“I cannot save her hand,” the priest said at length. “And I fear she will never bear children, after the savagery that has been done her.”
Dexter came up beside him and looked down at her. Her color was somewhat restored, though she still looked weak and pale. The filth and dried blood upon her remained as well, though the wounds under it were gone. Her hand, however, was worse than before. It had been discolored, swollen, broken, and altogether ugly. Now it was shriveled and black.
“It’s dead and if it is not removed, it will poison her.”
Dexter nodded and turned to Rosh, who was by now snoring softly with his chin on his chest. A quick step and a kick brought the man awake.
“Hey! What? We wasn’t doing nothing!” He protested, rolling away from Dexter quickly even though there had not been enough force behind the kick to injure more than his pride.
“A swift clean stroke,” Dexter told him, jerking his thumb back at Willa.
“You want me to kill her?” Rosh asked, eyes wide. “I’ll kill a man sure as the sun shines… or a woman, but it ain’t right killing one that’s sleeping.”
Bekka blinked, her focus returning. She turned to Rosh and rolled her eyes while making an exasperated sound.
“That’s good to know,” Dexter said. “now cut off her hand.”
“Her…oh,” Rosh said grinning stupidly. He started to draw his great sword then realized he did not have enough room to swing it in the small room. Frowning, he reached around behind the small pack he carried on his back and pulled out a hand axe.
“That ain’t right,” he muttered when he stood next to her and stared down at the blackened ruin that had been her hand.
The priest gently picked up her arm and moved it so that it was away from her body. He placed it upon a pedestal that normally held a vase, frowning about the damage that was soon to be done to it. Once in place, he held her arm firmly. Willa slept on, oblivious to the lifesaving pain she was about to endure.
Rosh took careful aim and drew back, then swung with a sure stroke powered by his great strength. It landed true, crushing and parting the bones of her wrist as it swelled to become her palm. The hand, blackened and lifeless, bounced off the pedestal and landed upon the floor. No blood oozed from it, but likewise no one moved to pick it up.
Willa, on the other hand, awoke with her eyes wide and a scream instantly parting her lips. She struggled to sit up, but Dexter was there holding her down. It lasted a timeless few seconds until the renewed pain caused consciousness to flee. She slumped back onto the cot, her frail body almost seeming to collapse in on itself.
The priest picked up her arm and chanted again. He touched his holy symbol to it and sprinkled holy water from his fingertips across it. The gaping ruin aged before their eyes, the harsh and gory details becoming fuzzy and obscured as the magic mended the shorn limb. When he finished, many minutes later, her right arm ended in a pink stub.
He took a deep breath and seemed to stagger away from the slave girl. He turned back to Dexter and said in a tired voice, “it is done.”
Dexter nodded and looked to Rosh, who still held his hand axe. Rosh shook his head to clear it and slipped it back beneath his pack, then moved forward and picked her up. He wrinkled his nose again as he did so.
“Couldn’t you have cleaned her up some too?” he asked the priest.
The priest, regaining some of his strength, smiled. “That would have required a larger donation.” Apparently his sense of humor was returning as well.
Rosh grunted and stepped away, holding Willa firmly. Before she had hung limply, whereas now she almost seemed to turn in towards Rosh as if she was clinging to him.
“What of this boon?” Dexter asked, anxious to get back to the ship.
“A member of my order has been stricken with a magical ailment,” the priest said after glancing at the door to insure it remained closed.
“He is a good young man, and it is a terrible shame that such a thing has happened. I have spent much time in prayer, trying to learn a way to help him.”
Dexter nodded, wishing the priest would hurry up but knowing better than to rush him.
“This malady he suffers, it takes control of him upon nights when the moon is high and full in the sky. At other times he can control himself,” he explained.
Dexter’s eyes widened. “That’s inconvenient,” he said. “But how could I possibly help?”
“Take him with you,” the priest asked, his tone changing so that he almost sounded as if he was pleading. “Up there he would be free from the moon here. Free from its effects upon him.”
“How old is he?” Dexter asked.
“19 summers old.”
“He’s a priest like yourself?”
“Yes… I mean no. He’s heard the calling of Acaros, true, but he is scarcely more than an acolyte.”
Dexter turned to Bekka and saw her eyes were wide and supportive. She nodded imperceptibly. Dexter ran his tongue along his teeth thoughtfully then nodded.
“Alright, I’ll take him. Bring him to my ship when he’s ready… if he’s ready. I hope you don’t mind but I’ll be keeping him in a hold until we’re off this world.”
The priest nodded, smiling widely. “Yes, yes, I understand. That’s acceptable. And thank you, Captain, thank you very much.”
Dexter turned and walked to the door, opening it and stepping out. The others followed, with none of them saying a word. As they passed the front hall Dexter reached into his pouch and tossed the promised offering into the donation well, not even watching them as they disappeared into the darkness at the bottom of it.
“It’s his son,” Bekka said softly when they were back upon the road.
“His son?” Rosh asked, loudly.
Shooting him a glare, Dexter replied, “How do you know that?”
Bekka shrugged, “I just do. These things happen sometimes. I wonder what’s wrong with him.”
“You don’t have a hunch about that too?” Rosh asked irritably.
Dexter smirked but shook his head and just led the way back to the Voidhawk.
“Hey, does this mean we got ourselves a real healer?” Rosh asked, remembering what the priest had said.
“That, or a madman,” Dexter replied without bothering to explain any more of his thoughts.
When the three, now four, members of the Voidhawk crew returned to the ship they found a very irritated looking Jodyne standing on the deck with her arms crossed. A cart bearing several foodstuff sat nearby, along with the boy that she had paid to deliver the items for her. Two bored guards stood by watching the exchange while the same scribe from before was going through every item she had purchased and recording it on his parchment.
“What’s the problem here, Jodyne?” Dexter asked her with a frown on his face.
“Your vessel is ranked as suspicious,” one of the guards piped up.
A look to Jodyne and he knew better than to ask her for more; she was ready to put a kitchen knife in the dirthuggers. He turned to the guards instead.
“That right?” he asked rhetorically, to which they both nodded. “So since you’re afraid I might be smuggling something off my ship, you interfere with us loading things on to the ship?”
“Smuggling goes both ways,” the other guard piped up. His smug grin indicated he was clearly pleased with his quick witted response.
“And who’s that,” the other one asked, pointing to Willa.
“New crew I hired,” Dexter said.
“She’s got the mark of a slave,” he said, pointing to a brand that was now visible on an exposed patch of skin above her right breast.
“Aye,” Dexter said, his jaw becoming difficult to move.
“Slaves belong to Azmea, there’s a fee to be taking them off world,” the guard informed him.
“Of course there is,” Dexter said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, punch the guards, or toss them off the dock. “How much?”
