Chapter 8: Fallen Butterfly

For the next few hours, Ronan slipped in and out of consciousness. The bits and pieces he could remember felt dreamlike.

First, he recalled two dapper Nightblades standing over him. One of the man’s lips had pursed when he asked, “Should we leave him? He’s about as clean as a rat.”

Secondly, Ronan remembered the deafening clank of a large set of pliers on an iron table beside him. Somebody in the room had said, “There’s no way this thin mutt will survive.”

Lastly, Ronan recollected screaming so hard his vision went black.

Then, he was awake and lying in the comfiest bed he’d ever been in.

His old and itchy wool clothes had been replaced with a matching set of cool gray fencing trousers and a breezy doublet. Ronan’s hair had been combed, and his skin washed. He smelled of blueberries and rose water.

Most importantly, through his opened doublet, he could see that the shard inside him had been removed and that his stomach had been bandaged. There was no sign of infection, or any black veins on his arm. The Mark of Serpent had returned to normal, and there were no signs of the mystical runes that had appeared before he passed out—

Ronan wondered if they’d even really been there.

He glanced around the room. A large, curtained window was to his left, along with many detailed paintings of butterflies landing on the branches of trees during all four seasons. To Ronan’s right was a paisley carpeted floor that reminded him of the patterns on a butterfly’s wing. Rows of big, white, goose-feathered beds and pillows lined the wall. The faint hum of a lute being strummed some ways outside of the large room relaxed Ronan and made his limbs feel heavy.

For once he was so sheltered, snug, and warm, he thought he may have died and gone to the heavens.

A man sat up in the bed beside Ronan. The man was a few years older than Ronan and had a set of thin, plucked, brunette sideburns. They matched his long, teased chestnut hair that was kept in a tight ponytail, along with his muddy brown eyes. He’d been concealed by the fluffy blankets, and he turned to Ronan and groaned, “These beds are so rough, aren’t they? It’s like sleeping on a pile of rocks.”

It took Ronan a second to realize that the snazzy fellow was not kidding.

“Is it true what you were mumbling in your sleep?” the man asked Ronan quizzically. “Was the Temple of the Serpent really destroyed?”

Right as Ronan went to respond, the man blurted, “I’m sorry, where are my manners? I am Ike of Lanningale.”

“Hello Ike, I’m Ronan,” Ronan muttered, thinking back to the chaotic events at his temple. “And I don’t know if the Temple of the Serpent was destroyed. But it was attacked, and it was brutal.”

Ronan shut his eyes then said, “I saw people cut to bits. Bodies burning. My Master killed in front of my eyes by poison. It was terrible, Ike. I didn’t know such horror existed, and I feel guilty being so far from it when I could still be there and fighting.”

Ike’s mouth flittered for words and his eyes grew wide. After a few seconds he said, “I’m terribly sorry for everything you endured, though you should understand that in the shape you were in, you wouldn’t have been doing much fighting.”

Trying to sound a tad lighter and more pleasant, Ike added, “It’s a great thing that you found your way here. Now you can live to fight another day. The hospital ward for the Butterfly Nightblades is best in all the land.”

“You’re right,” Ronan chuckled, exiting his gloominess. “This past day has been crazy, and I’m just grateful to still be alive.”

Ronan laughed again and said, “Wait a minute. This is a hospital ward? It seems like a royal bedroom.”

Ike tilted his head and replied, “Does it now? Perhaps we’ve lived very different lives, Ronan. But that’s okay! I’m simply glad to see you’re up and about.”

“That’s kind of you, Ike,” Ronan said, waiting for the moment that Ike would begin to harass him. Kindness was not something Ronan saw often in strangers. “So, how did you find yourself in this luxurious hospital ward?”

Ike lifted his bedsheet to reveal a stiff leg inside a rough white cast. Frightened, Ike said, “It was all part of the Butterfly Ceremony. To earn my wings, like you’ve earned that snake on your arm there. But I wasn’t ready, and another Trainee pushed me from the ledge before I could cast my spell.”

“That’s terrible! You could’ve been killed!”

Ike shrugged. “I’m used to that around here. Especially from that Trainee and his group of friends. They’re miserable people and they abuse everyone around them.”

Just like he had felt on the street in front of the Slaug, Ronan’s Mark of Serpent began to burn.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Ike of Lanningale,” Ronan said passionately.

Another sophisticated and stylish Nightblade stomped in, snickering.

“Ike of Lanningale? More like Ike of Gutter-water, or Ike of Sewage-Drains,” the second Nightblade said mockingly, standing firm and above Ronan.

The man’s short black hair was slicked back, and he wore a cuffed white shirt with a navy blue hunting jacket.

“I am Lord Wallace of Sharpgate. You’ve probably never heard of such a place if you’re truly from that snowy pebble called the Temple of the Serpent.”

Ronan studied Lord Wallace, trying to understand why the man believed himself to be of such a high regard. What earned Ronan’s respect was standing up for townsfolk and slaying monsters, not fancy titles or insulting Ike.

Ronan considered the several geography books he’d read in Yvette’s library, then said, “Sharpgate. It’s the city of magistrates near Rushing Water Falls.”

Lord Wallace’s face twitched with irritation.

Ronan continued and said, “Sharpgate is home to many long lineages of nobles, has quite the large and important wine brewery that ships to most of the country, and if I’m not mistaken, the most recent map coordinates for it would be—”

Lord Wallace stomped his foot and made a fist. He tried best to conceal his anger but still clenched his teeth when he said, “Yes, young and rankless Serpent Nightblade, you’ve proved your point.”

From behind Lord Wallace, Ronan saw Ike’s head poke out and his jaw drop.

Crossing both his arms behind his back and lifting his chin, Lord Wallace said, “Now, since I pulled your body from the streets and that bread boar Habbot, you’ve been mumbling to yourself about some nonsense.”

Lord Wallace snickered and waved a hand. “Some Hellsworn Army, or something equally as ridiculous. Tell me, as your indebted savior, puny Nightblade, what is it that you were on about?”

Ronan was really beginning to be irritated by Lord Wallace’s manner of speaking. At the same time, Ronan had been treated so poorly by others, he’d learned to sympathize with the people he suspected lashed out to cover their own emotional wounds.

“Firstly,” Ronan said, “Thank you for saving me.”

Lord Wallace gleamed. “It wasn’t my first choice, but I sensed a great power in you, and you’re from across the globe, so whatever your ramblings, I figured there must be a kernel of truth to them.”

Ronan understood how to deal with men who liked their ego stroked.

“That’s very perceptive of you, Lord Wallace,” Ronan said. “And I would be happy to explain what happened. I haven’t been bred for cordial manners like a refined man from Sharpgate such as yourself has been, but I do believe it would be proper if you moved aside so I may address both you and our friend Ike here.”

Lord Wallace’s smirk flipped to a grimace. He checked behind his shoulder at Ike, then stepped to the side so that Ronan could look them both in the eyes as he spoke.

“Thank you again, Lord Wallace,” Ronan said. “You truly are the superior man among us. Now, as for what happened at the Temple of the Serpent. We were besieged by forces in black metal armor that bore carvings of the animals that represent the Nightblades. Our Sorceress called these hulking giants ‘The Hellsworn.’ The Hellsworn attacked us with white fires that could burn through the hardest of stone and they sliced us up with black weapons that would poison our people and turn their blood to sludge.”

Ike gripped his bedsheet. The man was quivering, and Ronan saw a lot of himself in Ike. Or maybe, Ronan saw a lot of the man he’d been back at the temple before it had fallen.

“I was teleported here after we discovered that our magic and weapons had no effect on the Hellsworn,” Ronan said.

Grimly, he finished by saying, “I don’t know if anybody else survived.”

Lord Wallace licked his teeth. “Yes, well, that’s quite the fascinating story, young Nightblade. But it doesn’t explain this.”

Lord Wallace reached into his pocket and produced the black metal shard that had been inside Ronan.

“From what you’re telling us,” Lord Wallace said, “then you would’ve died from poison by now, no?”

“I should have,” Ronan said flatly. Titanoboa’s final moments flashed in his mind. “But I didn’t. And I’m ready to keep fighting.”

“We shall see,” Wallace said, turning heel. “I’ll bring this information to the other Butterfly Nightblades. We will study this shard and the ash from the creature you slayed in the streets.”

Wallace paused at the exit without turning around. Trembling, he said, “The Hellsworn are a matter of tall tales. They are fiction.”

Ike checked to make sure Wallace was gone before turning to Ronan and saying, “That was incredible! How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Ronan laughed.

“You made him look like a fool for behaving so poorly!”

“I only tried to do what I thought was right.”

Ike nodded to himself, rubbing his casted leg and grinning. “It’s a tragedy what happened to your temple, and I’m so sorry for your loss. But there is a reason you survived, Ronan.”

The two continued to chat and share stories, but Ronan was not giving Ike his full attention. Ronan touched the mark on his forearm. It was still hot, and he could feel the magic on his fingertips, ready to be summoned.

But the runes he’d seen were gone, and he wondered again if they’d even been there, and if he could harness their power once more.