The Prophecy

The Stormy Road (9)

The wise elves men were far from wanting to make the slightest "muddle". Their minds were obsessed with something else entirely: Childeric and Abela were still lying on the ground, inert. So, when the brigand hushed them, and then scream at them to get out, they did not make a single move. Soon enough thus slowly, Abela managed to pull himself up. A little blood was spilling from the wound in his head (which was spinning, by the way), but otherwise his situation was not serious. Childeric's situation was more alarming. He was still unconscious and losing a lot of blood: he had been hit hard. Torn during the explosion, his white reddish shirt showed his large chest where blood and black rock powder mixed together covered a deep gash that lacerated his bust over a length of about thirty ianus(1).

The Pope and the Storyteller knelt beside him.

_Blood must be stopped immediately!

_ Yes, but how do we do that?

_ Alas, I don't know: I'm not a healer... O Eternals, help us!

The others watched, feeling useless, not knowing what to do. They saw life leaving Childeric without being able to oppose it. Rage invaded them as Death took the place of Life. They didn't hear the Cook shouting at them to get out, again...

Finally, seeing that the prisoners were far from obeying him, the brigand entered, furious, walking among the prisoners, grabbing one by the sleeve and expelling him outside. He started again two or three times but stopped dead in front of the wounded man. He seemed intimidated, almost saddened, but he quickly recovered and resumed his mask of indifference.

He grabbed Childeric by the shoulders and began to drag him out of the room. As he was about to walk backwards through the prison door, he felt he had stumbled against a powerful obstacle that wasn't there just moments before. Turning his head, he had the unpleasant surprise of meeting Cyd's face. The brigand suddenly realized that he was in great danger and that he had been very stupid. Trying to force the prisoners' to change cell, all alone, when they were in higher numbers! Many thoughts swirled in his mind, and especially one that insisted that he was an idiot and he should have left them alone.

To his astonishment, the Gelfling did not hit him. Indeed, Cyd bent down, took Childeric by his legs and lifted him up. Recovered from his fright, the Cook made a slow step towards another part of the cave. This one had no gate but a wooden door. Without a sound, the other wise elves men followed and settled into their new apartments. The brigand brought a straw mattress for Childeric and, in a gruff tone, announced that he would have to wait for his chief to arrive before doing anything. He closed the imposing door after him. His footsteps indicated that he was moving away. Then he was heard running back, and the door opened suddenly:

_ But, by the way, how did you blow up that wall?

The embarrassment made itself felt.

_Uh... I, we don't know. It just exploded like that, all of a sudden.

_ Ah! Well... He started mumbling again, closing and locking the door; pacing in the common room, obviously very concerned by the situation. If I say that to the Chief, he'll laugh in my face and stick his foot where I think... What did I do to deserve this?

Meanwhile, Abela, with a piece of coat wrapped around her forehead as a bandage, sat next to his friend and tried to stop the bleeding. He had seen something like this about two years ago when he was attending the healers' classes at the University of Slindya-La-Douce. He was a real rascal back then, not really invested in the course itself. Now he understood that there was nothing laughable about the healer's work, that all the gestures he made, no matter how strange, could save. And here, the life of his friend, his best friend, was in his hands. Sweat beaded on his temples as he forced his mind to remember, to re-form before his eyes the vision of past lessons. Slowly, his hands began to describe complex circles and delicate geometric figures above Childeric's chest. Then, with his fingers, he made compressions on precise points of his body. The hitherto uninterrupted flow of bubbling blood lost its vigor. At the price of a long moment of terrible anguish, he managed to stop the bleeding. Exhausted by this ordeal and his own injury, he lay down to recover and gather his strength. But his rest was short-lived: Childeric was rambling. He was trembling with fever and had the weakness and yet the violence of a delirious patient. He suddenly began to gesticulate, and his limbs moved without logic, without control. He had to be controlled to prevent him from hurting himself. Manoël, who was holding him, quickly realized that his condition was getting worse.