Man of Medicine

by C.A. Raine

No one knows why the Horsemen came. Their arrival was long foretold, yes, but why now was never explained. Yet, with our perpetual suffering, it does not seem to matter. All we know is they seek total conquest.

Here, our lands have been seized by Pestilence. Those who run afoul of him on his patrols are brought to this prison, echoing with the moans and cries of the perpetually diseased and sick. Elsewhere, in the lands of War, it is said his prison is awash with the blood of revolts and insurrections, ebbing and flowing as the tides. In the faraway lands of Famine, tales speak of starvation stalking the cells, akin to a creature toying with its prey. It is whispered that only in the distant lands of Death mercy might be found. Death has no prison, only graves.

A clatter of hooves announces the return of Pestilence from another patrol. He rides into the yard atop his large white horse. The moans and whimpers of the prisoners hush but there will be no relief. That comes only with Death, and he does not leave his lands often.

Pestilence throws a prone body upon the hard unforgiving ground. “Behold, a man of medicine!” he roars with open mockery. “Let us see what he may do in this forsaken place!” His scathing laughter echoes around the prison yard.

No one answers. We do not dare. Only once the moment has passed do I step out from the stable attached to the yard, my eyes cast to the ground in abject deference.

With practised hand, I reach for the bridle of his horse, holding the creature so that Pestilence might dismount. When he drops to the ground, the movement causes the few remaining arrows in his quiver to rattle. I swallow, willing myself not to flinch. Each of Pestilence’s prisoners has an arrowhead buried deep within their flesh; it is the source of their sickness. Once Pestilence has you in his sights, he does not miss.

He pays me no heed. I am inconsequential. My worth lies entirely in my skill as groom of his magnificent and terrifying mount. Though, I often wonder, if the conquest ever completes, will my servitude be sufficient or will I eventually find myself facing one of the last arrows in his quiver?

That discomforting thought is interrupted by the arrival of horse-drawn carts. Each one is filled with a tangle of bodies - the most recent people to fall to Pestilence’s conquest. Some will have opposed his rule, like the healer who is still sprawled upon the ground nearby. Others will have simply been in his way. His nature is fickle.

Those whom Pestilence deems useful, like me, hastily shove the newest prisoners from the backs of the carts. Pleas for mercy ring out around the yard but they are ignored. Instead, the new prisoners are kicked away from the carts and the horses are freed from their harnesses, so they can be led into the stables.

“My brother War will arrive shortly,” Pestilence snaps at me. “Be ready to receive his horse.”

I nod my acknowledgement but Pestilence has already strode away. I click my tongue and urge his imposing steed towards its stall, its tail flicking back and forth. It tolerates my ministrations as I brush it down before seeing to its feed and water. Caring for the welfare of the creature has never taxed my skill; no matter its master, it is still a horse. Some things do not change.

When I pass by the prison yard again, it is empty. Those who were newly arrived have been forcibly escorted to a cell crammed far beyond capacity. It will be only a matter of hours before each of them will succumb to one of the diseases contained within the infected arrowheads. Their one hope is that they might find a dark private corner in which to commence their suffering.

Yet, a single body remains. The man of medicine, as Pestilence referred to him.

I do not engage with the prisoners of Pestilence. I am a groom, not a guard. I make to walk around him but his hand flies out and grabs my ankle, his fingers digging into my flesh. Revulsion flares up in me and I kick out, only intending to free myself but the upward momentum brings my foot into direct contact against his chest. A wheezing breath expels from his cracked bleeding lips.

Guilt and fear clash within me. There is enough indignity in suffering without additional pain being inflicted. I know that I cannot catch any of the diseases, not without an arrowhead of my own, but that does little to tame the base instinct which tells me to flee.

Except I cannot. His grip loosened when I kicked him but I see the way he recoils, fear and pain projected as much towards me as the situation. Guilt surges up, silencing the fear. With all the atrocities I have witnessed within this prison, I cannot bear the idea that I may contribute to any of the suffering. I still cling to my one last shred of humanity.

Ducking down, I wind the man’s arm around my neck, slipping my arm about his waist. Half-hauling and half-dragging, I stumble across the yard to the rows of cells. It is well-known that those furthest from the yard are filled with prisoners who have been here the longest. There is no lock and key required for them: none of the occupants will ever regain enough health to so much as crawl from where they have laid down.

With excruciating slowness, we stagger along until I discover a cell that has only a handful of occupants. All are as near to death as anyone can reach here. The cloying stench of their infections makes me gag.

Shuffling into the cell, I guide the man across to the wall so that he may use it as a support to sit upright. He gasps in ragged breaths and his skin is slick with sweat. The full length of the arrow protrudes from his thigh.

I reach out to snap the arrow shaft close to its entry point but his hand clamps down on my wrist. “No!”

Surprise loosens my tongue. “It will prevent more pain.”

He shakes his head. “I’ll need the shaft to pull free the arrowhead.”

“No one removes the arrowhead!” I exclaim, aghast. To try and remove the arrow entirely always leads to massive bleeding, weakening the body further against infection and sickness. It is terrible to witness. “You are a prisoner of Pestilence; it is his mark upon you.”

A twisted grin, more like a grimace, flits across his face. “I am a doctor. He has no power over me.”

I recoil from him. His voice does not contain the chilling babble of madness, but I do not know how else to explain his conviction. “You have lost your mind,” I breathe.

“No,” he taps at his temple. “That’s still intact.”

I shake my head, backing away. “Even if you can remove it, the loss of blood will aggravate the symptoms of the disease you have been given. None can die in this place.”

“Not if I find something to cauterise the wound.” He gazes up at me, expression pinching in pain even as his eyes remain clear. Focused. He has thought about this. “My body can fight the sickness if the arrowhead itself is removed. Then I can help others.”

Help others. Selflessness is a trait long forgotten within these walls. Yet it is a futile hope. “There is nothing you can use for cauterisation.” Since fire might purify some of the filth of this prison, Pestilence does not allow it. Besides, there is neither kindling nor any object suitable to be heated in that manner, even if this were a sensible plan.

He falls silent for a moment. “What’s your name?” He finally asks.

I blink. It has been so long since anyone has asked anything so personal. “Mirela.” The word feels strange on my tongue. “What is yours?”

“Josiah.” He shifts slightly where he sits. “How long have you been here, Mirela?”

I open my mouth to answer but falter. “I… I do not recall.”

“But you must remember the days before the Horsemen.”

A sliver of memory does flash through my mind. The comforting scent of fresh hay, the welcoming whicker of horses in the stalls, the laughter of my friends just beyond the stable walls. I snatch a breath against the sharp sting of unimaginable loss.

“Just,” I murmur, my gaze falling to the greasy dirt-streaked floor.

“So why wouldn’t you want to fight against their conquest?”

I jerk my head up, eyes widening. Who in any part of the world still has these thoughts? Maybe, when the Horsemen first arrived. But it has been so long and their assault so utterly unrelenting. “We cannot fight,” I whisper.

“Yes, we can.”

Realisation strikes. “You have been a prisoner of War.” Only someone who has been exposed to the persistent influence of War would ever harbour such seditious thoughts. That would explain Pestilence’s earlier cruelty. This is not the first healer he has captured, after all. “You are the reason War is coming.”

Before he can answer, a thunderous clap echoes around the prison. With a roar and clatter, War arrives, the influence of his close presence immediately spreading dissent amongst the prisoners. Moans turn to arguing; sobs turn to scolding.

Pestilence’s earlier command ringing in my ears, I spin away from Josiah, rushing towards the yard so that I may tend to War’s horse. I must not be late. I arrive just before Pestilence and take up my position at the side of the yard, fighting to soothe the roiling rage which comes from War’s proximity. Those who have been here the longest, sick and healthy alike, are most resistant to the effects. Pestilence has long since staked his claim, and no other shall have us.

Resistant, but not immune. Suddenly, the urge to revolt is all the harder to ignore with Josiah’s words circling in my head. It is fortunate that I can repeat my same humble approach to War’s mount as I did to Pestilence’s. Neither of them acknowledge me as they exchange greetings.

“I take it from your demeanour you have good news for me?” War demands, ever aggressive. “You have caught my fugitive?”

Pestilence laughs. “If only your captives lay idle like mine, brother.” He flicks a careless hand towards the cells. “He is here somewhere. I assure you that he will not cause us any further petty consternation.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Menace is alight in War’s eyes. “I won’t forget this.”

They stride out of the yard. I lead the fiery red horse into the stable but it is restless without its master to grant it focus. Nostrils flare and eyes roll. It tosses its head as it paws the ground. Sparks fly from its hooves but fizzle out mid-air. The greater its agitation grows, the larger the sparks become.

Usually, I would seek to calm it. Not this time. A desperate idea forms in my head, so unexpected that I do not even think twice. Instead, I allow War’s horse to work itself further into a frenzy. Suddenly, flames begin to lick across its hooves. The temperature in the stable grows intolerable. The walls shudder as it kicks out again and again and again. But then, finally, I hear the thud of what I seek: the horse has thrown its shoe.

I dart into the stall, grabbing the searing hot horseshoe in a hastily gathered bundle of rags. Immediately, the cloth begins to singe and smoke, creating a foul stench. As War’s horse begins to bray, I flee, passing the crowded cells filled with disease and suffering, to the one where I left Josiah.

He is barely conscious when I arrive. It is only a matter of time before he succumbs fully to his sickness. Desperately, I shake him awake, coughing as the horseshoe begins to burn through the grotty fabric, revealing its wicked red glow.

“Josiah!” I hiss. “Heated iron! To cauterise!”

He mumbles, the words too faint for me to recognise, before heaving open his eyes. He looks at me groggily before his gaze slips to the horseshoe in my grasp. What little energy he has left floods through him and he grows alert once more.

“Quickly,” he grunts. His fingers close around something hidden beneath his clothes. A small blade: a scalpel, I dimly recollect. “You must pull the arrow out. It will rip my flesh apart but I’ll be able to cauterise the wound.”

I swallow, my nerve faltering. “Are you sure–”

“Yes.” He sucks in a harsh breath as he uses the scalpel to score around the entrance of the arrowhead, seeking to ease the removal. “I’m a doctor.”

That may be so but I have witnessed countless prisoners try to heal themselves by pulling free the arrow. None had the means of cauterisation, true, but all understood the attempt required a sudden sharp movement. So, with a mixture of desperation and determination, I seize on the arrow shaft and yank with all my might.

The agonised shriek from Josiah merges with the terrible cries of those around us. My nerve wavers but I do not stop. With a sickening squelch, the head of the arrow bursts free from its entry point.

All at once, the putrid stench of flesh billows upwards. Even in the midst of his torment, Josiah remembers to press the searing horseshoe against the bloody wound, halting the torrent of blood. My head swims at the horror of it all. To suffer by one’s own actions seems more inhumane than to suffer by Pestilence.

Stillness follows. There are the cries of the sick echoing all around but I pay no heed. I remain fixed to the spot, the bloody diseased arrow still in my hand, staring at the comatose form of Josiah in front of me.

The horseshoe is now nothing more than a cold hunk of iron. Yet I do not try to move it from where it fell from Josiah’s grip, a reminder of what desperate act of rebellion was attempted here. Of what might have been. He has not died but he slumps quiet and pale, even for one struck with pestilence.

I cannot bear the sight any longer. Throwing down the arrow, I bolt, only now becoming increasingly aware of the uproar which spills from the other cells.

My abdomen erupts with fiery agony.

Shock brings me to a standstill as the pain explodes through my body in a way I could never have imagined. I glance down to see the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from my body. Forcing my head up, I see Pestilence lowering his bow, having judged and sentenced me in one emphatic act. War stands by his side.

“I do not tolerate incompetence,” he informs me flatly. This is my punishment for not soothing War’s horse.

Without remorse, they turn and depart. They must not have known about the theft of the horseshoe. How could they when the evidence is in Josiah’s cell? They will assume the horse threw it during the journey here. That knowledge is of small comfort.

I fall to my knees, crumpling sideways. I know I should try to find somewhere to claim as my own before the sickness takes hold but I cannot bring myself to move. Bitter regret adds to my torment. A moment’s foolish decision has condemned me.

A shadow falls over my face. “Mirela.” A light pressure rests against my shoulder. It takes me a moment to realise that it is a hand and the touch is intended as reassurance.

I crack my eyes open. Josiah kneels beside me, pale and with darkness smudged beneath his eyes, but there is no sign of infection in his pallor. I struggle to understand what that means.

“How?” I ask, weakly.

“The source of infection has gone.” He flashes me a pained smile. “The cauterisation stopped the bleeding. Unless Death comes, I can’t die from whatever other damage was caused.”

I hold his gaze, my voice tremulous as I whisper, “Death does not come here.” I wonder if this is triumph that I feel. The tips of my fingers graze against the shaft of the arrow. “Can you–”

Josiah shakes his head. “Not without being able to cauterise the wound afterwards.” His hands move to make a gentle examination of the injury. Tutting beneath his breath, he slips an arm beneath me and coaxes me onto my feet, leading me back into the cell. I sink down, dazed but grateful. It has been a long time since I felt anything other than despair.

He cups my face in his hands. “Death does not come here,” he repeats my earlier words, then adds, “and Pestilence will be purged.” He holds my gaze intently. “Say it, Mirela.”

I stare at him, wide-eyed. But I feel my lips begin to move. Hesitant but unmistakable. “Pestilence... will be purged.”

His smile is accompanied by an exhale of relief. For all his show of confidence earlier, I realise he did not truly believe until I did. Me, with a foul arrow of disease embedded in my body. He, with… no arrow. The one among us who does not bear the mark of Pestilence. The man of medicine; the doctor. Perhaps, in time, he might discover other ways of alleviating the pain of the plagues which Pestilence inflicts upon us.

Something has changed; I can sense it. No matter what befalls us, we must endure. Josiah must purge this prison so we may also set free those confined by War and Famine. Then, finally, onto Death – but only when our cause is complete.

The Horsemen seek total conquest. We will not allow it.