Mongrel

Artie was worried about Sam's condition, and after a short bit of talking and eating they all set out again with the bandits at the lead. Mongrel threw the occasional perturbed glance at the tree crowns when a chimp swung past. They all had a stern talking-to coming after dropping their royal fumble on lookout duty. He guessed that Number Three had something to do with their lack of vigilance. That boy was turning into a regular troublemaker.

Not far from the hollow, the bandits had left three mounts tied up. Three moose, as it turned out, fitted with saddle and headstall and everything. Artie explained that moose were preferable to horses in these parts, as they were surer on their feet in woodlands and less prone to spooking at the sight of a monster—not to mention those antlers were terribly sharp.

Even so, they decided it was better for Gug to keep hold of Sam rather than put her on one of the mounts, reasoning that being carried was probably less straining than making her hang onto a saddle.

The bandits knew of secret paths through the wilderness that made their going as easy as one could ask for. It was not very long before the woods grew denser and harsher, and but for the narrow trail they followed Mongrel doubted that the terrain would have been passable.

Then they reached a bramble thicket with finger-length thorns, rising twice again his height. They stopped before the wall, which stretched as far as Mongrel could see in both directions. Artie called out, and a man replied from the other side, and passwords were exchanged. Then a section of the bramble was lifted inward and to the side, creating a small portal to allow passage through.

Inside, evidently, was Freetown. Set into a sunny glen with a stream gurgling through its center, it seemed a surprisingly ordinary settlement; clusters of thatched houses with dirt paths running between them. There was a smithy, and a mill, and some small plots of farmland, and a large stables.

The bramble ran at equal height all the way around Freetown to form a defensive wall. A few of the tall pines near its edges had crow's nests set into them, where bowmen peered vigilantly out into the wilds. Looking up, Mongrel found a pair of watchers just above who were looking back down at him, arrows ready to nock at a moment's notice.

Mongrel called to the chimps to go to ground and come into the town on foot—he did not need the watchmen mistaking his boys for a monster incursion.

The people of Freetown who were about business along the paths were reserved at the sight of strangers, but not unfriendly once they saw that they were chaperoned by a group of their own. A few of them offered brief greetings before moving along, and some others stopped to watch the newcomers with curiosity. As always, the troll in his smart suit—if somewhat stained and tattered at this point—garnered much interest.

Sam was brought to the western side of the settlement, which lay partially in shadow by the slope that formed one end of the gentle valley and blocked the light of the slowly setting sun. Artie guided them to a house that looked much like all the others. It was the home of a local healer, and Mongrel was relieved to see that he was an experienced sort—a Level 14 Physician-Cook.

He was an old man by the name of Youssef. His face was wrinkled like a testicle, and he had a snow-white beard so long that he kept it pinned to his coat with a brass tie clip so it wouldn't get in his way while working.

A few strong men took over for Gug in bringing Sam inside, since the troll was a bit large for the cramped interior. They laid her out on a table, and the healer hummed to himself while examining her with great care. His gnarled and wizened fingers moved with the deftness of a twenty-year-old. Mongrel did not feel particularly jealous about it.

Artie sent away the ones who did not need to be there, himself and his friend Gutsy not included. It rather seemed that the stone-faced Explorer never left the other man's shadow. Oatmeal, whose injuries were of a lesser extent, was led aside to be tended by one of the healer's assistants.

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"Dear dear dear dear dear," Youssef chattered to himself as he peeled away layers of bandaging and began to undo the stitches Number One had put in with a pair of tiny scissors. There was a low muttering from the old man as he began to cast skills, and his hands glowed with multicolored light. He worked away at her for some time, and Mongrel was soundly ignored when he tried to ask questions. Physicians were much like Scholars in that regard, always living in their own little worlds.

"This is strange," Youssef said at last, and held out his cupped hands for an assistant to squirt disinfectant into, then rubbed them together so vigorously that droplets of alcohol flew all over. "Whatever I do, my healing does not seem to be taking at all. It's like her flesh resists being mended. Her own Healing Factor is not functioning either."

"It must be the innate ability of the monster she fought," Mongrel guessed. "A werewolf of some description, we think."

"That can't be right," Sam said. She tried to lift her head, but the healer put a hand on her forehead and pressed her firmly back down. "It was regenerating similar to a troll. I thought that had to be its ability."

"Huh." Mongrel walked over to a nearby window, outside which Gug stood crouched to peer in. "Hey, genius. Your brother said something strange about the werewolf—that it was a 'high' monster or some such. What did he mean by that, exactly?"

"Oh," Gug said, his voice coming muffled and his heavy breath fogging up the glass, "some monsters, by virtue of a long life or surviving many violent encounters, can 'mutate', which strengthens them and gives them access to a secondary innate ability."

"Jaysus," Mongrel muttered, thumbing at the sore spot on his neck, "it seems like every goddamn day I learn about some new form of fuckery. I don't suppose you know what the secondary ability of a high werewolf is?"

"No."

"Yeah, I didn't think so." Mongrel turned back to the gathering inside the clinic. "But I guess it's safe to assume that ability is what is preventing her wounds from healing."

"I see," Youssef said. "If the effect is caused by an ability, that means it must wear off at some point. She has lost a lot of blood, but it appears that it is only the wounds themselves that resist my influence, not her body as a whole, so I should be able to Regenerate some of her blood supply to keep her from hemorrhaging for the time being. There are also decoctions I can give her to help with pain and promote swift recovery. It's possible that the effects of healing substances are not affected by this unknown ability in the same way that skills and passives are."

"Fair and good," Mongrel said with a nod. "Just… keep her alive, will you?"

"I will do my best."

"Can she and the boy stay here overnight?"

"Yes, of course."

"And how much is this going to cost us, exactly?"

"Nothing at all," the old man replied with a light chuckle, and returned at once to his work.

"What?" Mongrel asked, frowning.

"Money has no value in Freetown," Artie explained. "We give what we can to each other, and receive what we need in return."

"Uh-huh. So you're commies?"

"You make it sound like a four-letter word."

"Oh, good. I'm glad you didn't misunderstand me."

"Don't worry about him," Sam said. "He's just a bit crotchety in his old age."

Mongrel crossed his arms and let out a huff of righteous indignation. "I prefer to pay an honest price for an honest service, that's all. This 'from each according to their ability' shit is all a bit too abstract for my liking."

"There will be time to discuss political theory at length, I'm sure," Artie said in a placating tone, "but for now, maybe Sam could use a bit of peace and quiet?"

"A good suggestion," Youssef said.

Mongrel shrugged, and let his arms drop. "Fair enough. In that case, you take me to Big Deal Buck. I've come a long way for that turd, and I got some things to say to him."

Artie nodded. "Of course. I don't know exactly where he is at the moment, you understand, but if he's not out adventuring I expect he'll be at town hall."

Mongrel motioned the man impatiently toward the door. "All right, then. On you go." He turned and spared a glance at the girl. "You gonna be okay?"

"I'm good," Sam replied. "You go on. Find Buck."

"I'll be okay," Oatmeal piped up from a chair in the corner, the Physician assistant just done fussing over his hand.

"I wasn't asking you, shitwit," Mongrel spat acidly, and with that turned and followed the two bandits through the door.

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