A Pact of Thieves Chapter 1

Dinardo

Sep 19, 2024

Author’s note: A day late, but I’d rather publish something I’m proud of than something quickly thrown together. I’ll try to stick to the Wednesday schedule from now on. Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 1 - Healing - Dinardo

Dinardo's mother tried to warn him.

"Put others before yourself. Keep your head down. Do your job, and you'll be fine," she said at least once a day. Yes, he tried to put others before himself, but Dinardo didn't want to keep his head down. He didn't want to be fine. He wanted more, more than their tiny cottage, more than their daily rations. There had to be more.

The dew-covered grass soaked his bare feet as the boy ran through the garden. He liked the way the cool, damp lawn felt beneath his toes. It was familiar and reassuring, like how his mother kissed the top of his head when he left the house.

"It's a good day to do something good," she had said as she ushered him out of their cottage that morning. Another phrase she repeated too often for Dinardo's liking. She had several phrases hidden in a tiny irrational nook of her otherwise brilliant mind. She would take one or two of them out when she thought that Dinardo could use a little extra parenting. He didn't need extra parenting often; however, his father died in the war, and these particular aphorisms were supposed to come from the dad. At least, that's what his friends told him.

A thick fog obscured a full moon that insisted on greeting the people of Malar with a lazy, orange-tinted descent. Dinardo had to move quickly this morning. A man's life depended on it.

He passed a fragrant row of Chamomile. The spikey green plants were still waiting for their white flowers to appear. Dinardo didn't have time to savor his favorite aromatic scent. Instead, he jumped over a patch of recently bloomed lavender, leaving the soothing flowers behind in a purple haze. He needed Coneflower, more precisely, the roots of the Echinacea. The cascading, brightly-colored petals were easy to find, somehow eye-catching, amidst the rainbow of other flowers and herbs in his mother's medicinal garden.

Dinardo gently pulled the Coneflower from the loose soil. It held firm for a moment, but with some persuasion, the tangled weave of taproots appeared. He grabbed another set of roots to ensure his mother had enough and sprinted back home, bounding over her other healing herbs as he went.

He threw the door of their cottage open. His mother was grinding some fragrant remedy together in her mortar. A pale, shirtless, white-haired man lay asleep on a cot next to the cluttered kitchen table. Several bundles of sage were tied to the rafters above him.

"Gentle, my flower, Darin needs rest," his mother said, sauntering over to her patient. She checked the man's temperature by placing the back of her hand against his forehead. Satisfied, she adjusted his blankets and pulled them up to his bearded chin.

Dinardo hated it when his mother called him 'her flower.' It felt so childish, and as a boy of thirteen, there was nothing worse than feeling childish. "He should have slept more last night instead of groaning and croaking like a frog. And please don't call me flower," Dinardo said, handing his mother the roots.

His mother nodded her thanks. "And what am I supposed to call you?" A slight smile appeared beneath her dark, sleepless eyes.

"Dinardo."

"Well, that's rather boring," she said, returning to her remedy. A kettle whistled on the hook over the fire. "Can you get that for me?"

Dinardo pulled his shirt sleeve over his palm and grabbed the kettle. "You named me." He set the steaming kettle on a trivet between several glass jars of dried flowers, herbs, and teas on the table.

"Your father named you. I wanted to call you Dandelion," his mother said.

"Dandelion?" Dinardo almost screamed. The name was absurd.

His mother brought a finger to her lips. "I think it's beautiful," she whispered. "A plant that quickly takes over an entire garden if not carefully grown. Reminds me of a certain boy who leaves his things strewn about my cottage." She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, but the corners of her mouth turned slightly upward.

"It's a weed."

"Yes, but it's a pretty weed and useful. It makes a lovely tea that helps rid the body of toxins," she said, pouring water over the remedy in her mortar. The contents fizzled as she slowly added the liquid until everything was properly combined.

"What toxins?" Dinardo asked.

"Toxins," she said sharply, refusing to elaborate. Dinardo knew when and when not to pry for more information. She was usually an open book, happy to explain the nuances of her healing craft, but there were a few topics that she cut off quickly without explanation. Apparently, toxins were one of those topics.

"Will he live?" Dinardo asked, gesturing toward Darin. The sick man had started trembling and groaning as his eyelids twitched in fitful sleep.

"I hope so," his mother said, smiling. She placed another blanket on top of him. "We're doing everything we can." There was a worried expression hidden behind his mother's smile that only appeared when her patients were really sick.

Dinardo walked around to the other side of the cot. A strange, sour smell seemed to exude through Darin's skin. The boy scrunched his nose and turned his head, trying to hide his revulsion from his mother.

His mother grabbed her most prized possession, a silver spoon with decorative flowers inlaid on the handle. She dipped it into her concoction. The brownish liquid coated the back of the spoon. She tested the viscosity by running a finger along the coating. The medicine receded, revealing the spoon beneath it without dripping into the mortar below. She licked her finger, smacking her lips and nodding as the remedy passed her final test.

"Hold his mouth open," she said.

Dinardo did as he was told, grabbing Darin's chin and nose to pry his mouth open. His mother gently inserted the spoon, wiping the contents along the man's tongue and lips. Darin coughed once softly, then broke into a frenzy of convulsions.

"Hold," his mother said.

Dinardo adjusted his grip. "I'm trying."

"One more spoonful, Darin," She said, feeding him the last dose.

Darin's whole body shook as he let out a powerful, wet cough, covering Dinardo's hands in mucus. The boy let go momentarily to wipe his hands on the bed sheets.

"Hold him, Dinardo," his mother insisted.

"Sorry, Mother," he said, holding Darin's shoulder to help settle the shaking man.

Darin coughed gently one final time, let a long exhale out through his nose, and relaxed into a deep sleep. He looked peaceful, not quite healthy, but on his way to recovery.

"You did well," his mother said, washing her hands in the basin beside the cot.

Dinardo followed suit, scrubbing his hands vigorously. "Thank you."

"Go to the well and get some more water. Darin will be thirsty when he wakes up," his mother said.

"Yes, mother," Dinardo said. "What..."

The boy wanted to ask about the medicine but was interrupted by a thunderous stomping of hooves. It sounded like dozens of horses–a whole calvary unit.

"Get back," His mother said, closing the windows and locking the door.

The horses stopped. A choir of neighing and whining preluded the metallic clang of soldiers dismounting. Then the screaming started.