The Sable City (The Norothian Cycle) by M. Edward McNally, mimulux
Authors: M. Edward McNally, mimulux
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jet black brows. But she was garbed rather rudely in a battered, shapeless brown coat from throat to thighs, with patches on the elbows matching those on the knees of worn cloth leggings. She wore gray woolen socks and strapped sandals with wooden soles that clopped even on the bare ground. Finally her hair was just a fright, a tangled mass of inky black, unkempt and unacquainted with a brush.
The swordsman said something in a foreign tongue to her, barked a command really, and she spoke in halting Codian. That language was close enough to Kanalborg Common to be understood by the Axemen.
“ Is one of you men called as Zebulon Baj Nif?”
No one, bless their hearts, said anything. Neither did they glance again at Zeb, who for his part continued to bleed quietly.
The Ayzant sergeant started bellowing, in Zantish naturally, which of the group Zeb alone understood as he knew the related Ghendalese dialect. His Leftenant did not turn around to ask Zeb for a translation, but with a sigh Zeb started speaking anyway, from habit.
“ He says they have it from Colonel Rierden himself that this is the post of the platoon of Leftenant Kagsfold, under whom is ordered the soldier Zebulon Warchild, who himself has knowledge of both the Zantish and Codian tongues.”
Zeb blinked.
“ So, I’ve pretty much just given myself away then, haven’t I?”
Indeed, the woman frowned at him and stepped forward. Zeb liked to think his fellows might have moved to obstruct either the swordsman or the sergeant, but they politely if uncertainly moved aside for the woman. She knelt and looked closely at Zeb’s arm. Her face and neck could have stood a washing, Zeb noticed, though of course so could his.
“ You are wounded.” she said.
“ That is what they tell me. I am trying not to look at it.”
“ It is very bad.”
“ Yes. Thanks.”
The woman spoke over her shoulder and the swordsman snapped an answer. The Westerners’ language between themselves was a rush of short vowels, similar in sound to what Zeb had heard a time or two from an excitable half-Zokuan bartender he knew in Bowgan, the only Far Westerner he had ever met. Zoku, the Celestial Empire of Cho Lung, and the islands of Ashinan were the three fabled realms located far, far to the west of Noroth and Kandala, beyond even the Miilark Islands and all the way across the vastness of what was accurately known as the Interminable Ocean.
“ Lie still,” the woman said.
“ Well, if you insist…” Zeb began, but stopped with a sharp intake of breath as the woman laid one cool hand on his forehead, and jammed the fingers of the other into the shredded remains of his right elbow.
The seashell roar returned, the rising sun blazed and washed out the sky, and a wall of pain allowed not even a peep through it. But it was only for an instant, and then Zeb felt as if all his remaining blood was draining out of his body and sinking into the ground. The pain went with it, but so did his awareness. He felt himself sliding into a void.
“ Are you…are you a priestess?” he managed. The last thing Zeb could see, and that but dimly, were the woman’s two narrowed eyes. He heard her voice in the darkness.
“ No.”
*
Amatesu had to tug her fingers free as the wounds closed. The man Zebulon Baj Nif’s clear blue eyes rolled to white and his tense body went slack. With him well and truly out, Amatesu took a hold of his right wrist and lifted the arm, bent his elbow, and moved it side-to-side. The joint moved smoothly without grinding, and Amatesu felt a moment of satisfaction before reminding herself that this was the will of the spirits and the gods, not her own. The strength for the healing had in main been Baj Nif’s own, though that had not really been necessary. Amatesu could have drawn power from the land and the wind and the sun, but this way the man would likely be unconscious for several days. That should make things to some degree easier.
Not a bad piece of
The swordsman said something in a foreign tongue to her, barked a command really, and she spoke in halting Codian. That language was close enough to Kanalborg Common to be understood by the Axemen.
“ Is one of you men called as Zebulon Baj Nif?”
No one, bless their hearts, said anything. Neither did they glance again at Zeb, who for his part continued to bleed quietly.
The Ayzant sergeant started bellowing, in Zantish naturally, which of the group Zeb alone understood as he knew the related Ghendalese dialect. His Leftenant did not turn around to ask Zeb for a translation, but with a sigh Zeb started speaking anyway, from habit.
“ He says they have it from Colonel Rierden himself that this is the post of the platoon of Leftenant Kagsfold, under whom is ordered the soldier Zebulon Warchild, who himself has knowledge of both the Zantish and Codian tongues.”
Zeb blinked.
“ So, I’ve pretty much just given myself away then, haven’t I?”
Indeed, the woman frowned at him and stepped forward. Zeb liked to think his fellows might have moved to obstruct either the swordsman or the sergeant, but they politely if uncertainly moved aside for the woman. She knelt and looked closely at Zeb’s arm. Her face and neck could have stood a washing, Zeb noticed, though of course so could his.
“ You are wounded.” she said.
“ That is what they tell me. I am trying not to look at it.”
“ It is very bad.”
“ Yes. Thanks.”
The woman spoke over her shoulder and the swordsman snapped an answer. The Westerners’ language between themselves was a rush of short vowels, similar in sound to what Zeb had heard a time or two from an excitable half-Zokuan bartender he knew in Bowgan, the only Far Westerner he had ever met. Zoku, the Celestial Empire of Cho Lung, and the islands of Ashinan were the three fabled realms located far, far to the west of Noroth and Kandala, beyond even the Miilark Islands and all the way across the vastness of what was accurately known as the Interminable Ocean.
“ Lie still,” the woman said.
“ Well, if you insist…” Zeb began, but stopped with a sharp intake of breath as the woman laid one cool hand on his forehead, and jammed the fingers of the other into the shredded remains of his right elbow.
The seashell roar returned, the rising sun blazed and washed out the sky, and a wall of pain allowed not even a peep through it. But it was only for an instant, and then Zeb felt as if all his remaining blood was draining out of his body and sinking into the ground. The pain went with it, but so did his awareness. He felt himself sliding into a void.
“ Are you…are you a priestess?” he managed. The last thing Zeb could see, and that but dimly, were the woman’s two narrowed eyes. He heard her voice in the darkness.
“ No.”
*
Amatesu had to tug her fingers free as the wounds closed. The man Zebulon Baj Nif’s clear blue eyes rolled to white and his tense body went slack. With him well and truly out, Amatesu took a hold of his right wrist and lifted the arm, bent his elbow, and moved it side-to-side. The joint moved smoothly without grinding, and Amatesu felt a moment of satisfaction before reminding herself that this was the will of the spirits and the gods, not her own. The strength for the healing had in main been Baj Nif’s own, though that had not really been necessary. Amatesu could have drawn power from the land and the wind and the sun, but this way the man would likely be unconscious for several days. That should make things to some degree easier.
Not a bad piece of
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