Chapter Four: Lieutenant Sullivan

Draven cautiously placed the sword on the ground, trying not to show any sign of hostility. "Put your hands on your head," one of the soldiers surrounding him said imperatively, "and tell us who you are and what you were doing here." Before answering, Draven looked long at the men around him. They looked tired from the battle, and one of them was clutching his stomach as if affected by some pain. In the crater, several Adelia warriors were already scavenging the spoils and collecting the bodies of the werewolves.

"My name is Draven, and you can trust me. As for this camp, I arrived here by chance."

"Very well," said the soldier. "You speak with the composure of someone who tells the truth. Therefore, you might as well be a perfect liar. How is it possible, then, that you find yourself by chance in a secret werewolf settlement?"

"I am telling the truth, and you would do well to consider me an ally rather than question me as a spy who has just been caught. I descended to the camp because I saw a captive man. Otherwise, I would not have done such a dangerous thing."

"One moment!" someone shouted as he approached. "Wait! I saw him fight on our side. I saw him fight against the werewolves."

The soldier who had been interrogating him seemed surprised. He gave Draven a slow head-to-toe look and then from the feet to the head. "Very well," said the soldier, as if making a decision. "You will speak with the lieutenant, and he will decide what to do with you. Follow me."

The other warriors lowered their weapons, and the one clutching his stomach let out a groan of pain. "You're injured inside," Draven said as he walked away. "Lie down and don't move, or the pain will worsen. I'll come back to see you if they allow me."

They walked for a while among fallen werewolves and tents reduced to ashes. They also crossed paths with many Adelia men coming and going with water, provisions, and bandages. Finally, when they were in the center of the crater, they found a clearing where they had set up a city banner. There, in silence and solitude, was the lieutenant. Draven recognized him instantly. He was the warrior who had disarmed himself voluntarily to fight the great leader of the werewolves. Now, he was sitting on a rock in a pensive attitude, seemingly not having noticed Draven or the soldier accompanying him.

"Sir," said the soldier.

The lieutenant did not flinch; he seemed extremely preoccupied by something.

"Sir," said the soldier again.

The lieutenant slowly raised his gaze, seemingly uninterested. His eyes and short hair were as dark as the night. He then stopped looking at them, rested his elbows on his knees, and leaned forward, as if trying to resume a train of thought abruptly interrupted.

"We found this young man in the settlement," said the soldier. "According to one of ours, he fought against the werewolves."

"You may leave, soldier," the lieutenant replied. "I will speak with him."

The soldier left in silence. Draven looked around and realized they were alone. The night continued, and gentle, short winds, as if lost, roamed the wreckage.

"I'm not eager to talk," said the lieutenant. "I lost five men, much more than I expected, and a sixth will join them soon. Who are you? You don't seem dangerous. You don't seem like a hunter. You don't seem like anything, to tell the truth. If you explain why you were here and are convincing, I'll let you go. Otherwise, I'll have to take you to Adelia with us, and they'll decide your case."

Draven took a moment to think about his response. The man seemed angry about something, although the ruin around them evidenced the resounding victory of the city. Another moment passed, and then the lieutenant looked him in the eyes, as if challenging him, as if urging him to respond once and for all and thus end a process that seemed to be annoying and bothersome to him.

"I arrived here by chance," Draven said with the same composure he had shown a few moments earlier.

"In that case," replied the lieutenant, "you'll have to tell me why you decided to venture into such a inhospitable region. In a inhospitable region, alone, and without being a hunter."

"That has an explanation," Draven said. "Yesterday, I was on the countryside road when I discovered something strange. I found two arrows in the ground and a bloodstain. I grew up in the countryside, and I know perfectly well that this is not something common."

I decided to investigate and found some tracks. I continued my investigation and found the Licantropo who had left them. I followed him for a long time and found the camp. The Sullivan took some time to answer.

"I understand. How was the Licantropo when you found him? What was his condition?"

"He was in agony, barely alive, and could hardly walk."

"Was there anything else that caught your attention?"

"Perhaps the three arrows in his back."

"Your explanation is reasonable," the Sullivan said. "That Licantropo was discovered by one of Adelia's scouts. The scout found him at night, while the fog you probably saw was still present. That's why he struggled to aim and shot five arrows, two of which missed. Then he lost sight of him."

"But that doesn't justify your presence here. Answer this and you will be exonerated. Why did you venture into a camp where there were two hundred and eighty-nine Licantropos who wouldn't hesitate to kill you?"

"I had no intention of doing so. When I found all this, I thought of informing the city. But then I discovered that the Licantropos had a man with them who was imprisoned and beaten. So I descended, untied him, and a few moments later, you and your men arrived."

The Sullivan seemed satisfied with the last part. He suddenly straightened up and spoke.

"That will be enough. The man was a map tracer. I had tasked him with making one of the Arid Mountains. Since he was taking too long, I sent a scout to find him."

"Which must be the one who found the Licantropo and shot him," Draven remarked.

The Sullivan looked at him with a kind of respectful disdain. "Exactly," he said curtly. "When the scout informed me of what he had seen, I gathered some men and brought them here, although I don't know why I'm explaining things your impressive sagacity can discover on its own."

Draven didn't know what to say, and the respectful disdain returned.

"You can go now. I must attend to serious matters."

"What is the serious matter? I could be of assistance."

The Sullivan looked at him in silence and then replied mechanically, "My cousin has received a fatal wound, and his time is near. There is nothing you can do."

Draven observed the man's face closely. The circumstances seemed to bother him more than cause him any pain.

"There may still be time. If you allow me to see him, I will do everything in my power to save him."

"No," said the Sullivan. "Are you a doctor? One of our soldiers is an excellent doctor, and from what he sees, there's nothing more to be done."

"Some healers see more here, others see more beyond."

"And I suppose you work miracles?" said the Adelian warrior with haughtiness. "I don't know who you are, and I don't know your intentions."

"The decision is yours. I ask only that you allow me to study him. I have no other way of knowing if there is anything I can do about it. Then, if you permit me, I will intervene, and we will see how justified your mistrust is."

"Very well," said the Sullivan, as if trying to end the conversation. "You can see him if you want, but that won't change anything."

They walked a few steps away from the clearing until they found a small, square tent, very different from the Licantropos'. It was certainly a recently set up Adelian tent. At the entrance, a man with rolled-up sleeves, who seemed to be the doctor, was wiping his bloodied hands with a cloth.

The Sullivan opened the tent flaps slightly. "Our healer will come with us," he said to Draven with a condescending smile. "The one who can only see more here, unfortunately."

Unmoved, Draven ignored the comment and entered with the Sullivan and the doctor.

The interior of the tent was dark, and only a small candle shed some light on the situation. The injured man lay gasping on the floor, covered up to his waist with a white blanket. Successive bandages covered what seemed to be a very serious wound. A pungent smell of spirits filled the air.

The dying man let out a weak moan that lingered and faded into a labored exhale.

"This will be an absolute disgrace," the Sullivan murmured. "We won't even manage to get him to Adelia alive."

"I can numb him right now," said the doctor. "It is possible to make his final moments a little more tolerable."

"What more does it matter?" the Sullivan replied. "He will die anyway."

Meanwhile, Draven inspected the place where the suffering man had been attacked, breathing agitatedly and directing his gaze at nothing in particular.

"I would like to remove the bandages," Draven said softly, not taking his eyes off the injured man. "I need to see the wound."

The Sullivan didn't answer or look at him.

The doctor seemed unsure. "You can do it," he finally said after a long hesitation. "I was about to change them anyway."

Draven began to remove the layers of bandages quickly. "We need to act as soon as possible," he said as he worked. "Can you tell me what weapon caused the wound?"

"Will knowing change the situation?" the medic replied. "There's nothing you can do, lad."

Draven finished removing the bandages, revealing a diagonal cut on the chest. "It must have been a scimitar," he said, examining the wound. He received no response or comment.

"I no longer need to know more. I can save him. But you must leave me alone with him," the lieutenant and the medic looked at him as if he had made the most preposterous request. "Time is slipping away. If you don't let me, he will truly die."

The lieutenant glanced at the medic; the medic closed his eyes and shook his head. There was silence.

"Proceed," the lieutenant finally said. "But whatever the outcome, your intervention will remain secret."

They both left the tent immediately, leaving Draven alone with the wounded man. The man remained in an alarming state, and although his eyes were wide open, he didn't seem aware of what was happening around him. He was sweating profusely, and his hands wouldn't stop trembling. Draven took a deep breath. In a way, they were right. No doctor could do anything anymore. There was only one type of healing that could have an effect in those conditions, and as it should be, those men were completely unaware of it. It was the healing his master had taught him. He had nothing else to attempt, and he worried about the possibility of failing to do it. He had practiced it countless times, but the isolation in which his master had instructed him had prevented him from testing his ability to do it with people. Time and again, he had healed various animals, from squirrels to bears, many severely ill, many severely injured, and a few on the brink of death, but he had never performed a healing on a person.

"Focus," he whispered to himself. "You cannot make the slightest mistake." He knelt, ensuring that his body was relaxed. He rubbed his hands, closed his eyes, and focused on slowing his breathing. Then he placed his hands on the wound. He knew his concentration had to be perfect. Trying to ignore the pain of the Adelian man, he focused all his attention on the healing he intended to perform.

After a few moments, the healing began to work. At first, he felt only a slight tingling in his fingertips, but soon the sensation spread to his arms and eventually encompassed his entire body. "By the duty I carry with me, I am here present," he said, his voice clear and confident, knowing it was crucial. The bleeding stopped. He knew that, slowly, he was managing to heal him, but he was also aware that a single moment of distraction would have fatal consequences. "By the renunciation I choose, I can do what the shadow cannot." The wounded man seemed to relax. His hands had stopped trembling, and his eyes had closed completely. The wound, meanwhile, began to close. If it continued like this, everything would undoubtedly be over in a short time. "By the power conferred upon me, today I say that your time has not come." When he finished speaking, the wound closed completely. He staggered, dizzy from the effort, but he knew there was still one more thing to do. No one should see the supernatural healing he had performed, and he thought of a way to disguise it. He quickly found a box of fresh bandages beside the tent and used them to cover the now-healed torso, definitively concealing the absence of the wound.

A moment later, the lieutenant and the medic entered without warning. The medic started to ask something but didn't finish, interrupting himself with his mouth half-open, his brow slightly furrowed, and his hand pointing at the incredible miracle. "What happened here?" he said in an astonished tone, as he examined the bandaged torso. "His breathing is normal. He no longer trembles. What did you do to him?" The lieutenant was silent, his expression inscrutable. Then he cleared his throat, as if about to fulfill an unpleasant obligation. "Come with me," he said to Draven.

He led him out of the tent, leaving the medic and the recently healed man inside. They walked a while among the wreckage of the camp until they returned to the clearing where Adelia's banner stood. The lieutenant began to speak as he paced around.

Draven began to unwrap the layers of bandages quickly. "We need to act as soon as possible," he said as he worked. "Can you tell me what weapon caused the wound?"

"Would knowing change the situation?" the medic replied. "There's nothing you can do, lad." Draven finished removing the bandages, revealing a diagonal cut on the chest.

"It must have been a scimitar," he said, examining the wound. He received no response or comment. "I don't need to know more. I can save him. But you must leave me alone with him," he said, looking at the lieutenant and the medic.

There was silence. "Proceed," the lieutenant finally said. "But whatever the outcome, your intervention will remain a secret." They both left the tent, leaving the medic and the newly healed man inside. Draven remained alone with the wounded man. He continued to be in an alarming state, although his internal wound was gradually improving.

A few moments later, Draven, Sullivan, and approximately half of the troops were marching in the open field. The weather that day was warm and comfortable. In all directions, the countryside stretched across vast distances, seemingly extending to infinity, forming an unbounded sheet of various shades of green.

Occasionally, a not-so-tall tree could be distinguished in the distance, standing alone, protruding above the rest of the landscape. Beyond that, the field seemed to merge with the sky, its blue mantle only interrupted by some distant, motionless cirrus, as if suspended in an irremediable and boring eternity.

Without falling behind in the march, walking amidst wild wheat, Draven allowed himself to reflect on the recent events and the days to come. Just a few weeks ago, he had completed his training, believing that the dangers had ended at least for a while. But some strange fate had surprised him from the moment he discovered the arrows by the side of the path, leading him to a battle he had not even imagined. Would the problem end there? He hoped it would, but as was often the case, his mind insisted on imagining something, and his heart quietly warned him of the opposite.

In any case, all that would seem small and distant once he was in Adelia, comfortably seated at a table, sharing a conversation with his great friend. If all went well, they would soon be reuniting, talking about their terrible training, and recent events, seeing them as mere stories, harmless and distant. "Rice and squash and potatoes for three will make a good stew to eat later."

But he could be wrong. What if everything ended in a war? "Rice and squash and potatoes for three..."

He was a fool, of course, always imagining the worst. "Rice and squash and potatoes for three..."

But it had happened before that only he assumed the worst, and the worst was what actually ended up happening, even if not everyone was willing to accept it. He hated his fears, detested them, and he also tried to ignore them. But why did his premonitions always seem to herald disaster? Why didn't they inform him of the good as well? Why couldn't that song end once and for all? "Rice and squash and potatoes for three will make a good stew to eat later."

Things were going quite well now, it was just a matter of not getting distracted to finish the song. It was important not to get distracted. Besides his... fear? Whatever it was, it made no sense; everything would eventually have an explanation, the gloomy fog, the secret settlement, everything. Including the events he had been told by the innkeeper, which, like the camp in the crater, aroused all kinds of suspicions that he wanted to keep away from his mind, which, of course, he had not yet managed to do. Sullivan. What an excellent idea. He had the opportunity in his hands to dispel at least some of the doubts that plagued him. The lieutenant could clarify many things regarding the news he had heard at the White Owl Inn. Of course, nothing guaranteed that he would tell him everything he knew, but he decided it was worth a try.

He quickened his pace, as the lieutenant was far ahead, leading the group. He wondered how he was going to have a fruitful conversation with someone who had so far been so uncommunicative. Sullivan had barely looked him in the eyes when speaking; his words had always been terse and unkind; and his attitude in general had not improved at all since he saved his cousin; in fact, it seemed to have worsened. The lieutenant was already very close. He began to think of a natural way to start the conversation when suddenly Sullivan turned to him, as if sensing his presence. "Is something the matter?" he asked.

"Actually, no," Draven replied. "I just wanted to resolve a doubt."

"Go ahead."

"It has to do with Adelia," Draven continued, as he tried to make the appropriate detours before reaching the exact point he wanted to investigate. He was proceeding with caution, as he had done with the innkeeper, although on this occasion, he had more precise concerns. If he failed, he would try with more direct questions.

"Changes in Adelia?" Sullivan said, frowning. "Well, some things always remain the same, although it's difficult for almost two thousand days to touch anything in such a large city."

"Any worrying news, then?" Draven asked, ignoring without rancor another unkind comment.

"No," Sullivan replied. "I mean the organization. The three constables remain the highest authority, but there have been modifications in the other magistracies. Several ministers from other regions of the nation are arriving. They are taking different functions in their charge, depending on the circumstances."

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While he considered the question of the regents important, it wasn't what troubled him the most at that moment. So he would try another approach.

"What can you tell me about the troops?" he asked in a tone that implied he didn't understand anything about the matter.

"And why would that interest you?" Sullivan quickly replied.

"It's quite simple. I can't think of Adelia without recalling its grand barracks, its towers, the constant patrols of the army. Few cities are as protective of their name, their people, their walls, their laws…"

"Then," Sullivan replied emphatically, "I can tell you that there have been no changes in that regard. Everything you mention is in good order."

The lieutenant had been decisive. There seemed to be no other way out but the direct one.

"I recently heard," Draven said without any casual tones, "that there was a confrontation with turloks last year."

For a moment, Licantropo seemed to be silenced by the directness of the comment.

"I see," the lieutenant said brusquely. "Why does that episode catch your attention? What appeal does it hold for you?"

"It certainly holds no appeal," Draven replied calmly. "On the contrary, when I heard about it, I was greatly alarmed. Besides, I had occasion to hear strange things about that battle."

"Yes, if by strange you mean unpredictable. No one could have imagined that we would be so outnumbered."

"I didn't know you were present that day."

"I led that mission," said Licantropo. "If I hadn't been there, that battle would have resulted in a terrible massacre for Adelia." Draven cleared his throat before asking a question that, as he imagined, could complicate the conversation.

"Is Belger still the grand general of the city's armies?"

"Of course he is. It was he who entrusted me with that mission."

"Few people are as respected in the nation as the general. Was Belger your mentor, by any chance?" Draven thought it was an impressive achievement to have brought the conversation to that point and feared it would all end abruptly with his last question. However, Licantropo answered him.

"Yes, he was my mentor."

"I wonder what Belger will do when he finds out what just happened."

"I can't say," Licantropo said. "But I'm certain of one thing. This time things won't go unnoticed, as they did last year. This time, measures will be taken commensurate with the problem. It's no longer just a gang of turloks lost, but a secret settlement. The last time something similar was discovered, it led to a war."

"You're using certain words lightly that many prefer to keep at a distance," Draven commented.

"What you lose on one hand, you gain on the other," Licantropo replied, seemingly ignoring Draven's silence. "It's only a matter of priorities. And as long as the turloks continue to exist... what should the priority be?" Draven did not reply this time. The lieutenant, who must have been only a few years older than him, seemed to exude the haughtiness of a seasoned general, filled with experience, with hundreds of battles won throughout his life.

"Nevertheless," Licantropo added, seemingly disregarding Draven's silence, "the final decision will fall into a few hands. To be more precise, into the hands of four men, who are the three constables of the city and General Belger. Of course, knowing the procedures of Adelia, they won't do anything without first convening an assembly, or perhaps even a Circular Meeting."

The conversation ended without another word. In the countryside, where they were marching, the midday sun radiated an intense heat that seemed to encompass everything. The tall wheat had been left behind, and the ground they were now walking on appeared more traveled. Far in the distance, like a dark, slender line barely protruding from the horizon, the gigantic Adelia loomed. As he slowly approached it, Draven allowed himself to reminisce about the things that had happened to him in that city and its surroundings. He also wondered which of the people he had known there would still be in the same place; or whether they would have gone to another province in some distant part of the country; or whether they would have forgotten about him; or whether it would no longer be convenient to resume the song and sing it this time.

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Until the end, without allowing her dizzying thoughts to interrupt her.

"Rice and pumpkins and potatoes times three will make a good stew to eat afterward. If, in the end, the dish fails… To the bad cook, spit in their face!"

She had finally succeeded. Never had such a short, simple, and silly song given her so much trouble. The most traditional thing, always, was to end by performing the gesture of spitting on the face of the imaginary cook, a charade that many children performed with notable delight and an extravagant amount of laughter, especially when in a group. Even though she had performed the operation to conclude the song as it should be, the scene seemed strange and embarrassing among so many warriors of the city, to whom she would have to give uncomfortable explanations. Helars, naturally, wouldn't have worried in the least. Helars. What would have become of Helars? Would he have been able to find that distant island where the greatest wizards dwelled?

Once again, she was asking herself the same things. She had to stop worrying. Very soon she would have the answers to those questions, and to many others she had formulated before. She allowed herself to wander, but only with trivial matters. Her mind went back and forth hundreds of times, going from one topic to another for a long while, until the exact moment when she looked up and her thoughts were abruptly interrupted. Like an undisturbed mountain, the colossal Adelia stood before her eyes, which, she told herself, would never cease to impress her as it did when she was a child.