Fumbling with the key in his left hand, Jexson knocked aside the offer of help from the straw-head, Wolfrun, and all but forced the door. It swung open with a soft creak. He headed for his chair by the table, thinking if Wolfrun and Davion were not with him, he would have just collapsed on his bed.
His head was spinning, his muscles ached, his mangled finger throbbed and leaked a little more blood through the makeshift bandage.
Warton Hayfield was dead, killed by that Elf Witch. Tomas Thornberry and Bob Weeder had been taken down by that damnable hidden Elf Archer. That left him with three of his original six men. Good men, loyal to him and like-minded concerning Elves.
He kicked at a table leg, almost breaking it. He had to get a grip.
“Davion, go fetch one of the local healers. Merrybell will do. Yes, I know she isn’t the best, but she keeps her mouth shut.” With no further objection, Davion Witch-Slayer rose to his feet and headed to the door.
“Wolfrun, get me a whisky from the bar. Make it a large one.”
With a nod, the Rohir left. Jexson considered him for a moment. He was the only one to come away from the attempt at revenge with a sackload of valuables: gold and silver ornaments, and at least one box full of cut gemstones, if he was not mistaken. He had considered telling Wolfrun to divide his spoils, but no, each man deserved what he himself had acquired. He chuckled, patting his coat pocket, knowing there were eight gold and silver bangles, each set with sea-coloured stones. They would likely fetch a tidy sum at auction. Elf-smithed, nothing made by the hands of Men could come even close in beauty. Why he could almost smell the sea and hear the gulls cry when he touched them.
He forced himself to relax, just a little. “That’s one for you, Bramwell,” he said aloud. “There will be more. I will get that High Lord and his lackeys. I will get those who killed you brother.”
Then Davion was back with the rosy-cheeked, brown haired Merrybell. Merry by name, merry by nature, he had always thought. And she didn’t ask questions.
“What ‘ave yer done now, Jexson love?” she said, dropping her feathered leather healing bag on the table.
He held out his hand to show her.
“Bitten, eh. That be some bite.” She carefully removed the bloodied bandage. It hurt, but he wasn’t going to let on. She leant closer and prodded the livid red flesh. “Well that needs seeing to right enough. Here, I need ter clean it now, and I will give you a tincture ter rub on it every day fer a week.”
Opening her bag, Merrybell rummaged a little, taking out small bottles and putting them back.
“Can you hurry up, Merry. It feels like it’s on fire.”
The healer nodded. “That be magic. I will put a spell on yer finger as well. It will cost though.”
“Do what you damn well need to. I need my hand working again.”
With a grunt of approval Merrybell drew out a purple coloured liquid. Set it on the table and unstopped the top.
“Water?” she asked.
Jexson nodded at Wolfrun, who moved over to the bed and took up the pail.
Merrybell had taken out three small strips of white linen. She set several drops in the pail of water, and then put a strip in it. Taking out the dripping strip, she carefully cleaned Jexson’s finger, muttering strange words as she did. “Litho lotho, beatha botho ding dang bing bang bong.”
Jexson wasn’t impressed. He had heard better ‘spells’ from drunkards in the allies.
“Purple water, purple water, now do your spell,
Make this ill man to be well. Namarie.”
But as the healer cleaned the wound, the heat and pain lessened. She was doing something right.
“It’s the ‘namarie’ that does it, love. It means ‘Do as I say’, and I say yer be well.”
He nodded his thanks.
“Now do the same every day fer a week, an say the words, them last words. ‘Namarie’ is ter be loud, ‘cause yer telling the pain and heat that yer will be done on em.”
She looked at him quizzically for a moment. “I not be asking what happened, understand, but that looks like someone bit yer finger very hard. It’s not a big wound, but yer keep an eye on it. I know of folk who shut their finger in a door or someones mouth, and it went blue an yellow an green an black.”
“So?”
“They died. “ She held out her hand for payment.
Jexson sighed and dropped six silver coins in her palm.
“Call on me if it gets worse. I not be wanting yer to die, Jexson.” She put the remaining linen back in her bag, and pushed the bottle of purple liquid in his direction.
Jexson waved her away with his good hand. If he wasn’t as fond of her, he would have sent her on her way with naught. What was that ‘spell’ again? He laughed at himself. ‘Namarie,’ he said to Merrybell, knowing at the least it was an elvish word. What it meant was anyone’s guess.
But the pain was much lessened that he almost felt in a good mood. He needed to make more plans of course. One dead Elf Witch didn’t settle the score. Now he had three more men to avenge.
Wolfrun returned with better medicine. One very large glass of whisky. He stood aside as Merrybell left.
“This is the best medicine here, boss,” he said. “Oh, and the barkeep said a letter arrived for you.”
The Rohir placed both glass and letter on the table, then looked to Davion then back at Jexson’s hand.
The big man downed the whisky in one, coughing just a little. He left a very small amount in the bottom of the glass, and dipped his bitten finger in it, moistening the cotton strip.
“Better medicine inside and out.”
“What do we do now, boss?” asked Davion, rather hesitantly. He blinked a lot.
“We rest for a week, then see if we can find out where the three Elf demons are,” Jexson opened the letter with a little difficulty. “Did either of you see if that elf man was dead?”
Davion and Wolfrun exchanged glances.
“My brother deserves more than one dead Elf…so do your friends.”
“He should be dead,” said the renegade Horse Lord, “But I did not see it with my own eyes.”
Davion nodded, his expression darkening as he thought back. “At the least, he will never stand again.”
“Elves heal fast. I know that,” Jexson finally pulled the contents from the filthy envelope. “Never wound them. Make sure they are dead. Now what is this?”
He turned the page around, trying to make out what he could. “Where has…ow…no…noo!”
“Boss?” the two men said as one.
Jexson turned so the letter was in the full light coming through the window.
“It’s all the way from the borders with Angmar. Who knows how this was brought here. And it’s from Naraal.”
There was silence while Jexson read. Then he put the letter aside and pushed back in the chair.
“Well we may not have thought it, but luck was on our side earlier today. Naraal’s new boss wants the three elves we set out to kill. He wants them alive and unharmed.”
“But we want to harm them,” protested Davion. “And we don’t know where they are even for that.”
Musing for a few minutes, Jexson eventually laughed coldly. “Maybe we visit them rats again? Maybe we send word to our friends at Ost Guruth, to watch for travellers. One thing's for certain, we will find them. And I have no concern that Naraal's new ‘friend’ will do far worse to them than any of us can.” He picked up his empty glass. “Wolfrun, if you would…three large whiskys for us, and get word to the rest of the men.”
