Dreams of Steel - Part 3

Thought of the day:  Should I leave off the accents in all of the names/words, or keep them in?  I really like keeping the spelling the same on borrowed words, but sometimes accents don't transition well into English.  Take the word "Tahedorán" for example.  The plural in Spanish is "Tahedoranes" without an accent, but in English you would just add an s, making it "Tahedoráns."  Hmm... decisions, decisions.

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During the day, Hairón thought he would improve and did not speak of his discomfort to anyone.  But the next morning he woke up worse.  Leaning out the window of the tower it seemed that the parade grounds rippled as if the cobblestones were an ocean of ​​larva.  His stomach turned and he vomited on the windowsill.  He returned to the bed, staggered against the walls, and collapsed.

Nalobas, the doctor, examined the vomit with a critical expression, sniffed it, even tested it with his index finger as his teacher had taught him, and declared it a mysterious fever produced by the rarefaction of the air.  In truth, the front of Hairón was burning, he was sweating from head to toe, and his body shook with violent tremors.  Nalobas prescribed him rest and in order to cool off ordered the slaves to moisten cloths with mountain water.  He also required him to eat a purée of vegetables and boneless chicken, though the patient protested.

"This is easy to digest and will settle your stomach."

At night, Hairón would not stopped raving, and in his restless sleep believed that he was once again confronting the Grey King, the sorcerer who ruled the Inhuman and who had been defeated thanks to the Sword of Fire.  Nalobas did his best to attend him until dawn; at least, so the tower servants commented with admiration.

The next morning, Hairón regained lucidity, but the fever did not subside. He had swollen tongue like an old rag. He drank half a pitcher of water without stopping for breath, with such anxiety that the corners of his mouth dripped with the fluid that his inflamed throat refused to admit.  Afterwards Nalobas presented him with another bowl of purée.

"No, by Himíe.  I can barely swallow.  I do not want to throw up again."

"You must heed Nalobas," recommended Aperión, stiff as a standard-bearer at the foot of the bed.  "When one is sick they are like a small child, and have to obey the advice of their doctor."

Hairón shook his head, but both Aperión and Nalobas insisted that he eat half the plate.  Afterwards he signaled with his head for them to leave him by himself.  Aperión resisted.

"I do not need you now.  Leave," repeated Hairón.

Aperión held his gaze for a few seconds more.  Then he bowed his head and left in a huff.  When they finally left him alone, Hairón summoned Kratos.

"Here I am, Lord."

Hairón started.  Without realizing it, he had fallen back into dozing.  For a moment he thought he saw the grey beard of Aperión and felt anger and even fear.  But the beard faded and in its place he recognized the shaved head and the slanted eyes and thin lips of Kratos’s face, and also the three scars that had been left on his neck by the claws of a corueco.  He felt safe.  Kratos was a man who held his gaze for the right length of time, without looking away or challenging with them, having nothing to prove.  As a master swordsman, he knew how to achieve the best out of his disciples without hoarse shouting or putting on airs as did other Tahedoráns.  He could be a great Zemalnit.