sprouted from the prick. The stench of the rot multiplied. Krumpus gagged as his Granana laughed. He recoiled from the smell, wondered if there was a way to neutralize it, and turned to his belongings. He noticed his teacup, took several of the spent leaves of mint, and smashed them against the insides of his nostrils. Though it helped take the edge off the stink, the rot still bled through.

Unable to do anything else about the smell, Krumpus turned back to his patient. Under his Granana’s careful eye, Krumpus cut the inflamed and jutting vessels. He drew the slight blade ever so lightly along the dark lines of rot and watched as the thick black puss oozed from the cuts. The reek increased. Krumpus breathed through his mouth. He soaked the rot away with the cloth, and gently wiped the wounds, slow and delicate, as his Granana instructed.

The rot concentrated just under the skin, and Krumpus was careful not to cut the man too deeply. It is a novice mistake to try and cut out all the rot—to think it must all be removed, Granana explained. The rot congeals near the surface, but there is little rot deep in the body until after the victim expires—at which point the rot blossoms deep. Many believe they must cut deep and get every bit of the rot, but this is not a battle for the knife alone. The blade is simply to remove the bulk that boils close to the surface. We’ll call the little doctors to get the rest...

Although the rot sent thin filaments into the bloodstream, they were fed by the rotting mass at the skin’s surface. With most of the mass removed, the filaments should shrivel and succumb to the body’s own defenses. But here’s the rub. The blade alone was too damaging, too violent for a victim so close to death. Even after the sloppy work of the blade, there was much to be done.

As the hours passed, Krumpus amassed a small pile of bandages soaked with stink. He set them near the drain and hoped the smell would dissipate from them quickly. Finally, he’d traced all the infected vessels and considered the cutting done. He dabbed at the pustules that still oozed and leaked. The stench was bearable only because Krumpus could do nothing more about it.

With the cutting done, it was time for the miracle. Krumpus crumbled bits of sugar petal into the drain. Despite its name, sugar petal was anything but sweet. It was the second of three essential ingredients needed to summon the small doctors. First was the blue, so the barriers between this world and that one were blurred. Second was the sugar petal, to lure the little doctors into the physical realm. Third was an honest need, which the doctors themselves would judge. Krumpus called out for their help, quite certain the man would not survive without the little doctors to finish the work.

The little doctors did not come. Krumpus repeated the song several times as his Granana sang with him, her voice pure and heavenly. As they sang song after song, Krumpus became increasingly worried. He began to question himself. Did he take enough blue? Did he offer enough sugar petal? Could the doctors hear him, buried so deep in this tower? Perhaps the Saot was unworthy? Perhaps he would die as he deserved—though such a development would doom the shaman.

Why do they not come? he asked his Granana.

I dunno, she answered, troubled.

Krumpus was beginning to think he must fail when the door to the cell popped open. Celt the surgeon stepped through the doorway. He glanced about the room and glared at Krumpus as wilted mint leaves dripped from his nostrils. The shaman sat next to the cot and continued to hum, though he lowered his voice to a mere whisper.

Celt waved an arm in front of his face. “This room stinks,” he critiqued as he marched in. “Are you praying?!” He glared at the shaman. As his fingers pinched his nose closed, the surgeon wandered about the cell and tried to decipher the process Krumpus used to heal the sick man. He glanced about the various implements with questions and confusion on his face.

Krumpus doubted there was any chance Celt could decipher what was done, what with all his medicines and tools scattered about just so. Indeed, the cell was a bit of a mess. Almost all of the shaman’s jars and pouches were set out—including the ones that were not being used. A pile of soaked bandages sat in a lump near the floor drain and stank to high heavens...

“I won’t interrupt,” Celt said as he stared at Krumpus and stepped between the doctor and his patient. He continued to inspect the scene and sniffed both cups of tea.

Krumpus smiled as Celt got a good whiff of the dragon’s tongue, and wondered if the surgeon might pass out. “Gracious me...” Celt remarked as he wobbled. He almost sat—until he remembered where he was, and in what company.

Celt set the cups aside. “I come to see that you have not killed the man yet.” He checked the Saot’s pulse and looked over his wound. Although the flesh no longer bulged with thick knots of rot, the stranger still had a web of dark lines under the skin. “I should think he is not out of the woods yet,” the surgeon surmised with a smirk. “Keep praying,” he snorted as he turned and walked slowly out the door. With a frown, he glanced over the shaman’s puzzling mess. “I give you another chance to teach us this cure!” Celt said. “Let the Empress grant you mercy!”

Krumpus turned away and ignored the man. After several seconds, Celt slammed the door shut.

Alone once more, Krumpus glanced about the room, relieved to see several translucent ants crawling about the lip of the drain. Krumpus was always curious to see what form the little doctors might take. Once they’d attended him as birds with flame red wings and needle point beaks. Once they appeared as the smallest lizards he’d ever seen, barely the length of his first thumb knuckle. Twice they’d appeared as massive creeping spiders with long thin legs, easily the size of a sol. This was the third time they took the form of translucent ants.

More and more ants climbed from the drain. They were slow as they wandered about the floor and did not approach Krumpus until he stretched out his hand. With his invitation, they climbed up his fingers, across his hand, and up his arm in an orderly fashion. The ants tickled as they crawled under his shirt and across his chest and back. Slowly, the ants made their way to his far arm, down his hand, fingers, and finally to the patient himself. The parade continued as Krumpus and Granana sang. Another trail of ants formed from the drain and spread to the nearby lump of rot soaked rags, where the ants drank the rot from the bandages and turned dark as night.

Krumpus sat still, although the ants tickled as they marched across him. Some crawled about the healer himself and wandered where they might. Most made directly for the sick man, but a few poked, picked, and bit the shaman himself. That was the way of the little doctors. When they came, they attended everyone present. They cared nothing for labels of patient and practitioner. Krumpus tried not to notice as they picked and pinched at his skin, though it was occasionally painful. They stayed out of his eyes, mouth, and ears—though one crawled over the spent mint and into his nose. He dislodged it with a snort, though he also blew the mint away.

For some time, the ants crawled over the sick man and picked at his wounds. Twice, Krumpus restrained the patient so he did not wipe the ants away. The man was weak, and it was easy for the shaman to control his displeasure, though a little tricky with all the ants in the way.

As the ants did their work, they increased in size, became very dark in color, and moved rapidly. They charged back across the shaman—but did not make for the drain. Now fat and riotous, the small doctors made for the far wall instead. They picked at the mortar that held the stones in place. Soon, there were a hundred tiny holes pocked between the stones. Krumpus wondered at this. He’d never seen the doctors act in such a strange manner. Before, they always took a quick and easy exit instead of burrowing a new path.

A secret hope lit in the shaman. Might they know he was held prisoner? For an hour or so, the little doctors did their work. After such a long time, the line that returned from the patient was no longer tinted black and did not move nearly as fast. These ants returned from the patient a warm brown color, and continued to fade further as they found little work left. Now red, then yellow, and finally as translucent and plodding as they were when they first stepped from the drain, the little doctors moved back across the shaman and made their way to the wall to slowly disappear into the holes created by the others.

There was no visible rot along the Saot’s skin, the bandages were picked clean, and the reek of the rot was all but gone from the cell. Krumpus smiled. The operation was done and the stranger still breathed.

Krumpus gently applied a thin coat of cleansing ointment. As he finished his work, he studied the map of freckles, moles, and scars about the Saot’s skin. Granana hissed and chided her grandson for taking such liberties. She told him it was not his place to know such things—but Krumpus read his recent history all the same.

The Saot was haunted by the memory of his daughter. He’d abandoned his responsibilities that he might hunt down a thief for the sake of a memory. This was not a good or bad thing—it was simply the man’s choice—but the choice had far reaching ramifications. In his continued absence, dark and ominous clouds gathered over his home and threatened to storm it under. Only a few slim paths ever made their way back home—and most of those saw nothing but years of war before the man finally succumbed to the weight of the ongoing world. The man would either complete his quest, find what was lost and die far from home—or he’d abandon his quest and return home to find his house in flames with a fire he could never put out. Neither choice seemed very appealing and Krumpus wondered why he was given the opportunity to heal the man at all.

But the ways of the true god were strange and twisting indeed. Such things were impossible to fathom.

Krumpus pushed the destiny of this stranger from his head as he decided It was time to worry about his own fate. He stretched and flexed his aching body, packed his medicines, and placed the cups and pitchers at the door. The bandages were picked clean by the little doctors, so Krumpus folded them neatly away. Now that everything was orderly, Krumpus turned to the wall with so many ant holes drilled through the mortar. He scratched at the material to see it flake under his thumb.

Yet, he was also exhausted, and could barely care! The operation took many long hours, and no end of concentration. Suddenly, all he wanted was a little shut eye! As Granana sang lullabies in his ear, Krumpus stretched out on the floor and decided to give himself a few moments rest. He closed his eyes and relaxed, if only for a few minutes. Then he would escape—if escape were even possible—there was still a stone wall in his way.

Krumpus stretched out on the floor and listened to the sweet swaying lilt of Granana’s voice.

The cell door banged open. Krumpus lifted his head as Cairn walked into the room.

“Did ‘e give up the ghost?” Cairn stared at the Saot.

Krumpus closed his eyes and laid back on the floor, unconcerned by the guard’s question.

“He lives, nah? Well, a bet is a bet, and a bet is sacred—but it’ll please the Lord Commander,” Cairn shrugged. “Either way, you’re done with your potions and poking, and that’s good, because Fedring wants words with you!” Cairn approached and grabbed Krumpus roughly by the arm. “Get up! You have a meeting with ‘is lordship!” With one meaty hand on the shaman’s arm, Cairn pulled Krumpus roughly from the cell.

The ghost of Granana watched her grandson as he was dragged down the hall. The next part of his journey was set the moment he insisted he would not teach the surgeons their cure. Although it broke her heart, Granana knew he’d have to face this on his own. She could not help—and so she would not watch.