The Respite

He was being moved again.

Strong hands slowly pulled him down what looked like a small stone alley-way. Their traversal was horrifyingly conspicuous. His steel boots and leg guards dragged the ground producing a hair raising squeal. His companion, so far the only person that hadn't tried to stop his heart from beating, clanked about noisily. He had apparently chosen the cumbersome armor over risking a variety of stab wounds.

“You had better be an ally,” he heard the figure above him say, he sounded tired, “otherwise I'm going to feel very foolish about this later.”

He attempted a response, his dry cracked lips fumbled to produce a sound, but failed. Darkness rose up again, pulling him down.

Noise. Loud clamoring noise. His eyes drifted open weakly. An armored figure stood before him, he hoped this was the same man who had dragged him away from the bridge, a longsword in his hands. He said something loudly and relaxed his grip, allowing the point of the blade to drop towards the ground. His left hand lifted, exposing his palm indicating that he meant no harm. He pointed back to the barely conscious form on the ground, and said something else.

Who is he talking t-

His vision cleared slightly, they were inside. A figure moved in the background, drawing closer to the armored man slowly. The room was a mess, a stained pile of straw occupied one of the far corners of the room, broken containers (carrying the sickly sweet smell of rotten food) lay scattered about the floor.

Sweat rolled down his forehead, his skin was on fire. Fever.

The new figured moved past his guardian, sinking to a knee next to him. Through his blurred vision he could only make out a face carved to leather by long years of hard living, there was concern in the deep set coal black eyes however – he took joy in this fact and let his eyes close once more.

“How did you get here?” The old man said, straining slightly upon standing. He carried a weathered wooden staff upon which he rested most of his weight. He turned his gaze to the armored man.

He looked more than a little confused. His mop of unkempt black hair was matted to his face with sweat. He was tall, and stronger than his wounded companion by the look of him. That silver armor must have been hell to move about in, even without dragging someone.

“I don't know. There was the bridge...and before that, nothing.” He raised his hands to his face, sweeping sweat and hair out of his vision. Two green eyes peered out from deep-set sockets. “By the time I had any sort of actual physical bearing,” he gestured to his unconscious companion, “I had missed the events that lead up to his current state.”

The old man nodded, three slow bobs of his head. The dark skin of his bald head was wrinkled, a horrifying pink hued scar ran down the left side of his head ending where the top of his left ear should have begun.

“You should rest, that armor won't do you any good in here,” he tottered across the filthy room to a dark wooden box. Silently, the larger man began to shrug out of his gear. He propped the longsword up against the wall, near the door. As each heavy piece fell to the ground a gasp of relief escaped him.

“Try to get your friend onto one of the straw pallets, we don't have much time.” He said as he knelt down to the rectangular box. He lifted the lid carefully, producing bound linen bandages and a mixture of other medical supplies. Behind him he heard the his now unarmored guest laying his companion down on one of the rough straw beds.

“Rather convenient that you have those supplies.” The large man spoke cautiously. “Do you even know how to help him?” If the old man heard him he made no indication of acknowledging his statement. His gaze drifted to the strange wooden chest, and back to the old man.

The weathered cane clacked across the floor as the strange old man moved to tend the wounds of the unconscious man. His mouth tightened, the injuries were extensive and the fever was getting worse by the minute. He laid out the jumble of equipment on the bed and peered backwards.

“This is going to take some time. Make yourself at home – though I wouldn't go outside.” His head jerked towards the battered wooden door, now barred from the inside. The longsword no longer resting against the door frame. His attention was fully focused on the man lying before him.

He lifted the bloody tunic, an angry red gash ran across the man's ribcage. He produced a small needle, deftly threading an almost invisible string through the eye. “You're friend is going to be thankful he was unconscious for this if he awakens.” He set to work stitching the wound closed.

“My name is Ward, you?” He spoke without looking backwards, he talked mainly to ease his nerves. He was only self-trained in these matters after-all. His guest did not answer immediately.

“I..don't know. I can't remember anything, except for the events of today.” He leaned carefully on a rotten barrel, testing it's ability to hold up his weight. “I woke up, in full armor on a bridge. I could hear a disturbance at the far end, but couldn't make out what was happening in time to help.” He crossed his arms, satisfied with the barrel's load bearing strength. He eyed the old man cautiously.

The stooped old man worked tirelessly. Hes boney arms flitted about the prone form closing cuts, dabbing linen bandages with a strange mixture he had produced in a wide based glass bottle from the chest. The smell of the tincture was pungent, it filled the room with burning vapors that made his lungs ache.

“Do not worry, the tincture is helpful. The smell is...off-putting but the results could keep your friend from being pulled away from us by his fever.” He stretched his arms over his head, his joints popped in a symphony of arthritic barks. “With rest, a very large amount mind you, he may survive.”

He toiled on for a few more hours, finally using a damp cloth to dab at the fingernail scratches on the man's face – attempting to draw out any infection with the solution dabbed onto the rag.

“How have you managed to live here for so long?” He had not heard the other man speak in so long that he nearly jumped, he had been absorbed in his work. “Where is everyone?” He resumed cleaning the superficial wounds.

“Rest assured, I am not the only person living here.” Sarcasm crept into his voice. 

 

“And just exactly, where is here.” The man spoke from behind him.

“You, my friend, are standing in the servant's quarters of The Bulwark. The strongest fortress ever constructed by human hands. Built to shield the world from the great evils that stalk it during these times. Or couldn't you tell?” His tone took on an angry desperate air. “All of our building, preparing, recruiting, and training could not save us.” His hands dropped to his sides for a brief moment, blood crusted over his fingernails. “We are forsaken here, The Bulwark is no longer safe, things have gone...wrong.” He wiped his hands on a loose bandage and continued his work.

“What do you mean wrong?” Curiosity crept into his new companion's voice.

“For example, you asked earlier how I had survived here for so long.” He raised a bony hand and pointed to the dark chest laying in the corner of the room. “I brought that with me from a neighboring town many years ago. All it contained were my few sets of clothes and some traveling money. That was until things changed.”

Silence crept through the room for a brief moment, he could feel the man behind him burning with questions.

“Go ahead, open it.”

He applied a salve to the wounded man's cheek with the hopes of it bringing the swelling down. Behind him he heard footsteps make their wary way towards the chest. The man knelt and opened the box, the old hinges creaking as they always had.

“What do you see inside?”

“Everything,” the man's startled voice said from behind him, a sort of glee permeated his tone, “everything we need.” The old man stopped working. He heard the man draw something out of the box quietly. “What did you say your name was old man?”

“Ward, my name is-” the dagger buried itself deep in his right side, he gasped in agony. “Why..”

“I don't have a name,” the man twisted the knife, balancing Ward with his left hand, careful to not let him pitch forward onto his unconscious ally, “but Ward will do just fine.” He drew the dagger he had found in the box out of the old man, spun him around, and thrust it deep into his chest.