Early one morning, after spending the entire previous day without stopping to eat, Choson thought he heard a familiar rustling in the moment of waking. After some bleary confusion, he supposed that it was just the end part of a dream. Then, a footstep. A snap. As incautious as the noisy stranger usually was, now it was worse—Choson could easily see a dark pair of hide-and-fur boots behind a stand of saplings. Choson sighed and turned over.
“I’m hungry today, Boots,” Choson called. “I won’t leave much.”
For once, there was silence. Choson watched thin trails of smoke rising from the warm pile of ash in front of him.
“That’s if I catch anything at all,” Choson said. Boots left then, though not without a stumble and a muttered curse. The enormous feet thudded away and out of hearing.
Choson walked without pausing, and by midday the crowds of dark pine were mingled with bone-white birches and other trees that Choson could not name. Some were broad, others bent and tangled. The ground here was freer from undergrowth, but was steeply sloped by a series of hills. He trudged on, enduring the aches in his belly and his legs, reasoning that he would likely bear them better Boots than Boots would. Boots may well grow hungry and footsore, and give up. At times he heard a rustle or a shift in the leaves nearby, and he thought it signaled Boots’ return, but each time it transpired to be some small hopping, burrowing, or foraging animal.
As the day waned, his hunger throbbed deep in his stomach and surpassed his will to continue on the path. He probed the woods for burrows, and in his search he came across large, broad-capped white mushrooms. His stomach twisted with hunger as he looked at them, so he picked some and stowed them in a small sack that hung from his belt. He found some burrows and judged them to be in recent use by nearby fresh droppings. There were thorny bushes that often grew nearby, which were springy and firm, and it was on them that he hung a half-dozen twine noose-traps. He climbed to the top of a hill far from the traps, ensuring his noises would not frighten his catch away. Then he nibbled cautiously on a corner of a mushroom. It was chalky and squeaked against his teeth as he chewed, but if it was poisonous it did not taste so.
He waited for the onset of evening in boredom. After cleaning and polishing his armor, as well as running a thumb over the rusted spots and the dents and chips that he could do nothing about, he gently and slowly scraped his small whetstone along the length of his sword. The whetstone was ground almost to nothing and would be gone soon, but there was little else to do. The stories of vengeance that spoke of the heroes who marched alone in dogged pursuit of their enemies left out the boredom that would set in. His path led to the mountain rumored to be the home of the Mordenari, a path worthy of any tale, yet he could not avoid these long stretches of time during which he felt deflated and blank. Recalling the faces of those he had lost aggravated Choson’s boredom and turned it into a slow boiling hate, unlike those heroes that sprang up to their feet and ran on with renewed vigor. But still, Choson recalled them, and held them there in his mind, while the rasping song of the whetstone against the sword rang across the hills.
Evening fell and he went to check the nearest trap. Once there, he kneeled beside the burrow. The twine was gone. There was no sign of it, nor of any rabbit. A cluster of heavy boot-prints surrounded the burrow. He pounded the earth with his fist, then leapt up and tore through the woods to the next trap, and the next. One after another, he found the same scene: twine gone and boot-prints everywhere.
“Boots!” he bellowed. He called the name again and again as he crashed through the bushes toward the path. “Boots! Show yourself!”
There came no reply, and there were no sounds but Choson’s pounding feet and the crashing of brambles that he batted aside. Soon the path came into view. When Choson saw what lay on the path, he burst out in a fit of uncontrolled, panting laughter. Three rabbits lay side by side on the path, along with tangled twine and stacks of dry wood. Someone, whose identity Choson easily guessed, had clumsily attempted to skin and clean one of the rabbits. It looked more like a pack of wolves had torn it apart for sport.
“This is what you want? For me to cook your stolen meal?” he called. “You have been an annoyance, but seeing this, I now feel nothing but pity!”
Still laughing, he leaned down and grabbed one of the rabbits. The nine-foot tall giant, roaring, burst from the trees and charged at Choson with sword held high. Boots was brawny, bearded, and wild. His sword was as long as Choson was tall. Choson, holding his sword ready, had time to chide himself. One should never laugh at a Wittewolder.
Their greatswords clashed briefly, jarring Choson along his arms to his shoulders. Choson pivoted and whipped the giant’s sword aside. Boots swung again, and with a wrenching twist Choson pinned the sword to the ground. In the brief moment of stillness, Choson noted Boots’ strange garb. Thick and matted animal furs, dangling feathers and trophies and talismans hung from every inch of the giant. Boots roared and shouldered Choson, wrenched his sword free, and attacked again.
“Tiny man, you dart swiftly,” said the giant, “but I will strike the smile from you!”
He pronounced it vill and spoke gutturally.
Choson made no reply. The giant swung again and again, wild and unbalanced, and each time Choson parried or sprang out of reach. Despite this, Boots advanced and Choson was forced backwards—soon enough, Choson’s arms burned enough that he felt his grip slipping.
Choson counterattacked. He whipped his sword in deft, sweeping arcs with less power than the giant, but in making his attacks quicker he forced Boots into defense. Boots, sweat dripping from him now, blocked each blow heavily, hardly bringing his immense weapon to meet Choson’s in time.
“Either you kill me quick,” panted the giant, his breath blowing over Choson like a bellows, “or we put down weapons and rest.”
What manner of attack is this? Choson thought.
Their swords locked together, the giant using his weight to press his sword heavily down on Choson’s until Choson’s arms trembled with exertion. He twisted and snapped his sword over the giant’s and pinned it to the earth once more.
“I’m not trying to kill you,” Choson said. “You attacked me!”
“Aye, it was I that attacked you,” said Boots. His chest heaved, and some of the trophies that he wore clacked against one another. “The strong do not suffer the weak to laugh at them.”
“If I apologize for laughing,” Choson said, his arms now straining to keep Boot’s sword down, “then will you leave?”
Standing this close, with the giant’s mouth gaping wide to draw each breath, Choson could see that Boots was missing at least three of his teeth. There was a moment of silence, and then with a roar the giant wrenched his sword free. He swung his sword at Choson wildly, again and again, but Choson avoided them all. Soon Choson pinned him again. His breath, Choson thought, is just like a dog’s.
Boots’ eyes, small but sharp, narrowed for a moment. Then, he released his sword and collapsed in a limp heap on the dirt.
“Too hot today,” murmured Boots. “Too hot in all these lands.”
Choson kicked the giant’s sword away, sheathed his own, and sat a few arm’s lengths away from him.
Boots squinted at him. “Just kill me. You won.”
“I will not kill you. Not today.”
Boots did not reply.
Evening was coming on, and in the cool, still air Choson could see steam rising from the giant, who was panting like a dying horse. Boots pulled at his furs and fanned himself, then grasped a fist-sized brass orb that hung among his many trophies, twisted it open about the middle, and pulled from it a grimy cloth. He wiped his face and sighed, then closed the cloth back in the orb once more. The more Choson looked, the more he saw the surprising variety of these trophies—some bronze, many of bone and feather and tooth, and even one that looked like a child’s doll whittled from sun-bleached wood.
“I am defeated,” the giant said. “Come. The winner kills the loser. So passe
s Roos to dust, the last of my father’s line.”
“I will not kill you,” Choson said. “Those are not my ways. Perhaps in your frozen Wittewold the victor of every fight must kill the loser, but in my lands we show them mercy. That mercy, though, is not without limit. I shared my food with you thus far, but no longer. If I see you again later today, or on any other day, or if any of my food goes missing, or if I spy those boots amongst the trees … I will kill you.”
“Just kill me now. Save some time. I’m far from home, hungry. I cannot fight, and never will I fight well,” Roos said. “I will not resist if you kill me now.”
This behavior is not in the tales of the Wittewolders, Choson thought with a furrowed brow. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Home is that way,” Choson said and pointed north. “You will know it when there is snow instead of trees.”
“No home there in the Wittewold. Not until my task is finished.” He scratched his beard and looked at Choson out of the corner of his eyes, then at the piled rabbits. “I am … I am still hungry.”
Choson sprang up and grabbed Roos’ sword. Roos drew in a long breath, closed his eyes gently, and extended his neck.
“Just putting these swords out of harm’s way,” Choson said. “You expected me to kill you after all that?”
Choson did as he said, laying both swords beside the rabbits and piled wood. Then he took up the wood, propped it neatly in a circle, and set about lighting a fire.
“You may eat. But once you have, you”—he pointed at Roos, then north up the road—“leave. Never to be in my sight again.”
Roos nodded, his gaze fixed on the rabbits. Choson cooked them and the two men ate in silence. Roos made no threatening moves, and hardly stirred at all from his dejected stupor, yet still Choson crouched near the weapons. Roos finished his meal—the smallest of the rabbits—and flicked the bones into the fire.
“You are far from home,” Roos said.
“And you have a long sword for a beggar,” Choson said. “It is notched heavily, and rusting. You swing it like a child at play, and you have wandered so far from the snows with no means of feeding yourself. Who are you?”
“Can I have it back? My sword?”
“Not just yet. I would have your answer, first.”
Roos sighed, and then responded, “I am a great warrior. Greatest in my village. Except for my chief, my father Keurrik. He died. I travel foreign lands to prove myself fit to be chief.”
A few times as he spoke, Roos’ eyes had flicked up to meet Choson’s, then retreated down to the fire.
“Very well,” Choson said, and he stooped to lift Roos’ sword, which was heavy in his still-sore arms, and brought it to Roos.
“Well, Roos the greatest warrior, farewell. Good luck with the battles north of here,” Choson said.
He turned to leave, paused, then reached into the leather pouch on his belt and withdrew his almost-spent whetstone. He felt it between his thumb and finger, leaned down, and dropped it into Roos’ open hand.
Choson left Roos by the dying fire and walked through the night, hoping he had not helped to sharpen the wrong sword.
****
For almost a week, Choson traveled alone. There were no sightings of Roos, nor was he heard, and Choson ate, slept, and walked in peace. He took to hunting and fishing less as the broad-capped mushrooms proved safe to eat, and eased his hunger well enough. Consequently, he stopped less, and progressed quickly. He reckoned that he had passed into the Veldenlands two weeks ago, and was now less than a week from his destination.
As he drew farther south he sometimes passed merchants. They were Gweidorian like him, all stooped under heavy packs of trinkets, dried fruits, grains, and bolts of cloth. For the most part, Choson left the path and avoided them. The farther he went, also, the steeper the path climbed upward. Soon he was cresting hill after hill, having to pause to regain his bearings each time. Unseasonal snow fell some nights. The flakes never survived long on the ground, but the freezing air they brought made the nights harder without shelter. The forest thinned until it petered out altogether, and Choson made his way from there across exposed hills covered in tough grass. It was there, on the higher hilltops, that he could spot his destination in the distance: the mountain of the Mordenari.
One particularly icy night, when a fierce wind battered those bare hills, Choson sheltered under a rocky overhang. It took hours to start a fire, and when he had it going he was forced to feed and coax it ceaselessly. The overhang protected the flames from the worst of the wind, but still they wavered and sputtered, on the verge of going out. He sat hunched over the warmth, using his bundled possessions as a sort of cushion to lean on. Despite his need to keep the fire going, a creeping exhaustion came to his limbs and weighed on his eyes, which eventually drooped shut as he fell asleep. He had a feverish dream that he was a rabbit in a tight burrow, and above him a great bear was trying to sniff him out. He trembled, and his nose twitched, but he was frozen and could not run. The bear’s heavy paws sent showers of dirt over him as it stomped and clawed the earth, until the burrow collapsed and he was crushed.
Choson woke to a few moments of disorientation. He was warm, and the air around him was smoky and still. The fire crackled with a strong flame, but without the wind to circulate the air, the fire’s exhaust clouded under the shelter. In his half-woken state, Choson sensed that something had changed overnight. Something, some large lump lay across the fire from him—a fallen log? But the log moved. He began to think of the bear from the dream. The lumpy figure was wearing fur and huge boots. He jolted upright and put a hand on his sword. Roos was lying with his back to the fire. Drawing his sword slowly, Choson approached him in silence. For a long while he stood over the still figure. Roos shivered. Choson raised his sword, clasping and re-adjusting his grip for many long moments.
“Please,” Roos said. “Teach me to hunt. I cannot find food for myself.”
Choson stopped and stared at him. Roos rolled over enough to look at Choson out of the corner of his eye.
“I cannot die yet—I need to prove myself. To my father. To everyone. Please,” he said.
Choson stepped back, the sword now limp in his hands.
“You are determined indeed. Or perhaps just foolish,” Choson said.
Roos smiled flatly. “Determined fool, maybe?”
“I said I would kill you if I saw you again,” Choson said. Roos said nothing, and then looked Choson up and down before huddling closer to the fire with a heavy sigh. Choson put away his sword.
“If I teach you to hunt, what can you give me?” Choson said. Then he added under his breath, “Other than a reprieve from these delays.”
Roos looked up. “You want gold?”
“Life has cast me on a path where gold is no use.”
“Ah.”
“Do you have much gold, Boots?”
“Nay, I have none. But if you teach me to get some coin, it could then be yours.”
“How much do you want me to teach you?”
“Enough. Enough that I may continue my quest. And, while you teach me, my sword is yours. The quest you are on will have fighting, yes?”
“There might be some. Though I’m not sure your sword—”
“Teach me to fight!” Roos pounded his fist on the earth. “Show me anything. I am loyal, and I am strong. I need only to learn how you fight so fast, and know how you hunt.”
“Well…”
Roos turned fully to Choson, eyes wide, as a rising wind came into the overhang.
“I’ll teach you to hunt, Roos, but only as long as you do not delay me. You need to keep up with the pace of my choosing. And, you must promise to go your own way when we are done. I would have kept my word to kill you today, were your need not so great. Do not provoke me to follow through.”
“Thank you, thank you. These things I will do.”
Choson grabbed his pack and checked its contents.
“I took nothing,” Roos said earnestly.
“The fire was low and you shivered, so I fed it. I hope this is a start for you.”
Choson shifted his jaw left and right with his lips pursed. It was his long-abiding habit. Jun used to say of it, “See! Choson is chewing on words.” His eyes darted to Roos.
“Well. Thank you for doing that,” he said.
“I will show you. I am a good man…” Roos said, gesturing excitedly, then repeated, “I am loyal, and I am strong.”
“Let us move. We’ll hunt later, as needed.”
“I know you are a good man.”
“How?”
“I do not know …” Roos sat up and lay his enormous hands on his lap. He scrunched his face up. “There are words, maybe, in this tongue that I cannot recall. A … a want to believe. A feeling to know something that is like mist, you cannot hold …”
“Do you mean ‘faith’?”
“Aye. I have faith.”
“Then you possess a rare thing in these times. Come.”
Choson beckoned Roos to follow, and the two started on the day’s march. They found the path and headed south-west. For a time, Roos asked an unending stream of questions. Choson’s answers were generally short, then composed of one word, then grunts. Eventually, every answer was, “Hush.” Roos took to whistling and singing constantly, and remarked on the color of the hills and forest.
“All is green! So much green, and everywhere it is, all so green! I should not think a world could hold such a color in so many places!” Roos would say.
The Tyranny of Shadows Page 6
