Chapter 37:
Tales from Zemliharos: Night of The Striga
As Peter approached what used to be the market square of Ragusiic, nothing remained from the bustling vendors, robed merchants and innocuous pick pockets. Instead, the infirmary, which once stood towards the edge of all the typical riff raff, had long overflowed into tents that covered the streets. Where citizens of all ages and ranks found themselves in these makeshift tents while any able-bodied man, woman or child tended to those who now were forced to seek treatment for their wounds. Some were fortunate enough to only suffer a broken bone or some slashes from the beasts’ talon, while others were torn limb from limb, their foggy eyes looking halfway caught between life and death and their volunteer nurses could only give a few drops from the milk of the poppy before needing to tend to their next grave soul in need.
The whole thing looked closer to a sieging war camp, or at least what Peter imagined one would look like. How or where he’d find Jakov or Father Dabro in such a place, or if they’d even be in a state to notice his presence before he’d need to set sail, he did not know. All he knew is that his best shot at winning would come from someone who knew all every cellar, tunnel or stash to navigate the city. His plan to eliminate the striga with little to no casualties on his end required someone who’d know the best way to surprise their enemy, to turn their knowledge of their city against them.
Peter popped in tent by tent, seeing every wounded and dying dockhand, merchant or serf in varying states until he stopped the chase at High Noon. All Peter could focus on was the all-consuming guilt over his inability to save the ones he failed when they needed his guidance most.
As Peter turned his feet to escape the bitter aftertaste he felt overtake his entire being, wanting nothing more than to brood over his recent string of failures, he heard that laugh that he never seemed to be able to avoid or ignore, peppered with a morbid sadness. He knew all too well now where he’d find his wounded squire.
The tent where he found the wounded squire was filled to the brim with patients. Several volunteers bounced between patient to patient as their bedrolls were nearly stacked shoulder to shoulder. Triage was done on the spot, with several blood lettings, sawings and stitchings happening by the few with any actual medical experience supervising, making the screams and moans all the more uncomfortable for Peter. He hated visiting hospitals enough in his old world, where the paranoia of catching some unheard-of disease while there ran through his mind, the smell of all the sweat and blood around him alone made him want to gag.
He found Jakov near the center of the patients, his newfound nub stitched and tourniqueted. Tinnie sat beside him, his multicolor tunic all the more jarring amongst all the wounded. Father Dabro was placed beside the squire, his own face wrapped in bandages, fully obscuring his eyes. Hints of blood still peeked through around where his eyes at least used to be but were now all the same sterile tan bandages.
Peter tried to avoid the worst of the wrinkling around his nose upon seeing Jakov in his current state. Jakov couldn’t help but share one of Tinnie's callous laughs, “It’s ok, I was a terrible knight anyways. Lyana was right, I’m far too predictable, serves me right I suppose.”
“Don’t say that, you’re braver than any member of the Kraji’s guard. What you did was something ten men together would’ve struggled with.”
Tinnie couldn’t help but snicker, “You know the saying with the pen and the sword. Fighting isn't the only way to nobility, though it’s the most straightforward.”
Jakov stared up, not wanting to meet Peter in the eyes, “Suppose you’re heading to Zemliharos now and have come to say goodbye”
“I’m heading to Zemliharos, but you’re coming with me.”
“And what use would you have for two cripples and a dwarf during a siege?”
“Jakov, no one knows the city better than you. Even if you can’t pick up a sword, the men we’re leading need someone who’s going to look out for them, who can guide them against beings who could pick them clean, without a fight, on their own. I need your mind more than ever.”
Jakov shook his head, keeping it towards the canvas tarp over him, “And how am I supposed to save the lives of others when I’ve cut mine in half.”
Father Dabro groaned from his bedroll, “Many have eyes but do not see. Now those with none must see for them.”
“Father’s right. That’s why I need you two. No one knows the striga better than anyone at this point. In my own world, even if I couldn’t do the job myself, I still needed to come up with a strategy to make sure we made it through the day. A lot more will live with you by my side.”
Tinnie hops up, feigning a blow to the chest, “And has Your Grace abandoned me to fend for myself against striga.”
Peter shrugged, “I figured you’d not be interested, considering your behavior recently.”
“Oh, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m your ace in the hole, for only I know how to slay the witch for good. I’ll share my secret, but only once I’m on that boat. You must swear to me you’ll uphold your vow to assist me.”
“You never did share what your favor was going to be.”
Father stared, at least he would’ve if he had eyes, at the impish figure. “Your Grace I would-”
“-Damn everything and everyone. We need each other. Do I have your support?”
Peter turned to the wounded High Priest, “Do you know how we can slay this witch on our own?”
The High Priest did not respond. Peter then stared at the warped dwarf in front of him. While he knew the creature was up to something, he still didn’t have a good answer for how to handle Baba Roga, and they all knew it. His biggest fear was even if he killed the monster a hundred times over, it’d all be in vain if she came back all the same. With no other voice to turn to, Peter nodded. “These are desperate times, I swear. Do not make me regret it.”
Tinnie giggled, “And I swear it’s in our mutual interest. When do we depart?”
“As soon as you all can walk.”
The High Priest suddenly moved with a ferocity, jumping up from his resting place and maintaining his balance all the same. Peter stepped forward to help the blinded man, but he stood perfectly still and in control, as if his eyes weren’t thoroughly gouged by Baba Roga herself.
“Then we leave by the hour.”
…
The four of them stood at the docks to see the fleet of Lynx bannered ships holding refuge at the port. Each of the vessels were lean and aggressive, with several hundred boarding them. As Peter inspected the new men under his command, they didn’t have the gravitas that the dozen or so in the Kraji’s guard had that he loaned out to Peter on his journey. They were followed by Sir Bošnjak, whose face seemed to be more upturned than ever upon seeing Peter’s rag tag band of freaks outside of the Kraji’s chambers.
“All five hundred men have been accounted for. We shall reach Zemiharos within the end of the week.”
Peter bowed, “We have much to discuss, about what the alchemist-”
“The Kraji entertained your little experiment, and it will be loaded on the ship. With all due respect, leave the wargames to me. I’ve lived through over a dozen sieges in my lifetime, and lead men to battle during the retaking of Ragusiic-”
“-Yes, but they weren’t striga. I wish to bring my counsel to discuss war matters once we’re at sea.”
“Very well, though I can only hope your advisory plans better than they fight.”
Sir Bošnjak stepped towards the flagship. Jakov leaned over to Peter, “See what I-”
“-Pay him no mind. Our day has finally come.”
Peter stepped forward, with the rest of his party following suite. Under the banner of the lynx, Peter swore they would he would do everything to save his people this time, or die trying. Soon the ships lifted their anchors and waded through the clear sea, en route to meet their fate in Zamliharos.
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