The weary nine travelers slowly made their way to a run-down tavern. A tall three-story building emerged from within the winding and crisscrossing maze that were the roads of Perry. It looked as if the building had gone through numerous reincarnations - parts of its walls seemed brand-new, while others were dated and looked as if they had been touched by flames. A small plank was hanging from chains above its front door, gently swaying with the wind. Dartelo could barely see the branded writing on the piece of wood.

"The Wounded Warrior. Remember the second symbol before the name, boy. It's used for people that can't read." Dzherbon said, as he walked next to him unsteadily. "Means it's a place to rest."

The two watchmen knocked on the door. After half a minute or so, a man that seemed as ancient as the gods slowly opened the door. His eyes were glazed over and never wandered, even as he tilted his head to one side or the other, listening to the township guards' whispers.

"Enter, fellow warriors." the old man answered with a hoarse voice, before turning around and going back into the tavern. The two guards nervously smiled and walked back to Lord Alfors' and his escort.

"Begging your forgiveness, Baron, but ol' Noar has been like this ever since he came back from the war blind," one of them said, worry evident in his demeanor, as he bowed. "The rooms are clean and there is warm food aplenty."

Lord Alfors looked at the building, and in his typical taciturn manner, replied, "Take our horses to the stable. We shall need an apothecary."

The two men went their separate ways as the group entered the dimly-lit tavern. The air was still and heavy, the glass windows so dirty one could barely see through them. The first floor was surprisingly large, with worn-down tables and chairs of all sorts littering the room. A few drunks looked at them with curiosity, before turning back to face the fireplace.

Dzherbon made his way to the bar, where old man Noar was patiently waiting. He was rummaging beneath the counter for a short while, before he promptly gave him four heavy keys. One of them was notched in a peculiar way.

"The marked key is for the last room on the second floor. That one's me best. My cook, Mams, is gone for the night, so I can only warm up a pot of soup for yer men." the old man said.

"They are not my men, tavern master Noar, but I shall tell my lord. Excuse us for the disturbance." Dzherbon answered, a clink sounding out as his hand left a silver coin on the counter.

The healer handed Lord Alfors the key to his room, and the men all followed him up the stairs onto the second floor, where they each decided on their sleeping arrangements.

"Come to my room in a bit if you have anything you can't bandage on your own." Dzherbon said, a few of the men snickering as they grabbed their trousers in feigned pain. The westerner scoffed as he and Dartelo entered their room.

It was small and a bit stuffy and, curiously, Siem had somehow managed to claim the biggest bed right under their noses, his eyes closed. It was faint, but you could hear the man snoring. Dzherbon blankly looked at the old soldier, wondering whether he should wake him up to inspect his wounds. 'Ah, doesn't matter. Best not wake a slumbering werebear, as the saying goes.'

All the while, Dartelo had been meekly following the group, not uttering a single word. His pupils were dilated and his breathing was shallow. The healer noticed this and, with a hand on his shoulder, dragged him onto the closest chair. The youngster's body felt frail to the touch and Dzherbon was afraid he'd injure him if he wasn't careful.

He worriedly looked at the young man. 'Ah, damnation, don't tell me we broke the boy so soon. That'll be a new personal record...' he thought, and with a grin, he cupped the side of Dartelo's head and pinched his small ear between his colossal fingers.

"Wake up, boy!" Dzherbon said firmly, as the shock from the pain startled Dartelo. As the teenager looked at him, he could could see the fear that had gripped his soul.

"Now listen, young one. There's nothing to be ashamed of, we've all gone through this. By the devil's coat, if you think none of us weren't shaking in our boots when we saw those damn wind arrows raining down upon us, then you've sorely overestimated us. Everyone fears death, fears losing there loved ones. Just remember, if you live, then you have to become stronger for the ones that didn't. Kalir soyarah!" Dzherbon said, a kind look on his face as he inwardly stroked his ego for coming up with such a good speech on the spot. 'Lord Alfors would be proud.' he told himself.

"I'm sorry..., what did you say Dzherbon?" Dartelo asked, as he finally regained his composure.

The tall healer almost lost his footing upon hearing this. 'By the heavens that watch over me, if I don't smack your bottom bloody by the end of the day, then I'll change my name to Perry!' he thought angrily.

Dzherbon stood up, his hands itching to teach the rascal in front of him a good lesson, and said, "I was merely pointing out that it's normal to be afraid, whelp. But it seems that our dear little servant Bucket has the heart of a flying lion."

"Thank you for your concern," Dartelo said, as he brought his legs up to his check and hugged them. "Can you please tell me of something so that my mind can wander a bit. Was that magic that you used to save us?"

Dzherbon sighed as his hand made its way through his hair. 'And the brains of a chicken.'

"That was a blessing, you dimwit. Didn't I tell you before that I'm a Battle Healer? For heavens, boy, do you not know anything about the world!?" Dzherbon exclaimed, feeling as if he was at the end of his rope when he saw the empty look on Dartelo's face. "Now listen here, and listen carefully. Battle Healers are men that have been blessed by the gods, not like those scrawny little mages that stick their noses into books all day long, holed up in their wizard towers. No, a Battle Healer has to be the bravest and strongest fighter of his clan. He has to be smart, agile and ruthless. Only then will the tribal shaman bestow upon him the blessing of the gods and teach him the ancestral ways."

"So..., is it just the one blessing or are there more? And how often can you use it?" Dartelo asked, almost jumping out of his chair. There was no sign of his previous tiredness. "Ooh, and what do you use to make it work?"

"Of course there isn't just one blessing. What are we, the damned southerners that only think there's one god? You can be blessed by as many gods as your tribe follows, as long as the tribal shaman knows the ways of using those blessings. Mind you, not every blessing is easy. Just to learn the Winged Tiger's Skin that I used today, I had to practice it for years, yet it still makes my legs wobble every time I do. At best, I can probably use it for a minute before I pass out. And as far as what I use..." Dzherbon smiled and nodded towards where he had left his gear. "You have two options. It is either the thanks you receive from those you have saved, or the curses of those you've killed. That is why we are called Battle Healers."

"Amazing! Can I become a Battle Healer?" Dartelo asked, bewildered by the prospect of being able to learn something fun, for once.

Dzherbon scowled, his eyebrows seemingly merging above his eyes. "The only thing you can become, you little fiend, is a good servant! Now go wake up Siem and head down for dinner, I have patients in need of my services and an apothecary to meet."

Dejectedly, Dartelo sat up and readied himself for the grueling task that was waking up Siem. He had heard stories about it from the other soldiers.