They said it had been three days after he left that things began to turn for the worse. Galin sat in the hut he shared with Luthene in the soldiers’ camp outside the city walls, staring at the crackling flames of a feeble fire that struggled to warm the wood and turf shelter. First it was a lump at her neck, they said. Then her armpit. The physicians were baffled and even as they consulted, things progressed. Black spots, like she was spattered with a clerk’s inkwell, began to appear on her arms and legs and the next morning the fever came. She burned and froze at once, reduced to an incoherent mess. By the next morning there was blood in her mouth and lungs and she expired before the sun had set. It was less than three days from the moments she felt the first touch of malaise and her death and Galin had barely passed Vilpamolan on his journey to the clock in Arri. She was one of the first, the survivors said, but within the week it had spread through the city from the port out. It was not as virulent as many of the plagues that seemed to come with life in large cities, but it killed many, Isabella of the Winking Mermaid included. A good number of men in Domnall’s company were also killed or so weakened from the disease that they could not stand their place in the line of battle.
Galin had been spared the contagion by his trip to the north to help solve the matter of Timedeath, or, more accurately, to stand by and gawp while others solved the matter of Timedeath. He could barely manage wooden carvings, so the workings of a machine, much less a magical one, were beyond his ability without question. So instead he just made sure Luthene did not die of infection and made his way south again in time to see the end of the plague. Rather than bury the bodies, the dead were heaped in piles outside the walls and burned so the air was sickly thick with the sweet scent of burning flesh. It was not the sort of homecoming that Galin would have hoped, friends sick and dead, his sweetheart burned, and not a damned thing he could do about it. That’s what he hated the most, the powerlessness and it was the only thing that helped him feel less responsible for not having been there. It was better, he thought, to be powerless far away, trying to do good, than at Isabella’s bedside in a slow burning rage.
Instead, he spent a week after helping Domnall with disposing of the Company’s dead, reorganizing the men so the camp duties continued and watches were kept. It was not even his responsibility but the plague carried off many of the older men, too often wounded and in ill health, so he found himself acting far beyond his station. The men learned to avoid the snarling figure that prowled the camp, shouting orders and cracking the skulls of those that he sensed were shirking their duty. But for Galin, things only got worse. One morning, Domnall summoned him to the hall and when Galin arrived, silently swearing, he noticed something different on the dais at Domnall’s feet. Usually there were ten shields, one for each of the warband leaders who served under Domnall. That morning, there were nine. Ivarr's was missing. Galin cursed aloud as Domnall wordlessly pushed a blank shield toward Galin and looked at him sternly.
“Pick a good symbol. Now go, you’ve the rest of the day.”
Not wanting to face Luthene or the others he would now command, despite his best efforts to stay far from responsibility. Instead, he bowed his head, picked up the blank, leather covered shield and slung it over his back. It felt strangely heavier than his shield but he knew that it was all in his head. It was just a shield. As he followed the main path to the city’s gate, he saw one of the bonfires burning and wondered if Ivarr’s body was among the flames already. It was a damned idea, he thought, and touched the amulet of the Maker around his neck for comfort. It was like a bad dream, Galin thought, passing through the gates and heading toward the Mermaid for the first time since Isabella died. Sometimes the need to get blind drunk outweighed sentiment and today, he wanted to get blind drunk.
The table he preferred, near one of the windows, was full of a motley collection of outlanders, elves, a halfling, and a dwarf among them. Galin spat onto the rushes and pulled up a chair at a small table in the corner where he could glare at them. That was his table. His and Isabella’s. Slapping coins onto the table, one of the other serving girls, Rose if he remembered correctly, brought over a small clay cup and an jug of a deep red wine from Wyllmochvar. “No need to blame,” she started then saw the cold anger in his eyes and just left the coins and the wine on the table. He downed the first cup without blinking and the second as well, then settled into a steady pace, looking at the group that took his place. Strange outland bastards, he snarled to himself.
Pulling himself out of the seat, half of his third cup still sloshing in his hand, he walked over to them. “So, new around here, eh?” He raised his voice as he got closer; hoping that at least one of them would take offense. “Circus let out? Maker’s balls, I haven’t seen a sorry group of bastards this bad since the Valley and we run through them like a hot knife through butter. So, what is your story, eh?” Galin downed the rest of the wine as he stood over the head of their table, swaying a little and shaking his head. “What’s got you lot sitting at my table, eh?” Part of him knew he had a good chance of getting stabbed, but it was beyond his caring. He was stuck in charge of men he never wanted to command, his woman was dead, and he was drunk. And then, leaning back, he slumped into a chair, his eyes slightly out of focus. “Just resting my legs, before I thrash the lot of you,” he muttered.
