Venator Page 3

  His steps got slower, until the energy to lift his feet wasn't there. One step failed to fall in place, and he stumbled to a knee, the shovel holding him up. While he focused on his breathing, Lorin’s hands lost their grip and darkness took him.

  ***

  "Shane? Is he still alive?" A woman's voice. The voice sounded far.

  "You need to stay calm, love. I don't want you stressing much. He's hanging on still." This man's voice cut through clearer and its resonance felt comforting. "He lasted a while outside—my best bet says there's a better chance for him to keep breathin' in here."

  "But—but what if he doesn't and he dies? We have to bury him. What if someone sees? They might think we are murderers or worse. What are we going to do? This is bad, I… I…"

  The floor broads bowed as solid boots stepped away. "Shh, it's gonna be fine, nothing bad will happen. We are gonna do our best here and that's all we can do. Just keep calm. I'll handle most of this, but I need you to keep me in check. Like always."

  A few sniffs, the rustle of fabric, and the faintest sound of a kiss preceded footsteps. Lighter steps away, heavier ones closer. "Just you and me for the moment." The voice was right against his ear, every word hot from breath. "Don't go dying, don't need that right now. We will do our best here, but if you don't wake up soon I'll head out to town."

  The fuzzy blackness shot to white as Lorin's eyes opened wide. The rush of air from him sitting up caused the candles around the room to flicker, giving life to the room as shadows danced. A small end table in the corner held hand tools, and there was an old rocking chair beside. In the chair sat a dwarf with broad shoulders and a thick neck. His long black hair curled down the side of his face and disappeared into the sea of bristles that made up his beard. Darkness began to cloud Lorin's vision, narrowing to pinholes of focus. "Don't go to town. Please," Lorin said in a breathless panic.

  Shane got a strong hold on Lorin and eased him back to rest after he spoke. Once Lorin was settled, Shane placed one hand atop Lorin's chest and leaned over to feel his breath. It was weak, but Lorin’s faint puffs warmed Shane’s cheek. The bearded dwarf tucked the now disheveled blanket back over Lorin. After that, Shane eased back with a deep sigh and began rocking his chair.

  "Shane?" the woman's voice came again. "Did he just wake up?"

  Her voice straightened Shane's posture and he wiped the sweat from his face. "Yes, he did. He’s resting again now, though, so bring in some towels if you could. Water as well, so I can clean up this bloody mess." Shane paused and looked at Lorin’s mangled body, then at his own shaking hand. "Bring me that bottle of swill too. To help clean." Shane then cut off some of the ragged cloth to get a closer look at Lorin's improvised bandages.

  Lorin could feel the cool steel brush his skin as Shane worked. It had taken everything Lorin had to speak just that little, and even the idea of opening his eyes felt formidable. The bed was so soft and warm that sleep was drawing him away, but he needed to stay conscious. He couldn’t trust that he was safe now.

  Before Shane got too far, a woman entered the room with a large basin, a handful of towels, and a clear bottle half filled with a dark golden liquid. Lorin barely opened his eyes enough to catch a glimpse of her. She had the soft glow of youth behind a worried frown. Her eyes were red and puffy, veiled by wild strands of hair escaping from a braid. Her dress wasn't remarkable, more practical than stylish, though it covered her ballooning stomach well. Her walk, more of a waddle, looked uncomfortable with everything she carried. She set the basin down on the end table, moving so as not to tip and spill the water. Then, she handed the towels and bottle to Shane. "Thank you, Mary. I'll clean the man up, then I'll make us some breakfast. Get some rest and stay calm." He laid his hand on her belly. "Don't worry about anything other than keeping warm and happy."

  Mary's face remained scrunched with worry, and she hadn’t taken her eyes off Lorin since she entered. "Did he speak? What did he say?"

  "Yes, he said not to go to town. Not sure if I heard right, but he showed quite a bit of life. Almost knocked himself off the bed."

  She turned her head down, meeting his eyes as a spark flashed behind them. "Then there is hope." She nodded and shuffled through the door, then shut it behind her.

  Shane turned back to look at the man lying before him and stared for a long time. Eventually, he wiped his forehead dry, then prepared the cloth and water to clean Lorin. Before he started to wipe Lorin’s wounds, Shane reached to the bottle he was given and pulled the cork with a satisfying thunk. After a few gulps, the cork was back in the bottle. "Don't worry, mate, my hands will be steady now," Shane said after he set the bottle down beside himself.

  It took almost an hour for Shane to pull the bloodstained rags from Lorin's body and clean the uncovered skin. Dried blood, dirt, and a few insects hid a countless amount of injuries. The once-clear water became thick and brown.

  Every wound, when it was cleaned, brought back Lorin’s memory of how it had been made. Every single one. Most were straight and not longer than a thumb width, but each was surgically precise. Those smaller cuts made up about three quarters of the wounds criss-crossed on his arms, legs, and chest, making lines like a loose lattice of thread. His back was a different story. Some of the smaller incisions were apparent, but they were crowded out by four deep gashes. From the upper shoulder down to his tailbone, the four lines of ripped flesh made a v-shape with a pair on the left and right of his spine.

  The last wound Shane had to clean was the worst—the hole just above Lorin’s hip with mud caked over it. When Shane peeled the mud away, the smell of rot filled the room from the coin sized wound. Lorin was used to the smell already, but Shane gagged a handful of times while he picked out the dirt, rocks, and bugs. Then, pulling a thin knife from his boot, Shane cut away the puss and rot. Crimson began to flow as he worked, but Lorin couldn’t feel anything more than slight pressure. When Shane finished, the trickle of blood looked as clean as it could be.

  "This might hurt more than that stab did, boy," Shane said, while lowering Lorin back down on the bed. Once Lorin was in position, Shane grabbed the now near-empty bottle beside his foot and pulled the cork. He poured a bit onto a clean cloth, letting it soak but not drip past the fabric. Then, Shane balanced the bottle on Lorin’s hip to pour into the large puncture. "This… I'm sorry… is really gonna hurt." Lorin could feel the dwarf’s hand shake while the bottle was in place, but before a drop fell Shane sighed, and took another swig. "Damn it this is stressful. I don't want to hurt ya." Lorin could hear Shane slow his breathing and eventually, Shane’s hand steadied on his hip. "Come on, you have to believe me I don't wanna hurt you, this is for your own good."

  Shane then poured a steady stream of dark amber into the wound, some of it soaked in, but most created small pools in the sheets below Lorin. The reaction was immediate. Lorin, who up to this point had only moved to take slow heavy breaths, now tightened into a curl. Every bit of his sinew tensed in pain, forcing veins and musculature into definition. Despite the convulsive movement, Lorin only let out a soft groan. "Impressive," Shane said, after he lowered his hands from protecting his face. "You're one of the toughest humans I've met. Might even hold up against a dwarf on a bad day."

  "Thank you," Lorin said, in a whisper through cracked lips.

  Shane held back a gasp. "You're still awake?"

  "Off and on. It's tough to speak."

  "Well then don't, just try to rest. I'll keep my rambling to myself."

  Lorin kept his eyes closed, but used the last of his adrenaline rush to nod.

  Shane, somewhat flustered, placed the whiskey-soaked rag over the wound to clean it. A pulse of pain shot through Lorin and culminated in a shaky breath. "Could've used a heads up on that one."

  "Sorry, I… that's the last one. Once I stitch and wrap you up, you can get some rest."

  "Shane." Lorin turned, his eyes open in pain. "Thank you. I'll try not to stay long."

  A hearty chuckle billowed past Shane'
s beard. "You will be staying for as long as my wife thinks you need. She don't like seein' anyone suffer if she can help. Trust me, you can't change her mind if you wanted to." Lorin turned back and closed his eyes. "Before you pass out, tell me how the hell you got to be in this bad a shape."

  Lorin didn't give a reply.

  "Get some rest, then."

  Shane finished the stitching with some thread dipped in the last bit of whiskey. After wrapping Lorin with cloth, he packed the bloody bandages and basin, leaving the bottle on the end table with the thread and needle. He reached to open the door, but stopped when Lorin wheezed. Lorin took in a deep breath as if to speak, but only let out a labored exhale. Shane paused, then left.

  The room was now empty, and Lorin waited until he didn’t hear any more voices or movement from outside. Then, just to be sure, he waited a little longer before his lips quivered and tears came. He didn't make a sound, and in time his face softened as he let sleep take him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "Why did you say not to go to town?" Arthur asked.

  Lorin had paused to eat some of the cooling venison in front of him. "I was a little out of it at that time, but I think I didn't want them to leave me," Lorin said, cutting himself a piece of the tender meat. "They both were kind to me—I didn't want to lose that."

  "So then how did you end up under my tree?"

  "Let me finish eating first."

  Arthur nodded and waved at Catherine, who came up to the table and grabbed his plate.

  "More?" she said, pointing at the empty mugs.

  Lorin gave a thumbs up, his mouth too full to reply.

  "Yes please," Arthur said.

  "When you’re empty, wave. I wouldn't want your mouths to dry up." Catherine left and went to the kitchen.

  "What cut you up so bad?" Arthur asked, leaning forward over the table, his voice hushed.

  Lorin stayed silent, chewing his current mouthful.

  "It sounds like you nearly died, but you seem to be well now. I mean… other than the hanging part."

  Lorin had reached up to his bandaged neck before he fully realized it, then said, "I don't want to talk about that. You wanted to know who stitched my wounds and why I was in your yard this morning. That’s a story I can tell."

  "Please do." Arthur, always cheery, didn't notice the anger hidden in Lorin's words.

  Lorin didn't want to say more. It was bringing up things he wanted to forget. Needed to forget. However, when he looked across the table at the captivated listener he had in Arthur, it was hard not to speak. Arthur was the perfect audience; even when Lorin was recounting a less than exciting moment, he kept asking for more. Once the drinks were refilled and Lorin finished off his lunch, it was Arthur's love of listening that kept Lorin talking.

  "I spent quite a bit of time with those two," Lorin began. "It took time for me to get some strength back, but they were patient with me."

  CHAPTER SIX

  "Hurry your ass up!" Shane said, craning his head over his shoulder. He stopped walking and dropped the log he had been carrying. "You're walkin' like my old cousin Erickson, and he turned three hundred this last year." He paused. Then, with a reminiscing smile, continued, "He used to lift the mine carts on to the track rails himself. And that was when nobody was lookin'… I miss the old bastard." Shane was lost in thought, until the solid thud of a debarked tree trunk landing next to him brought him back to reality.

  "Took your sweet time," Shane said, wiping sawdust from his beard. His hands were sticky with sap and covered in dirt and dust, so he just made it worse. The log hitting the ground raised a cloud of dust smelling of fresh-cut wood. Three other logs laid next to the one Lorin dropped off. The small sawmill could only handle one log at a time, but it cut square and fast compared to using handsaws.

  The saw was powered by a stone furnace that, once heated, kept the mill running for a whole day. A metal coil discolored from heat wound its way along the stone top and sides. The pipe belonged to a closed circuit filled with water. With the fire going, heated water was vaporized and moved through a series of one-way valves to an enclosed turbine which spun the saw. If the system leaked—which it often did when the pressure built too much—a steady whistle at the top of the mill signaled the stress on the system. Shane would let the pressure bleed off, and then at the end of the day add water when the system cooled. The circular motion of the turbine was inputted to a gearbox, taking the high-speed input, slowing it, and producing enough torque to prevent the blade from stalling. This then fed to the poorest part of the design—the clutch. The output from the gearbox spun once the furnace heated, never stopping. It had a shaft with a coupling that could mesh with the gearbox connected to the saw. The constantly spinning shaft and instant engagement necessary to start the saw meant the couplings didn't like to connect.

  Shane said it was by design, that the scream told you to keep back. This sudden jerk of power could twist and lift the whole machine off the ground. However, Shane made sure the rollers were loaded with the day's lumber before he started up the saw, so that never had a chance of happening. Shane was very used to the whole process and could tell how it ran by just the sound of the whirring blade and creaking pipes. He’d built this mill with some of his family who had helped him settle in, and as he and Lorin had worked together, he had explained every part. The dwarven craftsmanship was clear from the detail in all the stone and metal work. When they’d finished building it, he used it to cut every board his house, barn, chicken coop, fence, and outhouse needed. When he made enough for himself, he started to sell what he made. Shane didn't need the money, but a dwarf needs to work. Needs it almost more than humans need to eat, sleep, and breathe.

  Today the project was for himself—lumber to build a new room for his newborn son.

  "Get the fire started. I'll set the fence and check the blade," Shane said, patting down his overalls. Lorin didn't need to be told. It was routine, but Shane always talked through the process so nothing was missed. Leaving the dwarf to continue his search, Lorin walked to the back of the mill and opened the hatch to the furnace. Using a wide steel bar with a rod fused in its center, he dragged out the ashes from yesterday. Once it was empty, he picked thin, dry kindling from a box beside him and made a pyramid inside the hatchway, with a fluffy cotton bunch at the center. Below the hatch hung two chains fixed to the furnace. At the end of one chain was a gray bar worn smooth with spots of fresh rust, while the other chain held a bar of flat black stone, hilted with a smooth wooden handle. Lorin sighed and rubbed the tools against each other to create a dance of sparks. He hated using flint and steel.

  "Quick today," Shane said as Lorin walked to his place in front of the mill. "I would say you’re improving, but attempts like yesterday keep me doubting." Shane smiled. When he worked he always smiled, but Lorin hadn’t actually seen him in any mood other than jolly, except of course the morning they’d first met.

  Lorin didn't smile back and got into position by the log, holding it against the fence to be cut. A normal board was three finger widths rough cut; being square, quick to cut, and requiring no extra planing made them cheap, and they sold well. Today the project for the nursery demanded the best logs, cut at two finger widths thick, and each board would be hand planed after. They had only brought four logs so they could finish in time for supper.

  Shane's eyes hung on Lorin while his smile faded, then he ducked low under the table to do his checks. Satisfied, he stood and pushed a lever. The lever forced the clutch together with a grinding clatter and the saw jerked to life. The mill, after its initial start, idled with just the whirl of the blade and the crackle of fire. Quiet and peaceful. The work here kept Lorin from focusing on anything else, as a mistake with the saw could brutally kill him or Shane before the lever could be reached.

  Lorin readied the log, holding it firm against the guide fence, and pushed it toward the blade. Shane kept his end against the fence and guided as well while the blade zinged through the lumber. Wood chips f
lew, igniting the smell of fresh-cut wood once again. The two continued their work in practiced silence.

  The last log was finished some time later, leaving a pile of boards, one square side and one rounded bark edge. With a grind and a clack, the blade slowed to a standstill as Shane set the fence for the final cut and Lorin checked the fire. They both returned to their posts for the next cut, but the lever wasn't pushed, and the saw remained motionless. Shane was staring at the blade for a time, long enough for Lorin to notice.

  "It's been a while since you showed up three-quarters dead," Shane said. "But you haven't been much of a talker—a damn good listener, but you'll never be mistaken for a talker." Shane looked up at Lorin, his eyes gentle. "I don't know what happened to ya. You managed to heal up pretty well, and now you're helpin' me family with your good health an’ I appreciate it, I do. But, don't you plan to leave? Oh, didn't mean it like that, I don't want you to leave or nothing—you're a good man. From what I know, though, good men usually have something they need to get back to or… I don't know… I don't want you to think you owe me or my wife anything. We would help you out again, no issue, and you have repaid us more than enough with your work."