Drone

31 Invited This Time

"Prime Paramount, it's a miracle that he's alive. He suffered numerous lacerations and, it seems, some sort of seizure. His body seems to be responding negatively to most of my medicines. It's like nothing I've seen before."

"Thank you, Doctor. Sledda, are we sure he did all of that alone?"

"We didn't recover anyone else at the scene, and the herdsmen and debtbonds at your cattle compound all say he did it on his own."

"Where did he come from?"

"We looked into that, and the townspeople all seemed to agree that he was a devil from Pit."

"From Pit? You don't think...?"

"I suspect. That's why I had him brought here, Grandfather."

"Hey. He's moving. Maybe we can finally get some answers."

"Valor!" Niklas moned, as he stirred. His whole body ached and contracted in protest. He looked around wearily, trying to gather himself.

Sunlight spilled in through massive windows, lighting the spacious, ornate room. Several Relrin men in well-fitted uniforms and a few others were present.

"Easy," someone coaxed as he stepped up to him. Niklas deduced from the man's white gown that he was some kind of medic.

"Where am I? What happened? Why am I here? Where are my pants?" Niklas looked down to find he was in some strange medical gown.

"You fought. You were hurt. My team and I have been tending to your wounds."

"That will be all, Doctor," an old man said with a dismissive wave.

The doctor bowed before retreating to the back of the room.

"My name is Prime Paramount Alred," the old man said with a slight bow. "And these are my grandsons, Paramount Sledda Alred and Paramount Fareman. Two younger men bowed as he said their names. The first wore a simple black shirt and vest. The second had an impressive red and gold suit and a matching cloak.

"Why am I here? What happened?" Niklas asked again.

"I owe you a debt of gratitude. You defended my herds, protected my people, and killed my enemies, and so I have invited you to my estate and had my personal medical team see to your wounds. How's your hand?"

Niklas looked at the bandaged hand. "It's very sore." Then he touched it. It was a big mistake; a spike of fire shot up his arm. He hissed in pain, and the young Paramount Sledda handed him a flask.

"Drink this," he said. "It will help with the pain.

Niklas shook his head. "I don't take anything that helps with pain." This was a Sharderin regulation that primarily applied to lower enlisted personnel.

He looked at Niklas and shrugged. "Your loss."

"I'm fine." Niklas insisted.

"You were lucky," the doctor piped in from behind. "No severed tendons or arteries in your hand. You may have some permanent nerve damage, though; try not to use it while it heals."

Niklas nodded and withdrew his hand.

"What's your name, lad?" Paramount Alred asked. With his gray hair combed back and his neat beard well-trimmed. He was the embodiment of the power that comes with experience.

"Niklas Loga."

"Of what place?"

"Of no place, sir."