The Healer’s Touch — “Invisible To Death”
Chapter I/XIV
“The Healer never dies,” said the captain. His answer to a soldier’s question hung over them like the grey clouds. Then heavy rain started pouring.
The Healer saw the warrior’s confusion. The soldier stared at the Healer who wore no armor at all. Just simple black clothes wrapped around the tall, thin figure. The strains of gray hair that ran through his brown mane quickly darkened as they soaked up the raindrops. The Healer ran his fingers through his hair, securing it in place for the fight to come.
“You mean he won’t fight on the front lines?” asked the man for clarification.
His leader shook his head “He just never dies.”
The captain exchanged a quick look with the Healer. After all these battles, the captain had become comfortable in the Healer’s presence. Most of the soldiers who had fought on his side still got the chills when they saw him. Being around him was both a privilege to seek as well as a curse to avoid.
The soldier shot him a confused look that the Healer knew so well. The warrior gave up asking questions on why the man next to him in line wasn’t wearing neither chainmail nor carrying any medic supplies. The Healer wore no backpack with bandages, shears and tourniquets, only the red band around his upper arm that identified him as a healer. High boots covered his feet, but, despite the cold season, his hands were bare.
The soldiers in the row resumed watching the valley, spears raised, shield wall closed. Icy rain made midday feel like dusk. Autumn stung like winter in the old winds. Black cliffs loomed over each side of the valley, locking in the river. The waters meandered through the shallow gravel field that leveled the valley floor.
The Healer fingered his beard. He hadn’t had time to shave since they ran into the enemy army. For almost two weeks they had been on the run. By the time they finally located the pass that could allow them to escape to the south, the enemy knew the lay of the land better and had cut them off.
Desperation drove them through the valley, up towards the mountain with winter on their heels. They had dug too deep into enemy territory and found themselves isolated from supplies, allies and shelter in the south. They had to cross the mountains. Only death awaited them here in the north. In this tight corner, breaking through the enemy lines marked the difference between life and death.
Waiting for the fight often felt worse for a soldier than the battle itself. If he didn’t watch his thoughts, he could paint the slaughter red before it even began. Most of the men mumbled prayers, uttered jokes or chatted over whatever else could grant them the relief of distraction.
But the Healer knew better. He had been in the thick of battle, the brutality, the violence, the torment. He knew the pain. He had seen it, taken it, devoured it, conquered it.
He felt the enemy’s approach under his feet before he could hear them through the rain’s thunder. Their grey shades drifted into the valley like fog. The weather was so dense that only as they halted on the other side, did the shapes of individual men become distinguishable.
And so, it begins anew, he thought. War begat war since the stroke of the first sword. To this day, he had found no other way than to heal humanity one by one of this disease. Often, he found himself wondering if all he’d ever accomplish was to ease their suffering.
The time for brooding thoughts was cut short when the chieftain screamed words of encouragement to his army, words the Healer didn’t understand over the roaring rain.
He caught the arm of the curious soldier. “If you want to live,” he whispered, “stay close to me.” He had objected the battle plan, but his authority lay in healing, not the design of killing with maximum impact.
Drumming their spears against their shields, the army began to move forward in unison. The first three contingents fused to a wedge as they stormed forward.
The Healer felt the men’s excitement, heard their roars to find courage and sensed their dread. He started running with the warriors around him. The lines all but broke as they assaulted, finally free to face their fears, eager to destroy the army that stood between them and a safe return south.
The enemy didn’t move. The flight of arrows replaced the shimmering rain. Soldiers on both sides of the conflict raised their shields. The enemy had formed an effective shield wall, whereas the soldiers around the Healer failed to protect their bodies in full. He saw them take hits, in the shoulders, hips and legs. Some ran on unharmed, some stumbled injured, others fell dead.
“Put your shields up, fools!” he thundered. “Reform the lines!”
He was no commander, but more often than not he found himself as the only one not losing his head in the rear lines.
He stopped short, grabbed two men who had suffered arrows into their torsos and dragged them to safety behind a large, black boulder. He laid the unconscious one flat on the ground while he rested the other one against the rock. “Don’t move the arrow!” he warned. The man nodded, trying to keep his hands off the projectile protruding from the center of his chest.
The Healer leaned over the fainted soldier. The arrow had cracked where it had left his lower back, so he couldn’t just pull it out. Quickly he turned the body sideways, tore off the tip and grabbed the arrow at the rear. He pulled and blood spilled over his hand, but he got it out. Without delay he pressed his hands on either side of the wound and closed his eyes.
He knew the pain, had taken it uncounted times before. Yet every time it was something unique. It was the pain the person felt, linked to all hopes that were fading and all fears that were mounting. The torment ripped his eyes open. Pain made time slow down, freeze almost. He saw the white light glow underneath his palms and the wounds heal shut. He paid the pain.
Everything around him appeared through a haze. Soldiers were bulking under a shell of shields, finally dodging the arrows. Then he saw what was not supposed to happen. A regiment of cavalry surged from behind the enemy lines towards the wedge the men had formed. He didn’t have enough time to witness the end of the attack.
The Healer yanked his hands back, gasped and turned. The other man had fainted. He pressed his bloodstained fingers against the side of the soldier’s throat. He was dead.
“Cursed be the war,” he swore and pressed the healed but still unconscious man against the rock. He rose and tried to gauge the battlefront. Chaos greeted him. The wedge had been ground down by the horsemen before it even had taken effect. The captains tried to close the broken lines and organize a defense, but the enemy was already pushing forward on the flanks, forcing them into the middle, threatening to surround them.
The Healer sprinted forward. Many of the leaders had already fallen and confusion was about to take the day. He stumbled over a captain who had been pierced by a spear. Judging by the angle of entry, he had been pinned down by a horseman. The man gasped in agony, but was still alive.
With an ugly sucking sound, he ripped the spear out and pressed his hand down. This time he didn’t open his eyes to take the slowed time and evaluate the crisis. He simply grabbed the man by the collar, yanked him to his feet and cried, “Lead your men!”
A moment later, another cavalry attack broke through a weak line of soldiers and mowed down all soldiers in the Healer’s immediate surroundings. Black shadows of horses, legs, blood and steel streamed past him like a flood. As abruptly as they’d appeared, the riders passed, leaving a mess of broken bones, gored flesh and smashed organs behind. The Healer closed his eyes for a second, but he knew, this image would be engraved in his mind forever.
“Rally to the center! Rally to the center!” Loud commands re-echoed from the cliffs. The Healer knew they were as lost in the valley’s middle as everywhere else. They had sacrificed holding the gorge from cliff to cliff for a stratagem that had failed. Maybe the center would at least allow them to gather and retreat in something less than blown-out disorder.
There was no use trying to heal men that had been ridden down. He didn’t have enough time. Their wounds were too complex. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a spear fly towards him. He didn’t bother to dodge. It missed by a few inches. He hastened on to the center.
He reached the lines of his allies again and found the captains in the middle, trying in desperation to make a stand. The Healer put his hands on the shoulder of a leader where a sword wound gaped open, the flesh torn down to the bone. White light flashed, silence reigned for but a moment, pain swept through the Healer’s soul, then the arm was healed.
“We need to regain the flanks!” shouted one of the chieftains.
“Signal the archers to tackle the enemy on the sides!” said another.
“The battle is lost,” roared the Healer. “We must retreat. Have the archers back our flight!”
“You have no authority here!” cried the first.
“Arrows!” sounded the warning cry. The Healer launched himself over the man next to him, shielding him with his body. The hail rained straight into the center, plucking down the leadership in an instant. Their army had given itself as an easy target to the enemy archers by gathering so close.
The Healer saw the man under him unharmed. His eyes found the chief captain. An arrow protruded from the man’s forehead, sealing his doom. The Healer faced the second in command down. “Lead them to safety!”
His cloak was bolted down by arrows, so he ripped it off and jumped over to another captain, who had sustained minor injuries. “Have the men retreat before it’s too late!” he urged the man while healing the wounds.
The defense line broke and again another charge of diminishing cavalry ravaged through the ranks. Shields and swords were no use against this wave of devastation.
“Run!” the Healer yelled.
Obeying his command, men tried to disengage. Some were abandoned by their companions as they were unable to turn from a fight.
So little! There is so little I can do! He pulled up a man that was stumbling, his knee bleeding with a will of its own. He healed it, tossed the man forward and made him run. When will I ever be done?
A horseman hit him from behind and he was launched forward into the stream. He turned around and saw the horse coming at him. A random arrow yanked the animal aside. The waters had turned red, corpses covering the rocks. Men cut down like sheaves of wheat.
The Healer got up, men running on all sides, some screaming, some chasing, swords high, others being trampled to death. He joined the flow of men, trying to help wherever he was confident his gift would work fast enough.
His left hand pulled up a soldier who had fallen, a spear in his leg. He saw the man’s face. The curious young lad from earlier! His gift reached for the damage, time decelerated once more. In the silence of the frozen moment, he saw the enemy archers. They chased the fleeing army alongside their infantry. The bows released their lethal cargo in the moment the Healer saw them. He tried to get his body between the projectiles and the man in his hands, but he couldn’t. The arrows beat him in speed.
The young man was ripped out of his hand and fell dead. For a moment, the silencing effect of his gift held on, but burst under the fire of his anger as he screamed out his frustration against the oncoming enemy.
Another array of arrows flew past him, then a single one in the opposite direction. Their own archers finally gave them some backing.
The Healer found himself unable to move. His anger paralyzed him. Stop slaughtering them! They are already retreating!
Another man was hewn down right beside him. Something within himself snapped. He reached down and took up a sword. He knew he shouldn’t do this.
He ran against the enemy, rammed his sword in a man’s gut, sliced it across another’s throat, dodged a spear and kicked the bearer to the ground. “Stop pursuing them!” he screamed, felling another man with a backhand strike. “Fall back!” Have I gone mad? I will only entice them to more anger.
A whole bulk of men jumped at him, but his blade was faster. He chopped off an arm, blew a sword out of a hand, and broke a shield with a two-handed slice. His blade turned around in the form of a crescent moon, giving him a moment of respite. “Stop the pursuit!” He should flee now. He might be invincible, but they could still capture him.
He saw the men around him hesitate. He had no scratch, there wasn’t a single wound on his whole body. The rain had washed off all the blood from the soldiers he had healed. Again, he heard the arrows’ howls. “Let them flee!” He felt his throat go sore.
The men around him halted. More and more stopped short and ended their blind rage. The Healer’s breath and racing heart slowed. He had done it! He had stopped …
An arrow protruded straight through his flesh, somewhere between his chest and left shoulder. He yanked sideways, but a step back saved him from falling. Time decelerated once more, but this time because he felt his gift slip from under him. Had he demanded too much of it?
He looked up, the rain falling slowly, like snow, but with more determination. Then he saw her. A tall, lean woman. The bow arm still stretched forth, the string still vibrating, her aim still locked on her target — him.
He saw the scene as if frozen by a painter for ages to come. The rain had shaped her dark hair in thick strands. It framed her austere face, pale and lifeless. Every muscle in her body seemed tensed, a wolf ready for the jump.
Then his green eyes met her grey eyes and time became undone. The Healer felt himself swallowed up in an abyss of pain. Falling and falling down through darkness, he lost all hope it would have a bottom to halt his fall. The torment in this soul was so great it had ravaged every landscape of it and left nothing standing. A land in ruin as far as his eyes could reach. Smoldering rests of houses, burned fields, dried rivers, torn mountains.
Her face was stricken of all feeling, all memory of light lost from her eyes. There was no hatred, no pain, just a deep darkness, a void so impenetrable he felt its gravity pulling at him like a millstone.
The pain beat through his chest and arm, up his neck and into his head. For the first time in years it was his own. He lost his balance and started to fall backwards. In this moment he understood. Every man he healed, every pain he paid, every life his gift saved had lead him to her.
The gift had been given him for her.
He had to live.
He must not die now!
But he fell.
