BRISHEN’S—THE KINGDOM OF ARACELLY

1238 CE

Orlynd stared up at the red sign containing a dragon, which resembled Lord Kateo, hanging in front of Brishen’s, a pub located in the market place of the kingdom of Aracelly. He could hear the sound of laughter coming from inside and the clanking of pints, which helped drown out the obnoxious sound of hammering, nails and wood being constructed in the distance.

It reminded him of the times he was a little boy and would come here with his father. His father had always let him pick out a fresh piece of fruit. He could see those same fruit vendor carts, along with the vegetable carts up the road, had passed onto future generations. However, some other things had remained the same, such as the butcher shop located a bit further up the road, as well as the shop across the street, where witches and warlocks could get ingredients for their various spells and potions.

Orlynd pushed open the door of the pub and stepped inside. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see several long tables made of rough wood, mostly filled with patrons, on the left. To the right was a bar made of the same rough wood, stretching the length of the establishment. There were a few patrons standing at the bar drinking from flagons and seemingly enjoying themselves.

As he was taking in the scene, he noticed the noise from the patrons had abruptly ceased as they took turns staring at him. His heart dropped. Even in his own kingdom, he could not get away from the stigma of the O’Brien name.

He took a deep breath and approached the bar. Just as he passed, the first patron, an older warlock wearing a long brown tunic, turned and spat at Orlynd’s feet. Orlynd ignored the insult and took a seat on a stool at the farthest end of the bar where it was mostly empty.

Orlynd eyed the man behind the bar preparing food and drink for another patron seated at the opposite end of the counter.

“I will be with you shortly,” the chubby man said, acknowledging Orlynd. Everyone knew the warlock by the name of Brishen. He had been the owner of the pub for as long as Orlynd could remember. He was wearing a long dirty white apron over a rough green tunic. His dark brown curly hair and scruffy beard were the same as Orlynd remembered.

“Here is your colcannon, sir,” Brishen said, setting down a wooden spoon and bowl in front of the patron. “And your ale.” He placed a silver pint mug on the counter and poured ale into it.

Disgusted to be in the presence of Orlynd, the patron picked up his pint and chugged his ale, setting the empty mug down aggressively on the counter before expelling a loud burp.

Brishen ignored the man’s rudeness and smiled at Orlynd. “It is very good to see you alive and well, young warlock. News has travelled you have a new role?”

“Aye. Ah’m the king ay Vandolay’s new soothsayer, though Ah dinnae think Ah’m very good at it. May Ah inquire whit is all thit noise coming fir outside?”

“Noise?” questioned Brishen, perplexed. “Oh! I’m afraid a wooden gate is being constructed on Dragomir’s orders—meant to keep out outsiders, they say.”

“Outsiders?!” Orlynd gasped. “Since when wis the kingdom ay Aracelly about keeping people out? We ur peacekeepers. We watch over the stone treaty fir the kingdom ay Vandolay!”

“That’s true, however, times have changed. Well, ever since that nasty business with the Magulians anyway,” Brishen said.

Orlynd cringed at the mention of the Magulians.

“Caught a couple of men from Edesia trying to cause trouble here once. Gave me the impression their king intends on invading our land. Dragomir feels building a gate is the best way to protect our own.”

Orlynd tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh. “Ah’d like tae see them try. They cannae possibly eliminate us.”

“That’s what the Magulians thought before your father came along, breaking up their families and sending them out to drown in the sea.”

“Ah see.” Orlynd’s smile turned solemn. “Well,” Orlynd cleared his throat. “Ah should take ma leave.”

“Already? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. It is at least a three–day journey back to the kingdom of Vandolay. Certainly I can offer you lodgings for the night?”

Orlynd stood up from his stool and shook his head. “Ah dinnae know where Ah should be, but it is nae here. Ah wonder if thir will ever come a time when Ah’m nae haunted by whit ma father did.”

McKINNON ESTATE—GLENDALOW
1238 CE

“MIERTA!” MORTAIN shouted at the top of the stairs, hearing nothing but his own voice echo. Watching smoke drifting out of the open doorway, Mortain took in a deep breath and tried to slow down his heart. The aroma of acrid chemicals and burning flesh filled his nose.

“Mierta!” he shouted again. “Son, you all right?” He listened, hearing nothing more than what sounded like gasping breaths.

“Father,” Mierta mouthed in response to Mortain’s calls, unable to produce any sounds as he dropped to one knee. His heart was pounding. Each pulse matched the ache he felt in his temples. A deep burning pain seared through his chest every time he took a breath. It was like he was slowly being strangled and there was nothing he could do to stop it. The inside of his nose felt charred and his throat felt like he was swallowing tacks. He blinked, his eyesight blurring, the pain beginning to overwhelm him. Nausea built in his throat and droplets of sweat slid down the side of his face. He wished he could do anything to end the torture. He could not imagine dying would be much worse.

Mierta attempted to stand and tried to get away from the workbench. He managed a few staggering steps before his body was drained of all energy. He watched puffy white circling clouds fill his vision before everything was replaced by darkness.

Mortain felt his stomach drop at the sound of something breaking. “Mierta!” he screamed, racing down the stairs. “Mierta, answer me!”

When he reached the bottom, Mortain abruptly stopped, taking in the horrific scene before him. His son was unconscious; lying sprawled out on his back. What remained of a small culture tube lay shattered next to him, and chemicals dripping from a workbench bubbled and fizzled as they made contact with the hardwood floor.

Acidum salis, he thought, his eyes widening.

Mortain raised his arm to his mouth, careful to not inhale any of the smoke that was filling the room. He trembled as he came closer, observing the damage that had been done to the left side of his son’s face.

The skin was mostly raw red with patches of peeling burned black skin hanging off his face. Blood was seeping from some of the deep crevasses caused by the acid. Most of the damage was confined to the cheek and jaw area. His eye was spared any damage.

“Oh, my dear Lord,” he uttered, fear filling his heart. “My poor boy! What have I done?”

He placed a finger against the side of Mierta’s neck, dreading the worst as he checked for a pulse. He was awarded with a rapid but stable beat.

“Okay, that’s good,” he whispered to himself, breathing a sigh of relief. “He’s still alive. That’s very good.”

Mortain glanced around spotting where Mierta had last left his wand on the workbench and promptly retrieved it, placing it in his robe before returning.

“Hold on, son,” he said, lifting his son’s limp body into his arms and carrying him toward the door, a cough escaping him.

I have to get us out of this cloud of chemicals before I also succumb. Mortain thought.

“Armand!” Mortain shouted as he raced up the stairs.

“Oui, Monsieur McKinnon?” Armand said.

“Armand, there’s been a terrible accident. I need you to fetch some cloths, a pitcher of cool water, and a basin. Bring them to Mierta’s room at once! I fear his life is in grave danger.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” Armand answered, concern rising in his voice. He watched Mortain rush Mierta up the staircase to his bedroom.

Upon reaching his son’s room Mortain laid Mierta on the bed and removed his clothing, leaving on just his undergarments. A blue tint had already taken to the edges of his son’s lips and his breathing was too shallow.

“Hold on, Mierta,” Mortain urged.

Mierta’s breathing has been compromised, but his pulse is still strong. I must act quickly! he thought.

He reached into his robe, grasped Mierta’s wand and held it out toward his son. “Emaculavi el curpas y mehartis!”

However, the wand would not obey him.

“No, no, no! Don’t do this to me! I am not a Magulia, I am a warlock! I studied healing magic at Poveglia. It wasn’t my fault. I am a warlock!” Mortain cried, refusing to accept his ability to cast magic had been permanently removed.

Desperate, he placed the wand into his son’s hand, forcing him to grip it. He manipulated Mierta’s arm to aim the wand over his damaged face and yelled, “Emaculavi!”

Again, the wand would not respond.

“Emaculavi!”

After the wand failed to respond a third time, Mortain, disgusted, let Mierta’s hand, barely grasping the wand, drop to the bed. He buried his face into the edge of the bed.

A minute later, he came up with another idea. He calmed himself and glanced over to his son. Everything seemed hopeless, but deep down he believed Mierta would survive. He had to. He was a McKinnon after all, and there’s one thing McKinnon’s don’t do, and that’s give up easily.

Mortain decided to give his idea a try. “Mierta,” he said with urgency. “Listen to me. If you can hear me, open your eyes and take deeper breaths. Mierta?” He could hear the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

“Here is everything you requested, Monsieur McKinnon,” Armand said, entering the bedroom.

“Thank you, Armand,” Mortain answered as Armand placed a bowl and pitcher on the nightstand. “Quickly! Bring the basin closer to the bed.”

Once Armand had done so, Mortain gently lifted Mierta from the bed and positioned his head over it.

“Now, pour the water over his hair so we may remove any possible contaminants.”

“Oui, Monsieur,” Armand replied, lifting the pitcher off the nightstand. As he rinsed Mierta’s hair, he became alarmed by the damage to his master’s young son’s face and thought he no longer appeared alive. “Good Monsieur, is the young lord going to be all right? He’s awfully pale and barely breathing.”

“I don’t know,” Mortain answered, shaking his head. He soaked the cloth in the cold water basin and squeezed it, allowing the water to run down his son’s face. “His heartbeat is strong, but his breathing is of concern to me. There are burns and swelling in his mouth and throat, preventing him from being able to take deep breaths.”

“Will he wake soon?”

“It is doubtful. His body is using all the energy he has left to stay alive. Oh, Armand, what have I done? This is all my fault! As advanced as my son is, he is still just a boy. I should have never left him alone,” Mortain muttered, dunking the cloth again.

“Monsieur?”

“Even if he should survive,” he explained, squeezing the cloth again over Mierta, “my son’s face will never fully heal. He will be scarred for the remainder of his life. I don’t know if he will be able to accept that. He is already too burdened. It’s not fair. My son, oh my poor boy!”

After fifteen minutes passed, he lifted Mierta again, laid him on the bed and wrapped him in warm blankets. Soaking the cloth once more, he carefully placed it directly over the raw skin.

Mortain then knelt down beside the bed to pray. “My Lord,” Mortain said, folding his hands in prayer, tears forming in his eyes. “What have I done to offend thee so? First, you took my magic and then you took my wife. I beseech you! Do not take my son. Don’t take him. Please.”

“Monsieur McKinnon!” Armand called with urgency, having noticed a change in Mierta’s condition.

“Not now Armand,” Mortain rejected.

“I beg to differ, Monsieur. Mierta has stopped breathing. I fear he’s dying.”

“What?” Mortain questioned with disbelief. He gazed over at his son, pulling back the covers for confirmation. Mierta’s chest had gone still and his stomach was no longer moving. “Mierta?” He asked in a whisper, tears falling down his face. He leaned in to listen, verifying he could no longer hear air moving.

“No, Mierta,” he said, persuading. “It is not your time. Please, son, I beg you, breathe! Breathe! Don’t give in.”

Mortain gazed up at the ceiling again and held his hands together in prayer. “My Lord, please! He’s just a little boy! Spare him!”

Promptly wiping away the tears with his hands, he laid his ear over the centre of Mierta’s chest, grateful to hear his son’s heart still beating, though it was now fluttering even more rapidly. He lifted his head, and gently laid a hand over Mierta’s left breast.

Mortain’s mind hastily concluded, He’s still alive, but only just. His face is starting to take on a bluish skin tone. It is only a matter of minutes before I lose my son.

He stared down at Mierta’s body, willing his son to take another breath. Only it remained the same.

“Please, Mierta. Please, son, breathe!” he cried. Then, he began to consult with himself. “What am I missing? Lungs are badly injured, and his throat and mouth are swollen…they must be preventing him from being able to breathe in a lying position. That’s it!”

He turned and spoke with authority, “Armand, assist me, quickly! My son must be repositioned before it’s too late!”

“Oui, Monsieur McKinnon.”

Armand adjusted the pillows on the bed while Mortain carefully lifted his son so he was in a sitting position.

“Do you believe he is going to be all right now, Monsieur?” Armand questioned, watching Mortain lay a finger on the side of Mierta’s neck, checking his pulse.

They both watched intensely Mierta for any changes.

Come on, this has to work! Breathe, Mierta, please! I cannot lose you…

Mortain sighed with relief when he witnessed Mierta start to breathe again on his own, even if it was shallow.

“That, I regret, is yet to be determined,” Mortain explained, his face filled with worry. “Mierta must be closely monitored until his lungs heal. There is still a possibility he could stop breathing again or worse, his heart might decide to stop beating. I shall keep vigil and examine him further at first sunlight when I can determine what other treatments may be best for him. The most important thing now is that he be kept quiet and rest.”

Armand nodded. “Oui, Monsieur McKinnon. I shall go fetch a nightshirt for the young lord. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to assist you.”

“Thank you, Armand,” Mortain answered, smiling graciously.

MIERTA STIRRED when he felt something touch the surface of his lips. It was cold and wet. He tried to open his eyes but the lids felt heavy and sticky.

“No, Mierta,” he heard his father say. “Don’t try to open your eyes. You are still very weak. You’ve been unconscious for two days. Your lips are dry and cracking. I shall give you something to drink, but sip it with caution. Your throat is still very swollen.”

Mierta parted his lips slightly and felt a cool wet sensation as his father spooned water into his mouth. The wetness seemed to disappear as soon as it touched his parched tongue. “Mmmmore,” he managed to croak out.

A slight smile crossed Mortain’s lips as he heard his son speak. “Just a little more, son. Don’t want to do too much all at once.” He spooned another small portion of water into Mierta’s mouth.

This time Mierta could feel the cool water go down his throat. Confusion clouded his mind as it seemed to burn him. He coughed in an attempt to stop the burning.

Mortain crinkled his brow with concern. He set the cup and spoon down on the bedside table. He poured a spoonful of a tincture he had brewed earlier. “It’s all right, son. I shall give you something to relieve the pain.”

He carefully spooned it into Mierta’s mouth and watched as the potion quickly took effect.

“Sleep my boy. You’ll be all right, now.”