From this vantage it was clear why Korth was also known as “the Crucible of Karrnath.” Aside from being the largest settlement in the nation, the city looked rather like a vast shallow bowl, with the dross collected at the bottom. Tall bluffs, cut by only a handful of steep roads, divided the poorest sections of town that existed by the river’s edge from the merchant and noble areas of town that rested atop the fertile landscape.
With the morning sun at such a low angle, the bluffs and towers still cast their long shadows west and north across several neighborhoods. Crownhome itself carved a large swath of gloom all the way to King’s Bay. The bay lay still and dark. A number of merchant and transport craft moored at the city’s docks. Two rocky stacks separated the bay from the Karrn River, where mists peeled from the water’s surface, coaxed away by the sun’s rays.
Minrah smiled. She always smiled when she was working on a mystery. Writing snippets of her story in her head, she walked down to the docks. She spent over an hour watching the sailors and tossing chips of wood into the bay, and even tried her hand dangling a line from a pier for a short while. Then she sauntered back to the Walking Wounded to see if Cimozjen had yet risen.
She rapped twice on the door to the room. Hearing nothing but an indeterminate grumble, she opened it up and peered inside. Cimozjen lay on his side, facing the wall.
“Hoy, look at that,” said Minrah, softly but with exaggerated cheerfulness. “The sunlight is reflecting off your bald spot! That must mean it’s a new day! Time to rise, soldier boy!”
Cimozjen growled something unintelligible, then rolled onto his back. “I feel terrible,” he said. He winced in pain and reached his right hand to his left side. “Bother, I think it’s stuck to my skin.” He started to roll out of bed. “I need some hot water to-” He suddenly grunted in pain and flopped back onto the mattress, a grimace twisting his face.
“Hoy, are you ill?” asked Minrah, rushing over to his side.
“No,” gasped Cimozjen. “My muscles are all knotted up. In truth, I doubt I can move my neck.” He started to reach for his head, but when his hand had only gotten two thirds of the way there, he winced again and let it flop. “And it’s beyond my reach. Oh my.”
“Has this ever happened before?” asked Minrah, panic edging her voice. “Do I need to call a healer?”
“It’s a mix of age and overexertion,” said Cimozjen wearily, his eyes squeezed shut. “I tell you, I’m not as young as I once was. I strained my muscles during the fight last night … was that only last night? By the Host, it seems like it’s been days. And carrying Torval around, I tried to ignore the pain. I used to be able to do it. Persevere through the hurt, that is. But my body’s simply unable to take the abuse any more, and my mind’s not willing to accept that fact.” He chuckled. “Look at me. I’m out of the fight, and yet even talking about it, I still refuse to believe it’s the truth.”
“So what can I do?” asked Minrah, gently placing her hand over his heart.
Cimozjen paused before answering, breathing heavily as he tried to will the pain from his body. “Were you Torval, you’d lift me out of bed and set me in the biggest hottest bath we could find in the city. Or maybe a steam bath or a hot stone massage. After my body was thoroughly boiled, you’d stretch me out mercilessly until my muscles surrendered and loosened up. Unfortunately, you’re not as big as Torval, nor as strong.”
“But fortunately,” countered Minrah, “I am a lot more alive, and a far sight prettier too.”
Cimozjen laughed. “Right you are, and a true joy that is.” He sighed. “Gods, would that I had neither my stubbornness nor my selfishness. Sadly, Minrah, there’s only one way I’m getting off this bed today.” Cimozjen snorted. “Although I should count my blessings, for I have one more option for rising than Torval does.
“Would you kindly move my left hand to rest on my neck? It shall hurt, thanks to my strains and the blood that has stuck my tunic to my ribs, but do not let that stop you, do you understand? Keep my hand there until I tell you otherwise.” He moved his right fist to rest over his heart. “If you’re ready, you may proceed.”
Minrah nodded, despite the fact that he couldn’t see her with his eyes closed. Gently she took his hand and started to raise it up. Halfway up, she started to feel resistance; she saw the material of his tunic pulling taut across his arm and down his side. Holding her breath, she pushed harder, forcing his arm up. It started to tremble. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the injuries or a reflex action of his strained muscles. Then, in the quiet of the room, she heard the moist sound of his tunic peeling away from his injuries.
Cimozjen grunted deep in his throat, and Minrah immediately eased off. “Keep moving,” he said through his clenched teeth.
She pushed harder, and his muscles resisted more. She forced her weight on his arm and guided his left hand to the base of his neck. She saw his fingers almost convulsively spread open to grip his own flesh.
“Faithful Arawai and Fortunate Olladra,” he said, forcing the words through clenched teeth, “by the courage imbued in me by Dol Dorn, I dare to implore you humbly, divine ladies, to infuse this your servant with health, wholeness, and vigor.”
A warm aura began to coalesce from between his fingers, almost as if the source of light were the tense muscles themselves. Minrah stared in amazement as the glow intensified, then slowly it began to fade again. She realized when it had all but gone that she was no longer holding Cimozjen’s arm in place. He was moving it himself and massaging his neck and shoulders.
With a pained grunt, Cimozjen maneuvered his left hand to rest over his injured ribs. He repeated his murmured prayer, and the glow appeared once more, this time illuminating his bloodstained tunic from behind. Once that glow had also faded, he let himself flop limply and drew a long deep breath.
Minrah put her fingers through the largest hole in his tunic and ran her fingers across his flesh. It was healed, whole. “That’s amazing!” she said. “Here I thought you were just a soldier, but you can work magic too!”
“I am an oathbound, sworn to the service of Dol Dorn, my nation, and my king. By virtue of my obedience and honor, the Master of Swords favors me with the gift of healing wounds by laying my left hand upon them. I hope someday to merit more of his favor.”
“So if you’ve got the good fortune to have a gift like that, why didn’t you use it last night, and save yourself the trouble?”
“I have my reasons.” Cimozjen took a few more deep breaths, then sat up, facing away from Minrah. “I need another tunic,” he said. “And Torval needs a suitable outfit.”
“What are you going to do with him?” asked Minrah. “We can’t exactly carry him along with us.”
“I’ll make arrangements with the innkeeper. Beginning with telling him the truth of last night,” he added, looking pointedly at Minrah, who refused to show the slightest shame. “He’ll see to it that Torval is quietly buried and his armband returned to his kin.”
“Wouldn’t you rather put him back in the service of the king?” asked Minrah. “I thought that was the Karrnathi tradition. Don’t they use alchemy and magic to make your dead into-”
“An animate warrior?” Cimozjen snorted. “No, I have no stomach for seeing false honor draped on walking carcasses. Nor am I at peace with the concept of having the dead fight for the nation, able to receive neither honor, nor glory, nor even the satisfaction of a battle well fought.” He sighed darkly. “We-especially us in the Iron Band, but all the Karrn soldiers-we knew no rest during the war, and it seems he’s had none since. I wish him to have some peace while it is mine to give him.”
Minrah rose and gave Cimozjen a hug from behind. “As you wish,” she said.
After a pause, Cimozjen extricated himself from her arms. “I must go.”
“Here,” said Minrah, “here’s half a loaf that I saved for you. Go get what you need. I’ll stay here and watch over him.”