90th day.
The creaking of a door awakened Ortenz, and his eyes half-opened; he saw the dimly lit room and yellow color of the morning sky through the window. Seconds later, the red figure of the old woman entered the room. She was transporting a bucket that seemed relatively heavy, judging by her curved back, but had a sly smile nonetheless.
He cleared his throat and slightly raised himself with his arms, "What are you doing?" he asked, with a rough voice. The old woman eyed him and clicked her tongue in annoyance. Her smiled immediately disappeared. "Nothing," she groaned as she left the bucket on the floor, near the bed.
She took the ointment pot. "Lift the blanket. I will apply the ointment." She dryly said as she sat on the side of the bed. Ortenz did as ordered, then observed his legs.
Burnt scabs covered the entirety of his feet and ankles, above his knees, the flesh was very pink, and a layer of peeled skin covered it. On his feet, blood and pus were slowly oozing from the interstices. The old woman took a wet cloth and cleaned his legs, retiring the dead skin and detached scabs.
Ortenz was surprised to feel the wet cloth on his flesh: the cold and humid sensation of water. Ortenz was surprised to feel the wet cloth on his flesh: the cold and humid sensation of water. Not feeling his members was one of the stranger sensation Ortenz had ever felt, just behind creating a magic circle. He smiled unconsciously, then flinched when the old woman applied the very cold ointment. "You are recovering faster than expected. You should be able to start walking again tomorrow."
Ortenz was conflicted: he was happy to know he would be able to walk tomorrow, but he was also depressed at the idea of having to spend another day in this empty room. But he couldn't complain: it was for the sake of his recovery; her ointments were very effective, much more than those of an ordinary apothecary.
"That's great," he said half-heartedly.
She snorted, "You will be able to walk. It doesn't mean you will enjoy it. Hehehe." She laughed with a sly smile, which made Ortenz gulp. She then dried her hands, took the bucket once again with a disappointed expression, and left the room.
Ortenz lightly probed his back. His legs and back were in poor shape, but if he could get his books, this day would become a little bit better, slightly. He hadn't finished his Svelen book, and useless knowledge was still better than none. But his expectations were cut short when his fingers touched his sides: a sharp pain made him grit his teeth: like knives prickling his skin.
Ortenz pondered: he needed a plan to get his books. He didn't want to ask the old woman as he was she would charge him for it, and he still didn't know how much she had taken.
He could move around the bed without much pain, but the only things near him were his clothes, the blanket, the ointment, the nightstand, and the bed. Nothing useful, unfortunately.
Ortenz looked around the room and observed every detail and object in it, trying to find something that could help him.
To his right, there was the chest of drawers, his satchel, and his staff. His eyes concentrated on the staff.
It was the keystone. With all the books inside, the bag was heavy, and it wasn't a blanket or Ortenz's ridiculous strength that would move it even slightly, but with magic...
"Bringing the satchel straight to me seems difficult ... But with my staff, a magic circle and it would be done." Ortenz thought like a mage. As long as a mage has his staff, he is the most versatile person there is. The young mage formulated a plan: nothing complicated. First, he needed to bring his staff closer. Right now, it was against the wall beside the drawer, but with a little swing of the huge blanket, it would surely fall over in the center of the room.
His clothes were on the blanket, so Ortenz pulled it towards him and rolled it into a cigar to gain some space. He eyed his robe: it wasn't long enough to reach the drawers. But the blanket was.
Ortenz looked at the blanket cigar and his robe. "The blanket is a bit too soft, but..." He tied his robe at one of the extremities and held the other. He then carefully shifted his body near the edge, lifted both arms above his head, and clenched his teeth for the inevitable pain he was about to suffer.
It wasn't the brightest idea, but he had no choice. Ortenz swung the blanket horizontally and stretched his arms as far as he could. The white cigar hit the chest of drawers; more precisely, what was on it. The satchel barely moved because of the books' weight, but the staff, on the other hand, was thrown away in the center of the room. However, Ortenz had no time to rejoice as pain struck him.
When he swung the blanket, he felt his muscle tearing apart, like someone had put their hands in his wounds and stretched them. He bit on the end of the blanket he held to muffle his deathly scream. Tears ran down his eyes, but he painfully focused on the staff: it was now much closer.
He pitifully crawled on the bed—towards the center of the room and stretched his arm to grab his staff, but it was still too far away. Pain clouded his reasoning as his nails were digging in the bed mat. Ortenz gritted his teeth and thought appeared in his mind. "Call the old woman." As his eyes shot down in defeat, he noticed something on the ground—his shoes.
He blinked once, then twice, and finally understood something. "The hook," he said, with a mix of joy and pain. He picked the shoes and attached them to the long sleeves of the robe. The plan was simple: throws the shoes beyond the staff, then drag it to the bed.
He launched the robe like a fisherman, and the shoes landed behind the magic staff with a thump. Ortenz grinned satisfyingly and dragged it. "Nothing stands between me and knowledge," he proudly said to the air. All the equipment was ready, and the operation could now begin.
Ortenz unrolled the blanket, and threw it across the floor between him and the chest of drawers, then gripped his staff tightly with both hands. Slowly, the green in his eyes intensified, and blue streamlets appeared on his staff.
Glowing particles gathered in the air and formed a circle with in its center, a square. It took shape and glowed in a darker blue than the rest, then became lighter as seconds progressed. When the circle entirely formed, Ortenz drew esoterical shapes: sets of intricated and interlaces lines and waves, creating weird symbols that only mages knew how to decipher.
They were the flourishes, and their role could compare to those of furniture in houses. Technically, one could live without a bed, but it wouldn't be comfortable or enviable; hence, people have beds. Flourishes were the little tweaks: they could decide a specific direction, adjust power or speed, and even create a sub-circle; their uses were nearly infinite.
Finally, Ortenz stopped drawing: he didn't want to overload the circle like last time. The entire circle flickered and concentrated in a single bolt of blue light. The bolt of light darted towards the satchel and exploded in a puff of glittering particles as it made contact. Then nothing happened for a second.
One could think the spell had failed, but he would be wrong. Ortenz's left hand suddenly emanated a soft blue hue, and when his fingers contracted in the palm of his hand, the satchel slid across the wooden plank. It fell from and hit the blanket with a thump, then Ortenz continued his little magic trick and brought the satchel to him by magically dragging it across the floor.
At long last, the books were in his hands. He lifted them like glorious trophies taken from a defeated enemy. Ortenz was like a general parading the bloody head of his beaten opponent as he brought it to the King. He felt great.
Ortenz took his books and laid them on the bed; there were three: the Svelen language book, a bestiary of local creatures, and his notebook, which he had rarely opened.
Svelen was a small northern dialect, only spoken by a few thousand people, but Ortenz found it important to learn even the smallest dialect of the common language, the Kielen. Actually, many mages learned new languages as it is widely believed runes are derived from a proto-language.
The bestiary had proven itself in recent months, and Ortenz didn't care to remember the number of times he would have run straight into danger without it. The book was really detailed as each creature was lengthly described and even illustrated with drawings. The author clearly knew what he was talking about, and even in the few instances where the author himself admitted he wasn't sure, he still gave advice. In short: it was a great book.
Ortenz's notebook was nearly empty except for some words that didn't make sense on their own. The main reason why he hadn't written more in it was the price of ink. This costly black liquid was sold at one silver coin per small bottle: enough to buy food for a week. It was an exorbitant price, but Ortenz knew why it was so high.
He had heard a rumor coming from the west: mages are actively trying to put down on paper magic circles. In itself, this rumor wasn't worth attention, but one detail, that the drunkard only mentioned at the very end was: they want those circles to be usable.
For decades mages have tried to accomplish this. The reason is unknown, but magic circles can only be drawn in the air: they cannot be etched on stone or any material, neither dead nor living. Many mages tried to counter this seemingly random limitation: they varied the tools, the materials used, the climate, the time, everything. But none succeeded.
Ortenz shook his head. Once again, his thoughts were spiraling out of control.
He looked at the pot of ointment, took it, and inspected it. Several weeks ago, a hunter had told him about the fantastic effects of salves and ointments; how those things had saved his life more times than he could count. So, naturally, Ortenz was curious.
He opened the lid, and the smell of flowers greeted him; he sniffed the air. "Lilac and... Lavender?" Ortenz wasn't very passionate about flowers, but one book he had read in his academic years was an essay on flowers and their meaning; it also described their scent.
If Ortenz learned the recipe, he wouldn't need to depend on other persons like this old woman anymore. He could even maybe sell them for money. A stupid smile formed on his face.
"But I don't know how long it can be conserved..."
Since the old woman left the pot here without much care, the ointment inside is probably mildly resistant to low-temperature. Orten knew that those types of floral medicines tend to lose potency as days pass, but it would still be better than nothing and leaving the wound to rot away.
He took his notebook and wrote the two ingredients he knew and an estimation of the conservation time. "I will check this out when I'm at the next town. There should be a healer, an apothecary, or an alchemist, hopefully."
Ortenz shifted uncomfortably in bed: his legs were itching, and he couldn't stretch them thanks to his back; he rubbed them against the bed with the hope of alleviating his predicament. His legs also felt weak; it was normal, but it annoying; at this rate, he would have to spend days, maybe even a week here.
This thought alone made him shiver, "No, just no."
During the whole day, Ortenz had also felt that his legs were imprecise in their movements. He had difficulty in stopping their momentum or even in directing them. He moved his legs at the edge of the bed, then did some simple exercises: rising, bending, desynchronized movements. And his worries were confirmed: there seemed to be a sort of delay.
This was more than problematic. It meant that even if his legs were fully healed, he would have to walk with an extra difficulty, like walking with stilts while drunk.
His legs had suffered most of the explosion, and he was worried he wouldn't be able to walk in some days—No, it was wrong. He knew he wouldn't be able able to walk properly even in a few days. The damages were too great, but he smiled: it wouldn't stop him from trying.
As the sun was setting, the light passing through the window illuminated a figure and cast a shadow on the wall. The figure stood with a staff in its left hand and was supported by a nightstand with its right.
"Take this, old woman," he said condescendingly, the pleasure alone of walking earlier than she had predicted made his pain worthwhile.
The young mage's legs trembled. The pink mutilated flesh sweated under the weight, and after a few seconds, Ortenz dropped on the bed again. "Aaaaah... Okay, I wait five minutes, and I try again."
