REAPERS - Book Two: The Hunger and the Sickness

16

The stuff they fed Dimia dulled both mind and muscle. She welcomed the numbness, an escape from the litany of atrocities that had been the black sum of her budding life—but a deeper part of her resented being subdued and tied down. That inner dragon fought everything and everyone and that was to include herself. She was strapped to a bed by her captors in Stowerling's infirmary.

"You are to remain here for a while, lambling," said her custodian, a graying woman named Erstule. She put her wrinkled hand on Dimia's brow. "If only I could take you back with me to Greydalk." The woman's palm was soft from lotions and her wrist smelled of fragrant herbs. Dimia breathed in the bouquet of aromas. Nothing ever smelled more like home... other than the butchered pork that sweltered on the spits of the soldiers in the yard. Dimia felt guilt at the pleasure she took in that smoky smell. Erstule ran her hand through Dimia's hair and a calmness overtook them both. An ancient chord struck between child and caretaker. Dust motes drifted between them. The muted sounds of men outside shouting and readying to make for the front lines sounded a world away. "You'll be safe," Erstule said. "We'll find a home for you. The Nation takes care of its children."

"What of my friend?" asked Dimia. "Bramble. The..." She didn't know quite what to call it.

"I am told little," said the nurse. "I believe the thing has been sent to Camshire. For study."

"So he's still alive?"

"If that's the word for it." Erstule looked puzzled. "So you mean to say you were not the monster's hostage?"

"He isn't a monster." Dimia looked off at the other patients and caretakers. Many had been brought here after being wounded in battle with wounds most grievous. Some had died in these beds.

A medic across the room saw that Dimia was active and came to her side. He was young but his eyes were not. "I'm told you're the one who survived Marrow. We thought..." He stepped closer. Splashes of blood on his apron. "What's your name, little one?"

"Dimia," she said.

"Yes, Dimia," said the medic. "I remember Halo mentioning your name. You should know he fought hard to get back to save you... but there just wasn't enough time."

Dimia was reassured by this news. "I understand. Where is he now? And who are you?"

"Erstule," said the kind man, "please go ahead and make the rounds. I'll stay with Dimia for a while." Erstule patted Dimia's hand and left them alone.

"My handle's Shroomer," the medic said to the orphan. "Not my favorite choice but I guess it stuck. I'll tell you why some other time. I was on Halo's Reaper team. Knew him very well."

"Is he dead?" Dimia asked. "You keep saying 'was.'"

A flash of emotion on Shroomer's face. The question caught him off guard. "No. He, ah... had to go on an important mission. National secret. But I'm sure we'll see him again soon. Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?"

Dimia considered. "What's going to happen to me now?"

"I suspect they'll send you to Camshire," said Shroomer. "Far from this war zone. Find a new home for you. There are many places there for lost boys and girls like you."

"Where did they take Skelen?" Dimia asked.

"Forget him," said Shroomer. "He'll spend the rest of his days in chains, if he isn't dead already. You're young, a whole life ahead of you. Don't let the past consume you. It will eat you alive."

— • —

Shroomer made sure the girl was comfortable and left her to return to his duties. He had been ready after the Battle of Fort Nothing to strike back out with his brothers in Team 3 but those plans were changed when Stowerling began to overflow with the wounded and the brass decided he was needed more here in this hour of need, where casualties flowed in from multiple fronts. The Reaper's hands were kept full and bloody with the endless influx of injured and dying men from the lines of battle. He saw familiar faces in the deluge of broken men that were processed through Stowerling's understaffed infirmary. Among these had been Captain Alphonsis and some of his men. Team 3 had met this company of Nation soldiers on their journey between Marrow and Fort Nothing. Spent some time with them. Smoked dogweed and traded tales. The regiment had been on their way to hold Itchmoor and now Itchmoor had been lost to the wasters. The wounded soldiers spoke of the terrible hobgoblin forces that leaked from the broken pass at Fort Holdt like daemons from some hellish portal. The barbarians of the wastes beat upon giant runed gongs that instilled sorcerous fear in the hearts of those enemies who heard their clang and instilled berserk fervor in the gob warriors themselves. The steeds of the Erumanir were enchanted to rise from the dead once killed to continue carrying their runesworn riders into battle.