Pool of Radiance - James M. Ward [16]
Tarl awoke to Brother Anton's voice, bellowing, "Are ya goin' to sleep till we get to Phlan, lad? Wake up! Don't go supposin' that just because you're a full-fledged cleric now there's no chores important enough for ya!"
"By the gods, I hurt all over!" Pain pounded through Tarl's body, from his jammed elbow to the self-inflicted wound on his thigh. Every bump of the wagon sent fresh, white-hot spasms coursing through his body.
"Now, that's gratitude! I spend the night a-patchin' and a-prayin', and you complain as though ya ain't been healed."
"No disrespect intended, Brother Anton, but if this is healed, I'm glad Tyr spared me from the hours since the test!"
Brother Sontag's head appeared between the edge of the wagon and the curtain that shielded Tarl's cot from the sun. Tarl struggled to a sitting position and tried to speak, to apologize, but Sontag raised a hand to silence him. "That'll be enough bellyaching, Brother Tarl. Look at me-three times your age, and with a wound that would down a horse. Do you see me complaining? Brother Donal just spotted the poison river that leads south into Phlan. Can't afford to have a strong young cleric like you in bed when we run up against the riffraff that's rumored to inhabit this area."
For two years, Tarl had been studying and training for the chance to serve Tyr in battle, to contribute to the establishment and expansion of a new temple. He was the only one in the group without actual battle experience. This finally was his chance to prove himself to the men who had taught him so much. Tarl threw back the bedding, stood up, and vaulted over the side of the wagon with all the exuberance of his age… and crumpled helplessly to the ground. Yesterday's agony returned in full force as the self-inflicted wound on his leg reopened from the impact.
"You'll be limpin' for a lifetime if ya keep that up!" yelled Anton, and he leaped over the side of the wagon after Tarl. Anton tied a strip of cloth tight above the wound to stop the bleeding, while Brother Sontag spoke the words of a clerical spell and held his hands against Tarl's leg. Tarl could feel the exchange of energy as Sontag's powerful healing went to work. He watched as the tissue on either side of the gash on his leg fused slowly together. Flesh melded with flesh, covering exposed muscle, and finally the skin closed over the tissue, Tarl's eyes gleamed with wonder as he realized there was no more pain. There was a scar, though, and Tarl saw that it shone a dull silver, just like those he had seen on his brothers. Sontag removed the tourniquet, stood up, and held a hand out to Tarl.
Tarl clasped Brother Sontag's hand between both of his own and exclaimed, "Thank you, Brother Sontag! May I one day share your skills!"
"Your healing skills already rival that of most clerics. You will soon be my equal at healing. For now, though, go dress yourself for battle."
"Don't be forgettin' your hammer, either, Brother Tarl," said Anton.
"Brother Tarl." The words sounded better than ever. These men truly were his brothers now.
* * * * *
The Stojanow River was an eyesore. Its color was an unnatural greenish black, and not a scrap of vegetation stood along its banks. Even trees a hundred paces and more from the river struggled for survival, their leaves withered and unhealthy-looking. Worse than the river's appearance, though, was its smell. Tarl had shoveled chicken manure from the coops at the temple in Vaasa and never been so offended by smell. The acrid odor from the Stojanow burned the nostrils and lungs, and the stench of rot and decay made him want to wretch. Tarl could tell he was not the only one disturbed