Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Crossing the river was a glorious affair. Fatty seemed eager and happy to transport Sunday and even threw an expectant gaze toward Arten, who, after some mocking from Sunday finally bit the bullet and stepped onto the massive alligator’s back.

Sunday tried to remain standing, striking a majestic pose as he rode the monstrous lizard to the other shore. However, it lasted only for a brief moment before he lost his balance and Arten had to pull him down to the scaly back. At the very least the waters took care of some of the mud caking his feet.

What Sunday assumed was Fatty’s girlfriend swam in circles around them, making bubbles with the newly healed horn-nose. It seemed happy and not even half as savage as the first time he had seen the strange alligators. Kind of cute, in a many-teethed way.

As they reached the shore, Sunday bid goodbye to the Fatty. It was highly likely this was the last time they would meet as returning to the swamp was one of the last things he would ever do. The alligator did his signature opening and closing of his jaw, added a little wiggle of the head, and submerged itself seconds later, probably not understanding that his benefactor was leaving him for good.

“Did you really heal that horned lizard with a slap?” Arten asked, still in disbelief as they watched the alligators disappear.

“What’s so strange about it? The world is full of weird things.”

“But… a slap! And it let you!”

“I’ve my reputation among the beasts of the world.” Can alligators start rumors? Damn, I should’ve told Fatty to tell others about me!

The bag was where he had left it thankfully. That was a weight off of Sunday’s shoulders – metaphorically, as the bag was quite heavy and weighed him down when he put it on. Nothing too bad for his undead capabilities.

“Is it a talent? Did Jishu let you slap him around?”

“Yes. A healing slap,” Sunday lied. Maybe this was for the better. Maybe Arten was the key to how rumors started? Ha! Imagine if people come to me and beg to get slapped. That would be a thing worthy of a legend! He wasn’t sure it was the precise image he wanted for himself, but it was sure to earn him a pretty penny. Doctors were always welcome everywhere, and it didn’t seem he needed a formal education to be one in a world of magic.

“What are you?” Arten whispered next to him.

Rather than answer, Sunday responded with a question of his own. “Tell me, have you heard of capitalism?”

“No?” Bingo. Tremble world, for I am coming.

“How about…” he felt the shivers run down his spine as he leaned further, “democracy?”

“What?”

“You know, elections, fraud, corporations buying politicians, and all of that jazz?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Half those words sound made up.”

“Technically, all words are made up but that’s not the point. Forget it.” Will I be burned at the stake if I try to rile some people up, or do the stronger mages keep a tight leash on everything? I could always share some ideas around and see what happens. Worst case I ignite a revolution. That’s one way to get some stories running and start building up fame. Ah, I love getting creative. I should’ve gone to proper school after all… Sunday had read textbooks and books. The orphans were a well-read bunch on the old drunken bastard's insistence, to the surprise of anyone outside their circle. Sure, he had preferred stories about superheroes and monsters, but most kids did.

“Is that last thing something related to… demons?” Arten asked carefully. There was worry in the man’s eyes.

“What, democracy? No,” Sunday frowned. “I think. I’m not an expert on the subject. It’s like… choosing your leaders by voting. Doing what you want. Freedom and stuff.” Even if freedom means rummaging through the garbage bins for scraps while others rot in gluttony.

“Leaders of what?”

“Countries. Not just one though, many.”

“But who will enforce the vote?”

“What do you mean who, the masses that voted!”

“I kind of understand. We chose our village’s chief by a majority vote. But what if someone powerful disagrees? Can’t he just… force the masses to do what he wants them to? Nobles don’t take kindly to weaklings telling them what to do.”

“Well, technically yes. I imagine it would be more complicated, like control of information, bribes, and lots and lots of lying… Ah, man. Forget it. You killed it.” Magic will piss on all that bullshit. Maybe it’s a good thing, who knows? I still haven’t seen much of the world.

A happy croaking sound made them both turn just in time to see the green and strange face of their toad companion. Arten greeted her with a smile and Sunday smiled too. She looked at him, and his head, then seemed to frown in a strange kind of toad way. She croaked out a bunch of sounds that came off almost as annoyed.

“I think she’s mad you don’t have the wreath she gave you,” Arten helpfully explained.

The gall on this… “I lost it during the struggle with the spell. Tell her I’m sorry.”

Arten opened his mouth and seemed to hesitate, “I don’t know how.”

“Think of something then. I’ve got bigger problems than a mad toad lady. Like getting out of this shithole for example. Come on, we’re losing daylight!”

Sunday walked forward and the two companions reluctantly followed. Something moved in the distance of the swamp, and he squinted trying to see better. For a brief moment, he thought it had been one of Jishu’s ghouls. However, the monsters had shown nothing but fear and reluctance to get close to him after the undead perished. Must be my paranoia.

He heard Arten explain something to the toad lady, but he didn’t care either way. He wouldn’t see them again after dealing with the village and ensuring little Pearl was safe. It’s just wrong to use a child, no matter if she’s a little devil or an angel. Goddamn pricks. Arten sounds genuine, but he’s still after selfish goals. Listen to me. Like I’m not.

With Arten leading the way it didn’t take them long to reach a familiar place. At least Sunday convinced himself it was familiar. All the trees and mud did little to jog his memory.

“We’re getting close. I’ll have her wait here, just in case,” Arten said.

You expect things to go bad, huh? “Just for the record. I’m not dying for you or the child. The villagers didn’t seem that strong but I’m just a lone undead and your spells seem less than helpful.”

Arten gripped the broken sword he had been lunging around. “I’m Pearl’s guardian first, a mage second. It’s a pity I don’t have spells suited for me, but I’ll make do. Don’t worry.”

I’ll try. “Give me an hour to recover a bit.”

Arten lifted an eyebrow but didn’t argue. The man was impatient and walked back and forth the whole time, making Sunday almost lash out. Once the art took over, however, all was well.

The Black Breath came naturally and a little more than an hour later Sunday was as good as new. The way things were working out so far rank one magi seemed to become useless after a few casts. Having to spend hours recovering after four to five uses of his spells was a pain, and it forced him to try and be smart. He was still unsure how much essence the Smash Ball would need, but it felt different than the other two spells. It wasn’t as greedy for essence, and it was also yet to fully calm down.

Just to be on the safe side of not having to stab people with Jishu’s sword, Sunday hacked off a thick branch to use as a club. The sword was amazingly sharp considering the state of everything else in Jishu’s life, so it didn’t take much effort. A bat had been Sunday’s weapon of choice when he had to use one. It was simple and did the job well. It also held a certain charm that was lacking in most weapons meant for maiming and killing.

“Let’s go.”

***

The village was almost as he remembered, with nets surrounding it probably to stop any stray animals from approaching. Thin green vapor was crawling on the ground and rising higher the further they went. It reminded Sunday of something, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps all the fumes in the city? He hoped it was not anything bad for dead people.

Vague humanoid shapes could be seen further into the village – in the small clearing left between the circle of huts. They stood unmoving like scarecrows waiting to do their duty, frozen in various poses. Something struck him as wrong. Violence didn’t scare him, but magic did as much as it excited him.

As Sunday stepped closer to Arten a feeling took hold of his stomach and spread through his body. It was a feeling of utter disgust, of repulsion, as if his stomach had been stuffed full of rotting food. He knelt on the ground and started heaving, trying to clear the foul taste off of his soul. Something wet dropped down from his right eye and slowly streaked down the side of his face. He reached to touch it. It was black liquid – a tear, or a drop of blood he didn’t know. What in God’s name is this?

Arten paused before the net. He was pale but in a much better shape than Sunday. The toad had been left behind in the swamp – a great mercy if one had to guess.

“Something’s wrong,” Arten said. The man’s voice came hoarse and anxiety-ridden as if his throat had become a dry chasm.

No shit Sherlock. Can’t things be simple for once?

Arten quickly unhooked the net from the tree it was attached to, not allowing Sunday much time to protest, and charged inside.

This moron… Sunday stood up and steeled himself, fighting the invasive sensation. He had come this far already, and he was not one to tremble in the face of putrid tasks. He unshouldered his bag and quickly secured it between the tree and the net, then followed.

The further he went, the worse the strange green vapor became. It was not mist, but more like smoke and Sunday quickly stopped his breathing. He didn’t need it, thankfully. But Arten doesn’t have the same luxury.

A light orb lit up the surroundings like a miniature sun and Sunday rushed toward it at the same moment Arten’s curses reached his ears.

The light seemed to push back at the green vapor somewhat and Sunday saw the nearest human shape. It was one of the villagers, hands stuck like claws to her face. Thick pus-filled blisters were covering the woman’s visible skin, and wounds seemed to sprout upon her out of thin air. She stood half kneeling on the ground, almost as if she were a statue. Only her eyes darted around in horror. They went from Arten to Sunday and back.

Is it poison? Sunday wanted to speak but he was afraid that the green vapor was responsible, so he held his tongue. The look in the woman’s eyes made him uncomfortable. Arten had tied a damp cloth around his face too, which only made Sunday more worried. This was not what he signed up for. Not at all.

The horror only grew as he saw a barely perceptible shift in the woman’s body as if she was growing thinner. It was a slow process, but he was sure it was not his imagination playing tricks.

Brief thoughts of fleeing back into the swamp crossed his mind but he shook his head. He couldn’t do so now. The very image of living like Jishu, caked in mud and rotting in this forsaken place was enough to make his nerves settle. Whatever it was they were up against, it was probably a better option than having only a bunch of crazy alligators as companions. All he needed was a map, then he could leave it all behind.

The rest of the villagers they examined were in the same state. Most of the doors were open and they could see more people inside, bundled together and frozen, pus-filled wounds and blisters slowly growing on their bodies. The thickening green vapor was obscuring most of their vision, but Arten knew where he was going and Sunday followed. He gripped his wooden bat and wondered if perhaps the sword wasn’t the smarter option.

It took them only a couple of steps to reach one of the sources of the vapor – a brazier filled with herbs that were bleeding green smoke. There was a small, barely fist-sized fire beneath the bundle which Arten stomped over with his mud-covered foot.

A moving shape made Sunday turn sharply and raise his bat. He calmed down as he saw who it was. It was one of the village’s undead residents – an old man with barely any flesh left on his arms and thighs. He was a short thin thing and raised his hands when Sunday looked at him.

The vapor seemed to be clearing up around them. Arten touched the herbs and dried them out almost in an instant making them into dust and stopping any remaining vapor from coming out.

The undead watched them with wariness but didn’t flee. His eyes lit up when he recognized Arten.

“Where’s Pearl?” Arten barked at the man, who took a step back.

The man pointed toward the largest wooden building at the end, near the place where Sunday had initially fallen. “They – they took her. The community hall! They are praying! A sacrifice! Please! Please!”

Arten’s eyes widened, and he rushed in the direction the undead was pointing toward.

Sunday gave the scared undead one last look and followed. He switched the bat from one hand to the other – his palms were growing itchy.