Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1) by Nicolae Ovidiu Baiculescu

Author:Nicolae Ovidiu Baiculescu [Baiculescu, Nicolae Ovidiu]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-11-07T06:00:00+00:00

The Drakonil Order

Lorian

Echoes of distorted voices slowly carried my sleeping mind towards consciousness. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the energy to open my eyes yet. The invisible hands of an illness were keeping my body locked in the same position, making me feel like I had been battling a week-long fever. And still was.

“I think I used too much juniper on this young lad!” The hoarse voice of a woman, came from far away.

“Oh, so that was what you used on me as well!” A second, younger voice hopped in from the same direction.

“No I didn’t! I knew you were different the moment I laid eyes on you. Everyone knows that chanting does the trick for Iprorims!”

Another failed attempt to open my eyes.

A warm waft of mint and marigold brew made its way inside my nose, persuading me to swallow thirstily, and try once again to open my eyes. It did not come easy with the numbness I was fighting against. My neck felt stiff and all over my back I could feel my muscles sore with pain. The intense aching was comparable to the one when I had to carry potatoes sacks for a day, after my grandmother had decided to plant the tubers instead of autumnal cabbage.

I slowly succeeded in opening my eyes, but was unable to see clearly. Everything was blurred. Through my fogged vision, two faces perched over my body were preoccupied in an animated conversation and did not notice my awakening. I instantly thought that I was using Winterhorn again; the same blurry vision and confused state, one where I couldn’t make out anything from distorted and mingled sounds. Yet there was no handle and no knife when I clenched my hands with revived effort.

“He’s waking up!” A potent and deep voice resounded, giving shape to the small space I was in and covering the chatter of the other two.

It must be one of the voices I heard before! I considered.

I gave up thinking what was real and what wasn’t and slowly pushed my head upwards in the effort to lift myself up.

“Here, take my hand!” An old woman offered me a thin and veiny hand. “Slowly now! You’ll still need a while to recover!”

The young boy’s, surprisingly, strong hand came in aid, supporting my left shoulder and I finally secured a seated position.

With a sequence of slow breaths and repetitive blinks, I felt more restored. Likewise, my sight improved somewhat and from the position I was in, I could see the pair of hands clearer. The wrinkles and the veins on the woman’s skin reminded me of Nana; hands of a hard-working woman, strained, marked and battered by sun, rain, snow and time itself. The realisation made me think with distress how concerned she must be, not knowing anything that had happened. My worry added to the physical discomfort I was in.

In her old age, especially during the last few years, she had often fallen ill with what the village healers called the sadness illness – she needed to avoid excessive efforts and worry.

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