A party arrived with torches. There was Ondego, along with the silver-haired healer that Rem did not know by name, and a few other Fifth Warders. Under the undulating glare of their torches, Rem could finally see that Torval’s face was ashen, that the pool of blood spreading beneath him was large and growing larger. Torval’s blood looked black in the torchlight. The sight of it made Rem feel ill and helpless, like a child.
Ondego took charge of the scene instantly. He set three of the watchwardens on Masarda, to heave him to his feet, bind him, and see him quickly back to the dockside. Then, with the quick, sure hands and eyes of a surgeon, Ondego rolled Torval over to get a better look at his wound. It was deep, still seeping dark blood. Rem imagined the dwarf’s liver had probably been punctured. If that was the case …
“Minniver?” Ondego asked, addressing the mage.
The very same healer that had mended Sliviwit’s broken ankle that evening in the watchkeep slid forward. She had an air of assurance and confidence about her that set Rem at ease a little: her eyes were deep, dark pools of indigo and her mouth never betrayed emotion, be it fear or concern or even undue pride. Her young, smooth face and mane of silver hair were alien and incongruous, making it impossible for Rem to guess her age. As he watched, she examined Torval’s bleeding wound, then gave a curt nod.
“I think I can save him,” Minniver said, then looked to Ondego again. “But I need someone to draw from.”
Ondego looked to Rem.
Rem blinked. “Draw …?”
“His life force is dwindling as he bleeds out,” Minniver said, never taking her eyes off Torval’s wound. “I need to take life from elsewhere to give his body enough energy to close the wound and start replenishing his blood supply.”
“Take life …?” Rem repeated dumbly.
Minniver threw a cold glare at him. “Will you or won’t you? You’re young and strong, so you’re the best—”
“I’ll do it,” Rem interrupted. “Just tell me what I need to do.”
Minniver took one of Rem’s hands in one of hers, then placed her free hand on Torval’s bleeding wound. The dwarf groaned a little, but barely stirred. He was right at the edge of consciousness.
“Hold him still,” Minniver told Ondego. “This will hurt.”
Ondego held Torval’s shoulders. Another watchman held his legs. They were ready.
Then it began.
It was the strangest feeling that Rem had ever known. As if he could feel the heat and vitality of his body—its most latent energies, so easily taken for granted—flowing away through his palm and his fingers into Minniver … flowing away and leaving him weak, cold, tingling all over as though he had just awakened from a too-long nap under a snow-capped tree. Rem felt himself start to tremble, felt his skin begin to prickle with moisture and gooseflesh.
Beneath Minniver’s hands, Torval groaned and suddenly stiffened. Ondego and the watchman on Torval’s legs both held him still. Clearly, something was happening, a pain that cut right through Torval’s deathly stupor and snatched him back toward the surface of consciousness. Likewise, Minniver kept her hand pressed against the wound, never losing contact. Rem realized she was muttering something—incantations in an ancient tongue, no doubt some component of the magical transfusion ritual she was enacting.
Then Rem’s vision started to fill with a broad, black cloud. Upon that cloud there were whirling stars and fireflies. He heard a buzzing in his ears.
“Prefect,” he said, his voice sounding far away.
“He’s going white,” he heard Ondego say, also from far away.
“Just a moment longer,” Minniver answered.
Torval suddenly howled in pain. Rem blinked away the fireflies for a moment and saw the dwarf’s compact little body buck and arc. Then the darkness and the fireflies returned, and Rem felt himself drifting away again.
Finally, Minniver let go of him. That vague feeling of having something sucked away from him, something that his body needed and could not live without, subsided almost instantly. Despite the relief he felt, Rem couldn’t help but collapse. He toppled backward onto the earthen floor of the alleyway and gulped air, desperate to regain his vision and his senses. Vaguely, he heard Ondego shouting at him from very far away, shouting his name and slapping something, again and again.
Ondego was slapping him. Once, twice, three times the prefect’s rough hand whacked Rem’s face. Rem felt a heat rising in his cheeks in response to the hard strikes, and found himself vaguely delighted that he could feel something again. When Ondego moved to strike him a fourth time, Rem raised one hand weakly.
“Please,” he managed. “I’m here. I’m awake.”
Ondego did something then that both encouraged and unnerved Rem: the hard-faced prefect smiled. It was a warm smile, a genuine smile, but seemed strangely out of place on Ondego’s face. “Good lad,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t desert us.”
He helped Rem to sit upright. Rem’s vision was finally clearing. In the torchlight, he saw Minniver bending over Torval. The dwarf lay on his side, his wound clearly visible.
Or rather, the place where his wound had been was clearly visible. There was still a great deal of blood smeared all about the lower part of Torval’s flank and back, but if Rem’s eyes did not deceive him, the dwarf’s wound was now fully closed, marked only by a rough drawn-in patch of scar tissue. It looked like a wound that had been closed for weeks, not just moments. Minniver, for her part, was exhausted and haggard. Nonetheless, she attended Torval kindly, whispering to him, asking him how he felt and whether or not he thought he could sit up. Rem saw Torval nod, and then Minniver helped him sit. The dwarf was deathly pale, but there was something like the rose of life blooming in his cheeks once more, the light of life seeping back into his small blue eyes.
Rem lay there, held up by Ondego, staring at Torval, who was held up by Minniver. The young man and the dwarf smiled at each other.
“You look like the sundry hells warmed over,” Torval croaked.
“You’re welcome,” Rem countered, and the two managed a round of weak, relieved laughter.