The Pain of Compassion

by Roland Boykin

  ***

  In the morning, wearing comfortable leather pants and vest over a light green shirt with a touch of lace at the cuffs and neck, Navon gathered his things and went down to the kitchen. It was early enough that he should be able to avoid everyone in the family. Now that he had made his decision, he was eager to be on his way.

  He asked the cook to wrap up some sausages in bread that he could eat while he traveled, then noticed the furtive looks of the kitchen staff. As Navon had feared, this is how the people in the keep would treat him if he remained, and reinforced his decision to leave. The cook’s words as he handed him the sausage rolls were unexpected, “May the Eyes of the Deluti watch over you wherever you go, m’Lord.”

  The guard at the outer gate barely acknowledged him as he trudged through, un-strung bow in his hand. Sword and knife were hung from his belt, a quiver of arrows over one shoulder and his pack and bedroll tied to his back. The pack was only large enough to hold a few of his prized possessions, some clothes and his herb pouch. The old healer at the Keep had taught Navon everything he knew about healing lore, so the pouch should come in handy.

  Defending himself wouldn’t be a problem even though he would never achieve the brute strength of his brothers. The Keep’s arms-master judged that Navon had the quickest hands of any swordsman he’d ever taught and his skill with a bow was un-matched by anyone in the Keep.

  He might only be sixteen summers, but felt he had taken his first step to becoming a man. Raising his face to the warmth of the morning sun, he strode away from the Keep with a spring in his step. You were right, big brother. It is time for me to fly.

  ***

  A solitary figure stood on the ramparts of the Keep long after Navon had faded from view. Forgive me, my son, for what I had to do. Your path in this life was set the day you were born and I fervently hope I was able to prepare you for it. You will always be my special son. Turning away, Baron Rodgier d’Roddell disappeared into the Keep, his beard glistening with tears that no one would see.

  Chapter Two ~ Odd Meetings

  Constructed with blocks of white granite quarried from the nearby mountains, the Keep pushed the limits of wealth that a minor Baron could display. The d’Roddell family home stood centered in a large valley and was the oldest structure in the south-eastern region of Marlinor. Rumors hinted that the Keep had originally belonged to a powerful Deluti lord. Alternating fields of winter wheat and spring corn filled the valley in a patchwork pattern of green and gold. In the foothills of the mountains to the south were pastures for sheep and a few cattle. Far to the east were the pig farms where the prevailing breezes prevented the distinctive aroma from enveloping the Keep. Workers dotted the fields to either side of the road, tending to the young crops.

  Several farmers, leading small horse carts, passed Navon on their way to the Keep. Some were on their way to deliver their required tithe to the Baron and some to sell their goods at the local market. All gave him a friendly greeting and never mentioned how odd it was to see him walking with a pack over his shoulder. He had decided not to take a horse from his father’s stable, the extra responsibility more than he felt he could handle. Navon also hoped that a man walking would present a less tempting target than someone on a fine horse.

  Several hours of walking brought him to the edge of the fields and into the forest. The gnarled limbs of ancient elm and oak had grown together forming a canopy over the road. With it being well into spring, walking down the cart path was like traveling through a long green tunnel. Small rays of sunshine penetrated the tree tops, dancing across the path in front of him. He heard the faint rustling of small animals going about their lives in the underbrush, and laughed at the antics of tiny finches trying to snap up as many gnats as they could in the flickering beams of light.

  Memories of his brother’s visit and the strange encounter with his mother kept floating to the surface of his mind no matter how hard he tried to bury them. He just wasn’t ready to deal with the implications right now. Lost in thought, he took several steps before the deathly quiet of the forest announced that he was no longer alone.

  Two very large wolves sat in the middle of the path with their eyes fixed on Navon. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and as a single drop of sweat ran from his temple, he slowly reached for his sword. None of the training he had received prepared him for this. When they made no threatening moves, his fear subsided, but he remained alert. These were no ordinary wolves. The older and larger of the two sat with his head at a height equal to Navon’s chest. Both bore distinctive light grey patches on their dark fur, perfect coloring for blending in among the rocks and patches of snow high in the mountains. What in the Name of the Eyes were northern mountain wolves doing this far south?

  Navon relaxed and took his hand away from his sword. If the stories were true, he wouldn’t stand a chance against one mountain wolf, much less two. He was completely at their mercy and they both knew it. As if his relaxing had been a signal, the older wolf stood up, gave a short bark and headed off of the path into the forest. The younger one rose to follow, but stopped at the edge of the path to look back. He directed another short bark at Navon, and then melted into the brush. The meaning was clear. They wanted him to follow.

  After traveling a short distance into the forest, they came to a small clearing where three more adults and three pups, the size of normal wolves, waited. Unsure why the wolves had led him here, he hesitated. At the edge of the clearing, Navon spotted one of the wolves lying on her side with a crossbow bolt embedded in her thigh. Ignoring the soft warning growls from the other wolves, he rushed forward until he was confronted by the three young but very protective pups. He slowly set his pack and bow on the ground, knelt down to unpack his herb pouch, and talked to the pups as soothingly as he knew how.

  A sharp bark from the elder male caused the three to move aside, but they kept their eyes fixed on Navon while still emitting soft growls. Inspecting the wound, he saw the head of the bolt had not passed all the way through. He would have to try and bring it back out the same way it had gone in. Fortunately, the bladed head had gone in parallel to the muscle tissue causing little damage. Unfortunately, the barbs on the head were designed to cause maximum harm when pulled back out.

  The wolves and the forest around him faded from his awareness as he poured all his concentration into pulling each strand of muscle tissue away from the barbs as he slowly backed the bolt out. The she-wolf seemed to understand the need to lie perfectly still until he was done. Navon used a tincture of yellowleaf and queensfoot to mask her pain and stem the flow of blood, but occasionally he would hear a quiet whimper. At those times he became aware of her pain as if it was his own.

  When the last stitch had been tied off, he sat back on his heels, surprised at how drained he felt, and the orange glow of the sun indicated how late it had become. A growling stomach reminded him that he had planned on reaching the town of Twin Oaks tonight and hadn’t packed any extra food. As he wondered what to do, one of the wolves returned to the clearing with a rabbit and laid it next to him. The she-wolf stood up, slightly favoring her hind leg, and gently touched her nose to his. That was disconcerting to say the least, since she actually had to lower her head to his. The pups had fallen asleep, but jumped up at the sound of a soft bark from the elder. Seeing their mother standing on all four legs, they padded over with tails wagging and rolled over on their backs in front of Navon. Another bark brought them to their feet as the rest of the wolves stood up to leave. Each one nodded to him as they filed past until all had slipped silently into the forest.

  On the edge of his endurance, he managed to start a small fire, then skin and roast the small rabbit. After eating half, he barely remembered to wrap the rest of it in the cloth left from his breakfast roll-ups before passing out.

  ***

  Navon woke from a night of eerie but non-threatening dreams to find the sun already well above the horizon. He sat up and looked around, dismayed by the sorry
state of his camp and himself. Herbs and bloody cloths were still scattered on the ground where the she wolf had lain. Stiff joints made him groan as he stood slowly and watched dirt and leaves fall from his clothes. By the time he finished eating the last of the rabbit and cleaned up the mess, the stiffness had subsided to a tolerable level. Satisfied, he strapped on his weapons, threw the bedroll over his shoulder, and found his way back to the cart path.

  All that morning, Navon walked along the path completely unaware of the forest and the sights and sounds that he had enjoyed the day before. He could not understand the meaning of his encounter with the wolves. Their intelligence was un-mistakable, yet they had treated him with a certain amount of respect. Why would they treat him that way? How had the she-wolf been able to lie perfectly still as he removed that bolt? Any other animal would have had to be restrained to keep them still. And why had time seemed to stand still while removing the bolt, when it had actually taken many hours?

  Unable to fathom any answers, Navon tried to turn his thoughts to the road ahead but once again they were interrupted. This time he heard loud voices on the path up ahead, just around the corner. Not wanting to stumble into anything, he slipped into the forest and crept up to where he could see what was happening. Three large men surrounded an older boy and were apparently taunting him. One man had a crossbow slung over his shoulder and all three had a sword at their side. The boy held them off by brandishing a knife in each hand, but Navon was afraid that the men would quickly grow tired of their game. If one of them drew a sword, it would be over for the boy.

  He strung his bow, nocked an arrow, then jumped up on the fallen tree he had been hiding behind and shouted.

  “Let the lad go and be on your way!”

  The reaction he got was not what he had expected. As the man with his back to him spun around, the boy jumped forward and thrust both knives into the small of the man’s back, dropping him instantly. At the same time, one of the other men yelled.

  “It’s him! Don’t let him get away!”

  As the man with the crossbow inserted a bolt and raised the weapon to his shoulder, Navon reacted without thought and put an arrow in the man’s throat. The last one drew his sword and rushed forward, but before Navon could decide whether to nock another arrow or draw his own sword, the man pitched forward, the hilt of a knife protruding from his back.

  As the impact of what he had just done sank in, Navon found himself on his hands and knees with his meager breakfast in a puddle on the ground. His stomach continued to heave even after nothing was left.

  “Next time it won’t affect you as hard,” the boy commented knowingly, then added. “You can thank me at any time.”

  Navon stood up on trembling legs and watched as the boy pulled his knife from the back of the last man, wiped the blade clean, and then meticulously sorted through the pouches of the three men. This was not a boy as Navon had originally thought, but a wiry young man. Certainly the calm and quiet manner in which the young man spoke indicated a maturity beyond his apparent years.

  “What do you mean?” Navon asked, still confused. “Why would I want to thank you, and what won’t affect me next time?”

  “I didn’t say it wouldn’t affect you the next time you have to kill someone, just not as strongly,” the young man replied calmly, handing Navon back his arrow. “It wouldn’t be wise to leave this in a man’s throat since most people around here will recognize the fletching pattern of your house.” Looking him in the eye, the young man continued. “You can thank me for saving your life, Navon d’Roddell.”

  “What are you talking about?” Navon demanded. “I distinctly remember finding you surrounded by three very large men with swords, and when I confronted them it gave you a chance to escape. In another moment they would have tired of their game, and you would have died. I believe it is you who should be thanking me.”

  Crystal blue eyes met steel grey, locked and held. Navon had to look away first, suddenly unsure of himself. Something in those eyes pulled at his soul like nothing he had ever felt before.

  Eyes still fixed on Navon, the young man explained. “Yesterday, I overheard those three muscle heads bragging about what they were going to do with all the gold they would soon have. When they left the village this morning, I followed until they reached this bend in the cart path. Realizing they planned to ambush someone rounding the curve, I skirted ahead intending to turn back whoever was approaching. You were already too close, so I confronted those fools instead, hoping to make enough noise to warn you away. I should have known your honor would never allow you to run.”

  “When I saw you surrounded and threatened by those men, the thought of running away never entered my mind.”

  “Never lose your faith and your sense of honor as they will serve you in the days to come. You have a powerful enemy, Navon. Each one of those men had five gold crowns in his pouch. Standard practice is to pay half at the start of a job, and the other half when the job is finished. That much gold could only mean the Royal family or possibly one of the Dukes.”

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Navon complained. “I’m only a younger son of a minor Baron. Why would I have any enemies? I’m sure the Royal family doesn’t even know I exist. Besides, I only just decided to leave the Keep night before last.”

  “I don’t know, Navon, but I must leave you now,” the young man apologized. “Remember, you are in grave danger wherever you go. The future is uncertain, but I hope we will meet again. May the Eyes watch over and protect you.”

  “Wait! I don’t even know your name!”

  “Emma, but all my friends call me Em,” she replied, heading down the path toward town.

  “But…” he stammered. “That’s a girl’s name!”

  “And just what did you think I was, Navon?” she called back over her shoulder with a mischievous laugh.

  Navon shook his head and walked back to retrieve his pack from behind the fallen tree. What is wrong with me? How could I have missed the fact that she is a girl? And how did she know my name? Well, it was simple once he thought about it. Everyone in the surrounding area probably knew the names and descriptions of the Baron’s entire family. How far would he have to travel before people no longer recognized him?

  As he skirted around the dead men, his attention was drawn to the distinctive design of the crossbow bolt lying next to the man he had shot. Navon nodded his head in satisfaction and turned back to the path thinking, ‘That one will never shoot at wolves again.’

  He broke into a run, intending to catch up with Emma and apologize. She was nowhere to be seen. He resumed a more leisurely pace and thought about the things she had said. By the time he reached the eastern gate of Twin Oaks he had convinced himself that she had it all wrong. Those men must have mistaken him for someone else. How could anyone have possibly known that he would be on the path today? Besides, everyone knew that girls were too emotional and were always over-reacting. Yes, that must be it. He felt much better about the situation as he stopped at the gate for directions to the nearest inn.

  Navon looked around with interest as he followed the Guard’s directions. Twin Oaks was the largest town in the eastern reaches of Marlinor. It was surrounded by a defensive wall of upright logs with three gates; one to the north and one each in the east and west walls. A small detachment of the Crown Guard was garrisoned at the western edge of town to provide peace-keeping and to man the gates.

  He approached what appeared to be the correct inn as indicated by the sign out front and saw that despite being very old, it was in good repair. The second story overhung the front wall forming a covered porch area for patrons to use during the hot summer months. Tired and emotionally drained after the events of the past several days, he looked forward to a nice hot meal and a soft bed.

  At the door to the inn, Navon could see the inside through the large windows in the front wall. A long counter lined the right side of the inn, and to the left was the common room with a large fireplace built fro
m the local river rock. In the center of the common room were two long tables with benches and a scattering of small tables along the walls. Everything looked old and well used but clean.

  When he entered the inn, the few patrons in the common room turned in surprise and regarded him with curiosity. The innkeeper quickly hid his surprise as he set down the mug he had been polishing and bowed to Navon with knuckles to his forehead.

  “Welcome to the Dancing Badger, m’lord. How may I serve you?”

  “A hot meal and a room for the night will serve me admirably,” Navon replied.

  “I think you will find the first room to your right suitable. Would m’lord prefer to eat in his room?” asked the innkeeper.

  “The common room will do fine. I would also like to ask you a few questions after my meal, if that would be agreeable.”

  “Of course m’lord,” the innkeeper answered, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I would be honored to answer any questions you may have.”

  Located at the back of the inn, just past the end of the counter and next to the swinging door to the kitchen were the stairs to the second floor. Once inside the room, Navon tossed his pack and bedroll on the bed, which looked surprisingly clean and comfortable. He moved to the washstand and stared into the mirror. The reason for the curious stares when he first entered the inn became clear. His hair was in total disarray, and his clothes were still dirty and wrinkled from sleeping on the forest floor. The blood stains on his shirt from the wolf and the rabbit made him look away with a shiver.

  A quick wash, a change of clothes and after running a comb through his hair, Navon felt he was now presentable. As the aroma of roast venison filled the air, he hurried downstairs just as the innkeeper emerged from the kitchen with a steaming platter in one hand and a mug of ale in the other. Following him to a corner table, Navon barely acknowledged the innkeeper’s bow before digging into his meal. He’d always preferred the basic, hearty fare of the common folk over some of the elaborate meals the cook at the Keep prepared.