Week 6

  Calanthe decided to take the long route through the wheat fields, partly to avoid the main road and partly because Briar insisted Ember needed the exercise.

  The warg still limped, but the pace didn’t seem to bother him. In fact, he looked almost dignified, eyes alert to every shadow that might conceal a squirrel or, failing that, a treat.

  “I don’t think we’re in any danger,” Callie told him.

  Ember’s ears twitched back, then forward again.

  Briar reached down and adjusted one of the bandages, quick and neat. “He’s healing faster than you said. Is that normal for…?”

  “Magical wargs?” Callie shrugged. “Normal is subjective. Just don’t let him jump fences for another week.”

  “On a side note, do you think he’s grown a bit?” Briar asked.

  Ember seemed to nod his head in agreement but Callie wasn’t sure. It was hard to tell these things when you saw your warg on a daily basis.

  At the edge of the forest clearing, the landscape changed abruptly. The wild grass gave way to trampled earth and a lattice of footpaths worn into the mud. The commune was exactly as described in the Hall’s memo: lines of animal-hide tents and fires burning low and hot everywhere.

  Callie counted a dozen orcs with weapons—most armed with nothing more than knives or hatchets, though a pair near the gate had bows slung across their backs. A few smaller orcs, children or adolescents, peered around legs or from under tent flaps, their wide eyes tracking the strangers.

  Ember slowed, then stopped, tail hanging low. Briar kept her hand on his collar, more for his reassurance than hers.

  Callie stepped forward, hands open and empty. “We’re here from the Healer’s Guild,” she called out, voice pitched to travel. “You requested a healer.”

  The orcs nearest the gate looked at each other, then one—a lean figure with a deep blue tattoo down the side of his face—gestured for them to enter.

  “Not exactly. We were told to get one. Who do you want to see first?” he asked in low but clear Esharran.

  “I’ll start with the worst first.” She followed the gesture toward a large tent just off the main path, the others trailing her. “Best stay behind, Briar. These people could actually be infectious.”

  “Infectious... ” Briar said slowly. “That’s the thing where little seeds are transmitted through water and air from person to person, right?”

  Callie nodded. “They’re called germs.”

  Inside, the air was close and wet. The back had been converted to a ward: three cots arranged in a half-circle, all occupied. Two orcs, both female, lay on their backs, breathing shallowly. The third, a middle-aged male, had been propped up with blankets but looked even less aware.

  A fourth orc stood at the far side, fussing over a kettle. He had a shock of white hair, in thick braids. His tusks, yellowed at the tips, jutted from under a practiced scowl.

  He turned, gave them a slow once-over, then a look of disdain. “The Hall sends a child,” he said, then eyed Ember and added, “and a corpse-dog.”

  “Hey, wargs have feelings too you know?” Callie replied. “My name is, Calanthe. Are you Ashrend?”

  The orc grunted. “Ashrend is my name. These are my kin. You can heal them?”

  “Depends on what’s wrong.”

  He stepped aside, motioned to the cots. “They say it’s a curse. I say it’s not. But if it is, then I want to see it with my own eyes.”

  Callie glanced at the patients, then at Ashrend. “Symptoms?”

  He rattled them off: fever, chills, coughing, a rash sometimes, weakness, no appetite, nightmares.

  Callie set her satchel on a low stool and went to the first cot. The old woman’s skin was slightly pale, with deep creases along the brow and jawline. Her breath sounded like torn paper. Callie laid a hand on her forehead: warm, not burning. She checked the pulse at the neck, counted, then peeled back the covers to examine the chest and arms. No swelling, no discoloration beyond the expected. The inside of the mouth was clear. The cough, when it came, was a wet, productive hack.

  Callie took her time. She moved from patient to patient using her clinical acumen and [Vitality Sense] to check for magical corruption. She checked for lymph nodes, shined a lantern into their eyes, pinched skin to test for hydration. She asked about duration, onset, if anyone else had traveled or visited lately.

  Briar watched from the doorway, arms folded, but her gaze lingered on the children who drifted in and out of the tent. Ember stayed behind her, only his nose poking through the door, eyes never leaving Callie.

  When she finished, Callie returned to Briar, and whispered, “Nothing magical. It’s just a chest infection.”

  Briar whispered back, “Can you fix it?”

  “If they don’t drown in their own lungs first,” Callie said, “yeah.”

  She turned to Ashrend. “It’s not a curse,” she said. “Just fever and infection, which doesn’t make it any less serious. I can make tinctures. But they’ll need to stay hydrated and upright. If you have honey or something sweet, mix it with boiled water.”

  Ashrend nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Garlic and thyme might help with the infection,” said Callie. “And willow bark for the fever. I can show you how to prepare it.”

  He grunted again, less skeptical now. “We have all. My granddaughter gathers.”

  Callie looked at the young orc in the next cot, frail and listless. “She’s at risk for pneumonia. Keep her chest clear.”

  ***

  She set to work: boiled water for clean tea, crushed herbs in careful ratios, measured doses by weight. Briar fetched the supplies, quick as a shadow, her hands steady on the mortar and pestle. Ember eventually settled near the hearth, head on paws, dozing but not quite asleep.

  As they worked, Ashrend hovered nearby, sometimes muttering under his breath. Once, he said, “We have lost five to this, in other camps. The humans do not care if orcs die.”

  “Humans barely care if other humans die,” said Callie.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Ashrend gave a small, sad nod.

  Callie passed him a cup of the first batch.

  He tasted it, then carried it to the girl’s cot and coaxed her to drink. She did, a little, then turned away and shivered under the blanket.

  Callie packed up her kit and glanced at Brair. “We’ll be back in the morning,” she said to Ashrend. “If anyone gets worse, send for us sooner.”

  He hesitated, then bowed. “Thank you, healer.”

  ***

  On the way out, Callie paused at the edge of the clearing, looking back at the camp. The smoke from the fires drifted low, mixing with the mist rising off the stream. Even from here, she could hear the coughs, the occasional raised voice, and, underneath it all, the ordinary sounds of survival.

  Briar nudged her. “That went well.”

  Callie considered this, then nodded. “Could have been worse.”

  “Do you think they’ll get better?”

  “Most will, hopefully” Callie said.

  They walked home through the tall grass, the sun not yet above the trees. Ember kept to their side, but every so often, he nosed at Callie’s hand, seeking a scratch or a word. She obliged, wondering if maybe she’d found the right world, after all.

  ***

  Callie, Briar, and Ember returned to the orc camp at dusk, when the sky went navy and the air filled with the scent of smoke and stewing vegetables.

  The evening meal was communal; several orc families gathered around a central pit, trading wooden bowls and gossip. Callie and Briar were waved to a spot by the fire, where a space had been left open.

  Ashrend greeted them with a nod, and then, with a glance at Ember, said, “The wolf-dog is welcome too, but he must not eat the children.” The line drew a round of laughter from the nearest adults and a few nervous looks from the actual children, but Ember only settled himself by Callie’s side, content to gnaw a strip of dried meat.

  They passed bowls hand to hand: a thick stew of tubers and wild greens, sharp with horseradish and sweetened with roasted root. Callie sipped, found it honest and hearty, and was grateful for the warmth.

  She waited until the second round of servings before beginning her questions. “When did the illness start?”

  A younger orc, beads woven into her hair, answered, “Three weeks ago. After the market day, when we traded with the humans at Lake’s End.” She hesitated, then added, “Some say it was a curse. Others say it was poison.”

  Briar, mouth half-full, said, “I saw no sign of poison. The symptoms match something like lung rot—only milder.”

  Ashrend nodded approval. “We used honey and willow. But when my daughter fell ill, the remedies did nothing.”

  Callie looked at him. “Do you think the humans are afraid of you?”

  He gave a short, bitter laugh. “They are afraid of everything they do not control. And they do not control us.”

  A quiet settled around the fire. From the other side of the circle, a mother rocked a fussy infant, crooning a song that at first seemed a snarl but, after a few verses, melted into something soft and almost sweet. Callie listened, surprised by the gentleness. Even the melody had an undertone of longing, the lullaby of a people who rarely knew peace.

  Briar leaned closer. “What’s the song?”

  The mother, not pausing, said, “A wish for safe passage through the dark. For the little ones, so they will sleep.”

  They ate in silence a while, then Ashrend spoke. “We are not from here. My family’s home is in the east. But this year, we travel. It is a pilgrimage.”

  “Pilgrimage to where?” asked Callie.

  “The Petalorian Archive,” said Ashrend. “We left the Mausoleum of the Weeping Queen four months ago.”

  Briar almost choked on her stew. “The Archive? But that’s—” She glanced at Callie, then at Ashrend. “Why?”

  “Many reasons,” Ashrend said. “For the song, for the wisdom. For the memory of Cora.” He looked at Callie. “Do you know of her?”

  Callie shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Cora was a great teacher, a shaman. She walked into the Archive centuries ago and never returned. But her voice is in the books, if you know how to listen.” He said it with such conviction that Callie felt a small shiver of awe.

  “Every year at this season, we stand at the threshold of the Archive and call out to her. And she speaks to us—in the same voice, as those who have returned more than once will attest.”

  Briar looked impressed. “What does she say?”

  “She speaks as long as we will listen, answers as long as we have the temerity to ask. She remains forever in the Archive but her knowledge extends to every corner of Esharra. What would a human ask if placed in such a situation? It is no different with us.”

  Callie looked around the circle: orc children curled against their parents, elderly orcs trading stories and recipes, the fire painting their faces gold. There was nothing monstrous here—no violence, no threat, only the ordinary struggle to live well, to survive.

  She looked at Ashrend. “I’m sorry for what my people have done to yours.”

  He inclined his head. “I’m not entirely sure which people you belong to.”

  Callie nodded, relieved.

  A little later, Briar found herself trading plant lore with a young orc named Vessa, who showed off a handful of dried flowers and compared notes on when to harvest wild thyme. Callie listened, amused at how Briar could find kinship so easily.

  The meal wound down as the fire burned low. Ashrend pulled Callie aside, offered her a pouch of dried tea leaves. “For your work,” he said. “And for your kindness.”

  Callie accepted it, unsure what to say. In another life, she might have been embarrassed. Here, it felt like something more.

  As they walked home, Briar said, “You know, I think you just changed a few minds.”

  Callie looked up at the stars. “I think they changed mine, first.”

  Briar nudged her, gentle. “Still want to hide from the world?”

  Callie considered, then smiled. “Maybe just the paperwork.”

  They walked in silence the rest of the way, Ember at their side, the tea pouch warm in Callie’s hand. The night was cold, but it no longer felt so empty.

  ***

  The next morning, Callie set up shop in the largest tent near the orc camp’s stream. Ashrend had already conscripted three teenagers to fetch buckets of clean water.

  By midday, Callie had seen twenty-two patients and Briar was halfway through her second basket of dried herbs. Ashrend stopped in every hour to check progress, nodding in approval as the “ward” emptied. “Your work is fast,” he said. “But good.”

  Callie glanced at the XP ticker. “Practice,” she said, “and a little luck.”

  The lunch bell echoed from the main camp. Briar wiped her hands and said, “I’ll bring soup.” She ducked outside, leaving Callie to tidy up and double-check the day’s chart.

  It was then that the screaming started.

  Two orc children barreled into the tent, nearly knocking Ember aside. “Monster!” they shouted, then dove under the treatment table.

  Ashrend’s voice rang from the clearing. “Get inside! All of you!”

  Callie stepped to the entrance, shielding her eyes against the noon glare. At the edge of the clearing, a wolf—gaunt, wild-eyed, mottled with mange—loped toward the tents, its jaws foam flecked.

  She did the math instantly: rabies, advanced, hopeless. If the wolf made it inside the camp, there’d be carnage.

  Callie looked at Ember, then at the wolf, then at the row of children huddling behind her.

  “Don’t let it bite,” she said, more to herself than anyone.

  The wolf cleared the last bush, eyes fixed on the tent. Ember tensed, then looked at Callie for instruction.

  She hesitated, then nodded. “Go,” she said, as softly as she could.

  Ember moved. He didn’t bark or snarl, just closed the ground in a blur. The two wolves met in the dirt, and for a moment it looked like a dance—a circling, teeth bared, each testing the other’s will. Then Ember ducked low, drove a shoulder into the rabid wolf’s side, and swatted with a single paw.

  The sound was wet and final. The rabid wolf dropped, spine snapped. Ember stood over it, chest heaving.

  A red “-300 XP: unnecessary violence” flashed in Callie’s mind. She swallowed the frustration, then walked to where Ember waited, head bowed.

  The orc children gathered at the tent entrance, peering out in awe.

  Ashrend was first to speak. “The wolf has been with us since our last camp. It wasn’t like this a week ago.”

  Callie knelt beside the dead wolf. The body was wasted, fur falling out in clumps, eyes clouded. “It was sick,” she said. “Beyond saving.”

  Ember nudged her hand with his nose, seeking a sign that he’d done right. She scratched the scarred side of his face, then pulled him close. “You did good,” she whispered.

  The penalty still stung—three days’ work lost in a second—but Callie couldn’t bring herself to regret it. What she couldn’t figure out was why the violence was “unnecessary?” Was it simply because she was never in any danger and the only people the rabid wolf would have harmed were the orcs? Had there been another way to resolve the situation?

  Briar returned with the soup and a question on her face, but the sight of the wolf answered it. She knelt, set down the bowls, and started cleaning the blood from Ember’s paw with a handful of moss.

  Ashrend lingered as the tent emptied out. “Healer,” he said, “I want to thank you. The human villages said we brought plague, that we would turn into monsters and destroy them.”

  “They need scapegoats,” Callie said.

  Ashrend gave a weary smile. “If you ever reach the Archive, look for us, and we will speak to Cora together.”

  Callie shook his hand, then packed up her kit.

  As they left the camp, Briar said, “Are you really going to the Archive someday?”

  Callie shrugged. “Maybe. I want to see what all the fuss is about. But only when it’s safe.”

  Briar grinned. “I hope you do.”

  Ember limped beside Callie, muzzle still stained, eyes softer now. He pressed against her leg, and they walked home through the tall grass.