The warrior collapsed, whether from the wounds or the smoke, Ren wasn't sure. It wasn't until Ren reached down to lift the prostrate form that he realized he knew the fighter. Her blonde hair was stuffed into a fighting helm, but he recognized the face as that of one of the women he had jested with just days before at the inn. Jen-what was it? Jensena? Yes, that was it. The other two fighters must be her two companions, he realized. As soon as he had moved Jensena away from the smoldering troll bits and patted the gouges on her shoulders with a blotting powder he carried, he checked the other two. They were both dead. He pulled their bodies up alongside the wall, along with their purses and light weapons. Guards could pick them up in the morning-if they were still intact.
Ren got a good hold on Jensena and started up the rope. While she didn't rival Tempest, much less Shal, for size, Jensena was still a big woman, and all muscle. Lugging her to the top of the wall was no mean feat, and Ren felt unanticipated relief when she started to rouse as they descended the other side. At first she just coughed and made pathetic squeaking noises as the coughing jarred her wounds. As soon as they reached the ground, Ren held her tight to keep the coughs from racking her body so hard, and when she seemed ready, he offered her some water. Still leaning against him, she tipped her head back and let him pour the water into her open mouth.
When she'd had her fill, she turned her head away. "Salen?… Gwen?"
"I'm sorry," said Ren softly. "Their bodies… are alongside the wall. In the morning-"
"Damn! Damn!"
Ren pulled the big woman closer and held her as she cried, gently at first, and then in hard, convulsive sobs. He said nothing. What was there to say when someone lost two friends? He surely didn't know.
Together they made their way slowly to the Laughing Goblin, Ren supporting Jensena. After a quick word with Sot, the two of them helped the woman up to a room, where they eased her onto the bed. To break the tension in the room while he readied a basin of fresh hot water, a sponge, and several strips of clean gauze, Sot joked quietly about the ineptness of Ren's replacement. Ren appreciated the older man's thoughtfulness and the room he let him keep above the stable, but he said nothing just then. As soon as Sot left, Ren gently sponged Jensena's face and hair and helped her remove her chain mail and armor.
In spite of his own numbness, Ren found himself unabashedly admiring Jensena's impressive figure and musculature as he worked. Apart from wincing as the garments brushed her shoulders, the big blonde woman made no move to stop his efforts. The cloth of her blouse was matted against the bloody skin of her shoulders. When he used a dagger to tear the cloth around the wounds, he ripped the blouse almost down to her waist. Still she continued to watch him in silence. When he began cleaning the gashes in her shoulder, she finally spoke. "In the pouch, under my belt, you'll find a healing potion."
Ren let his gaze pass slowly from her shoulders to her beltline, and then he glanced up and met her eyes. Ren's pulse speeded, and he could feel his face flush. Jensena nodded lightly, and Ren reached for the potion, pausing just long enough to let his fingertips brush her warm, smooth skin. He closed his eyes for a single moment before his hand closed around the small glass bottle.
It was an excellent healing potion. He used it sparingly, but it did the work of a cleric. She reached for Ren's hands and squeezed them hard. "Thank you. When my pain is less…"
"I'd like that, Jensena… Good night."
"We've slowed the poison, but we haven't stopped it. I'm sorry. I know she's a friend of yours."
Tarl tried to sit up, but he sucked in his breath in pain when the newly mended flesh under his ribs pulled tight. "No! I can't… I can't lose her, too. Brother… Brother Tern, you've got to keep trying! Surely there's some antidote for the assassin's poison!"
"Tarl, we've done everything we know. Our clerical spells have done some good, or she'd be dead already. But the poison still burns through her. Her body still twitches like a fish on a hook,…" Brother Tern pointed across the chamber. Two clerics held Shal gently to keep her from harming herself further by involuntary movement. "I… I don't believe she can last much longer."
Tarl looked briefly at Shal and then turned away. "I'll call on Tyr myself to heal her!" Tarl fought the pain that throbbed through his whole body as he tried to stand. "I'll go to the meditation chamber, to the innermost sanctuary. There can be no reason for her to suffer, too!"
"Few so young dare to attempt to enter the inner sanctuary, but like any of us, Brother Tarl, you're free to try. Cleanse yourself thoroughly first, though, and mind your attitude and your motives."
"Thank you, Brother Tern. I shall."
Tarl gratefully accepted his brother's help as he bathed his healing body and changed into full battle garb. But when he stood at the door of the meditation chamber, he stood alone.
Tarl knew from his earliest catechisms the nature of the meditation chamber. He would enter the first of four concentric squares clean of body, the second clean of extraneous thoughts, the third with a focus of purpose, and the final one with a focus on his god. While technically open to any worshiper of Tyr, few who were not grounded in the faith through years of clerichood and service bothered to enter, since a spiritual barrier prevented most from passing beyond the first or second square.
Tarl raised his hammer to the entrance of the first square. It glowed blue, and he passed through the curtain into the chamber. The space between the outer square and the inner one was only four cubits, and the ceiling was low and confining. Tarl could feel his breath constrict. He wondered for a moment if he was doing the right thing, but he proceeded as he had been taught. His hammer and shield bared, Tarl walked the inner perimeter of the square, speaking the words of a mantra designed to cleanse the mind of miscellaneous thoughts. After twice around the square, his breathing eased, and he could feel his head clearing. Another time around and he could feel a healing warmth, greater than that from the hands of his brothers, spreading through his body, mending even the soreness brought on by his wound.
After four more times around the square, his hammer glowed blue again, and Tarl entered the second square. This square was of course, smaller, and the distance between the walls of the squares was the same, but the ceiling was easily half again as tall as that of the previous chamber, which gave the second chamber an illusion of a greater size. Once more Tarl felt his breath constrict, and he experienced an intense pressure on all parts of his body, as though the walls of the room were closing in and the air had nowhere to go. Tarl found it impossible to think about the concerns he had planned to bring into the sanctuary. He remembered the advice Brother Tern had offered as he helped him with his robes and armor: "When you can go no further, fight. Find physical balance, and the rest will come. Tyr is God of War and Justice. He seeks focus of purpose and balance."
Tarl raised his shield and wielded his hammer, pushing and swinging, charging and parrying against imaginary foes that lined the narrow hallway. It was not until his body began to revel in the movement and Tarl found a familiar joy in the control of it that his focus returned. Unconsciously, almost as an afterthought to his physical action, he began to speak and re-speak the concerns that plagued him: Shal, Anton, the Hammer of Tyr. Every time he brought his shield up or swung his hammer, it was for Shal, or Anton, or for the return of the hammer. His focus was so strong, he didn't even think about the fact that he was now moving without pain.