Stepping Wild (Dungeon Runner 04)

"All right!" the guard master yelled as she brought her horse to a stop. "Pass the word. We're stopping here!"

Tibs brought his to a stop and disembarked, wincing as he grabbed the saddle's horn to lower himself. After weeks with the constant burn over his hand, the pain tended to fall out to the point he forgot, until an action with that hand reminded him.

He didn't want to forget about it, shouldn't be able to forget about it. The pain should be constant and disabling. But he needed to be an effective guard to remain with the caravan, and that meant he needed to wield his sword, or carry items as needed, to make camp or help one of the merchants.

"Tibar, Crestin, Johane, Stanla, and Zax are on tent duties. Maltarium, Albalester and Bronte, latrine."

He tuned her out and joined the others at the wagon carrying the guards' supplies. Poles and tarp in arms, they moved away and proceeded to set them up. The others talked and laughed while working, but Tibs didn't join in. He focused on the work and the pain; on hiding he felt it. When Zax helped him, he tried to engage Tibs in conversation, but quickly gave up.

Tibs took the farthest tent as his own.

The caravan leader required that the guards eat together and Tibs had no choice to participate then, but he spoke as little as possible. Only enough to come across as the silent type, instead of someone who wanted nothing to do with any of them.

More than once, he considered he should have traveled alone. He wasn't fit, or safe, company. But he wasn't so far gone not to realize the dangers of aloneness in his current state. So this was his compromise. Among others, but not.

Eating done, he sat against a tree at the edge of the camp and pushed fire through his hand. Enduring as much of the pain as he could. Burning himself without leaving evidence for anyone to smell. Air was the only other essence he allowed himself, and only to keep anyone from smelling burned flesh.

Fire he only used on himself.

"What's wrong with it?" the large man asked, dropping to the ground a few paces away from Tibs. He drained the wooden tankard and placed it next to him. The mace was, as always, attached to his belt. The lair of fat covered muscles that let him cave in bandits' head when they were stupid enough to attack them.

"With what?" He kept the smell from reaching the man while absorbing the Fire essence.

The man nodded to Tibs's right hand. Both were gloved to avoid drawing attention to it. "Noticed you favoring it a few times. You held your own in the fight, so I didn't bring it up with Alicia, but I've been wondering. Left over from a fight?"

"No." His anger at never being able to endure as much of the pain as he should, gave the word an edge.

"You know we have a healer traveling with us this time, right? I'm sure he'd be happy to look at it in exchange for the protection we all provide."

"I'm fine," he stated.

The man in question was more alchemist than healer. Tibs's cursed curiosity had drawn him to the essence in that wagon's crates, and caught the man working. He'd watched as the man placed vials over flames and added a liquid, equal part water, and other elements. One of the mixture reminded him of alcohol.

"The heat of the fire," the man said after glancing in Tibs's direction. "Changes the elixir into something that pulls the essence out from the items I put in it."

There had been the tone of a scholar imparting knowledge, and Tibs had walked away. He wasn't interested in what the man was doing. He didn't want to know anything about the elements anymore.

He was done with them.

"You shouldn't be in pain if you don't have to," the guard said. "They don't want that for us."

"They who?" he asked, barely kept from making it a demand.

"They elements. They want us to be happy." He motioned around. "They made all this for us to enjoy. We should."

Tibs snorted. The elements wanted nothing for them, felt nothing. Maybe curiosity was something they felt toward people. Happiness? He doubted the elements understood what that was, or cared if people were happy, if they did.

"You think you deserve it?"

He glared at the man, but kept his tone neutral. "How about you leave me in peace?"

With a shrug, the guard stood. "Just being friendly."

He waited until the man was paces away. "No one should suffer my friendship." He didn't deserve them. Not when all he brought those around him was suffering.

Alone, he pulled Fire out again.

The only person who deserved to suffer was him.

* * * * *

"Listen up!" the guard master yelled once the caravan stopped. "The scout came back with news of a bandit camp half a day's ride ahead. I want volunteers to deal with them. Those of you here so you can bash in heads. Now's the time to step forward."

He walked away. She'd have enough volunteers.

Dealing with the bandits would take most of the day, so he pulled tarps and poles and set about making the camp.

* * * * *

Stolen novel; please report.

When the remnants of the bandit camp came into view, it was closer to the road than Tibs had expected. He'd sensed where they were, but hadn't paid attention to the gap among the grass that marked the road. It wound and twisted.

The fighting had been hard. Not only from what those who returned said, but also because only half of them returned. He was surprised at how few bandit bodies there were, considering the damage they inflicted. Stories of their viciousness and strength hadn't given a proper sense of them, he realized.

There had been whispers of magic and them being dungeon made people, but Tibs had ignored those.

Both ideas were laughable. He'd have sensed if one of them had had an element. It would have stood out among the others. Not that he would have done anything about it. As for dungeon made? Dungeons made monsters, not people.

The alchemist, as well as the family of herbalists, helped with healing those who had returned. The guard with the mace had nodded to them significantly when he'd caught Tibs's attention.

He'd walked away.

* * * * *

Tibs parried the hammer, and the impact resounded through the sword and into his hand, causing it to spasm. Before he could worry about being weaponless, the woman raised the large hammer over her head with a scream. He slammed his already injured shoulder into her chest, staggering her back and off balance.

He stepped out of the way of the other bandits's punch, and she did the same with his return swing. As with the other women in his bandit group, she wore furs, which made her look more like an animal than a person.

He could already hear the stories of dungeon people that would be told after this.

She came at him, fists raised. He blocked with his arm and the hit had enough strength he thought his shoulder had been wrenched out. The other was already broken. He wouldn't survive losing the use of both arms.

Unless he used essence.

He ground his teeth against the pain of his wild swing. She stepped back in surprise.

He was never using essence again.

And as painful as his arm was, it worked.

She attacked with quick jabs that staggered him when they connected. Then he was on his back, head spinning from a punch he didn't see coming.

He deserved the pain; he told himself as she raised a foot over his head.

The mace crushed the side of her head. She staggered to the side before falling.

"You okay?" the guard asked, hands on knees, panting.

He didn't respond. He forced himself to his feet, retrieved his sword, and rejoined the fight. Until it was done, he'd protect the merchants and their families the best he could.

* * * * *

"I'm fine," he told the approaching alchemist.

"I am afraid that even I can see that is not the case. Your friend asked that I see to you, now that the others have been tended to."

"I don't have a—" he pushed through the pain to look around the thin man. The mace wielding guard was looking back at him with a raised eyebrow. Abyss. What was his problem?

The alchemist knelt next to Tibs and produced a small bottle from his satchel. As with everything in it, the bottle contained concentrated essence. Water, Fever, Fire, Light, Corruption and many more he couldn't identify. "This will help with the pain."

"I'm fine with it."

The man studied him. "You understand that what I do is not magic. I will help your body heal, but you will feel it all."

Tibs glared. "I said I'm fine with it. If I thought it'd do any good, I'd tell you to throw yourself in the abyss. But then he's going to tell the guard master and I'm going to have to deal with them, and you. Just get on with it."

With a shrug, the man put the bottle away. He took cloths and different bottles out. "Do you need help remove your armor and shirt? This needs to be applied on to your skin. It must soak—"

"I don't care." Tibs gritted his teeth to keep the pain from escaping as he leaned forward and undid the buckles with his working hand. He suffered through removing it and his undershirt, then fell back against the tree, panting hard.

The man watched him through the process without speaking. Then he poured drops from various bottles on a clean cloth, Purity, Light, Fever, Air, Water.

"You did not fail them." He said, applying the cloth over the broken shoulder.

"What are you talking about?" He tried to ignore what was happening, the way the essences mixed over his skin, soaked through. This felt different from any of the essence work he'd witnessed before.

"Those the bandits killed are not on you. You do not have to punish yourself. I am certain you have fought as best as you know how. Everyone has commented on their unusual strength. And there are already fewer of you after the previous attacks."

"You think that—" the pain was so sudden he couldn't stop the scream. It was worse than when he'd healed himself with fever. This felt like his shoulder was being ground to powder, not being healed.

Fever was his element. So how could he feel this pain? One of the other elements?

Then it was gone, and he panted. He forced himself to focus on what had been left behind. The…not rightness of his essence through his shoulder.

"Do not move your arm," the alchemist warned. "It takes time for the body to understand the healing has taken place. It does not enjoy being forced to do something it believes it cannot do." He prepared another cloth, but Tibs was focused on his essence. The break that had remained in it was changing, mending, to match the now healed bone.

The other applications were similar, but, knowing was to expect, were less intense. Tibs told him where he was injured. The alchemist applied a liquid essence soaked cloth, and it seeped in, bones healed, and after, his essence changed to reflect what had happened.

All that was left was closer to bruising than breaking anything.

He moved the hand when the man reached for it. "It's fine."

"Your friend said—"

"He's not my friend. Just some guard who can't mind his own business."

"If you allow me to see, I can mix something that will help."

"I didn't get that defending you. So it's not your responsibility."

"My help is not limited to—"

"I said no."

The man nodded and packed the bottles and cloths away. He stood, then hesitated. "Holding on to pain does not help anyone. Whatever the reason for you to hold on to it is, it is wrong. You are a good person, and—"

"You know nothing about me." He'd intended to snarl, but he was too tired.

The alchemist exchanged words with the mace wielding guard, ending with a shrug.

Fortunately for him, the guards headed away.

Tibs might have broken his promise and used Air to send him off if he'd approached.

* * * * *

The rain that had made the last week miserable suddenly ended, and the sky turned so blue Tibs couldn't understand how it was possible. The smile, as the sun warmed him, caught him by surprise.

He didn't know how, but it felt like the clouds had taken some of the darkness in him with them.

He chuckled.

Then he forced himself to remember what he'd done so he wouldn't feel too happy. He didn't want to return to being miserable, but he also couldn't allow himself to forget how, again, his anger had destroyed more than had deserved. Too many of the city folks had died when only those thugs had deserved it.

No. Only the Master had deserved it.

He kept to himself for the rest of the trip and no one noticed the change, except for the mace wielding guard. He gave Tibs a satisfied nod, then went on about his duties.

Tibs contemplated his hand.

He could heal it himself. An etching of Purity and he'd be fine. He looked over the wagons. But he was curious how the alchemist would go about doing it.

And he needed to tell him something.

"You're wrong," He said as he stepped up to the man's wagon. He raised his hand. "I deserve this. I let my anger take control and people who had no business paying for it did. But you're right. I can't hold on to the pain and just be angry at myself for what I did. If your offer still stands, I'd like you to heal it."

"Of course." He pulled a crate and motioned for Tibs to sit. "Show me."

Removing the glove hurt. Flesh came off with it, and the alchemist gasped.

"I do not know if I can entirely heal damage so severe. My elixirs will do nothing for the skin."

"Do what you can. I'll endure the rest."

And maybe scars would serve as a reminder to not let his anger rage again.