“Like my exile?”
“Pray it doesn’t come to that.”
“Have you told Warburm you’re going with him?”
“One doesn’t tell a man like Warburm. I’m on my way to ask him if he’ll have me. I thought you might want to come along.” The offer indicated Debanrack’s acceptance of his daughter’s plan where the adventurer was concerned. Anything to spare her from the death sentence of exile…
When they found the adventurer, he was in same spot where Ponari had left him the evening before. She briefly wondered if he had spent the entire night in the taproom but dismissed the notion. The place was less crowded in the morn. With their curiosity about the famed adventurer sated, the population had returned to their chores and duties. Warburm was yesterday’s diversion; they would find something new today.
The big man grinned when he saw her. It was a warm, gentle smile, not the kind of ferocious baring of teeth Ponari had witnessed on large, round faces like his. “Lassie, you came back ta me. ’Twas lonely after you left.” The words seemed heartfelt, although Ponari couldn’t be sure. She was out of her depth with him.
“I’m here now,” Ponari said, taking the same stool she had occupied the previous day. “This is my father, Debanrack. He has something to say.”
One of Warburm’s eyebrows lifted. The adventurer rose and the two men clasped hands. The conversation that followed was short and consisted primarily of Debanrack convincing Warburm that he was capable with a bow and knife and unafraid to face death if it came to that.
“I ain’t in no position to turn down help if it be willingly given. Truth be told, I didn’t expect anyone from this here village ta volunteer. I ain’t gonna pretend otherwise, though: this ain’t a sure thing. Them bandits be well armed and seasoned in fighting. Not everyone who goes north be returning that night. This ain’t no empty ‘glory mission.’”
Debanrack assured Warburm he understood the situation but felt it was his duty to stand with the men who were risking their lives to save his village.
“Then me and the others’ll be more’n glad ta have you along with us. Be ready ta go in another few days. Get your affairs in order and make sure your loved ones be cared for.”
After Debanrack departed, the adventurer retook his seat. “Your father be a brave man.”
“He wasn’t born here and that makes him different. He’s willing to do what none of the others, whose families have been here for generations, can find the courage for. This village is populated by the weak and the craven.”
“That be a harsh assessment, Lassie. Just because a man don’t want ta fight don’t make him craven. We all got different talents. The great priest Ferguson ain’t never touched a sword or bow but there ain’t a man alive who’d call him a coward.”
“You don’t know the people of Santimon but I do.”
“True, but there be at least one person of Santimon I got a desire ta know better.” The grin appeared again.
For the second time in as many days, Ponari felt the heat from a blush spread across her skin. She turned away to hide her smile.
“Are you married, Master Warburm?”
“Nay. Ain’t never found a woman who can abide my lifestyle. Staying in one place… that ain’t something I tried in many years. It be a hard life, Lassie.”
“Ponari. My name’s Ponari.”
Warburm acknowledged the correction with a slight inclination of his head. “So I be not wedded. Almost once but it never happened. Now I be alone.”
“Do you have a home or are you always on the road?”
“I got a place to live and a bed to call my own, although I be more a visitor there than a resident. It be in a small town not unlike this one. Name’a Sussaman.” She had never heard of it but she knew there were dozens of villages, perhaps more than a hundred, dotting the countryside north of The Broken Crags. Some preferred the bustle of cities but most liked rural living. That’s why bandits were so dangerous because few villages fielded militia. The men were needed to till the fields and chop down the Winter’s supply of firewood.
Their conversation drifted to other matters. Warburm told her a little about the life of a wanderer and adventurer; it wasn’t nearly as glamorous as stories had led her to believe. Ponari spoke to him about her dissatisfaction with Santimon although she avoided mentioning her current precarious situation. With her 16th birthday only days away and Midsummer less than two weeks past that, her time for making a decision was nearly upon her. Yet to ask Warburm if she could accompany him… it seemed presumptuous, especially since, by his own admission, he might not survive the upcoming encounter. To rest all her hopes on a man who might be dead in ten days’ time wasn’t a good plan, but she had no other.
The two hours they spent conversing passed quickly. Against her will, Ponari had to bid him good day; she had neglected her chores, which consisted primarily of weeding the fields and caring for the fledgling crops that thrived during the North’s short growing season. Those who sought to find fault with her work ethic and effort would delight in gossiping about how she had wasted hours in the taproom while others toiled at their appointed tasks.
The next day, Ponari was in the fields around midday when Warburm sauntered out to join her. This drew some surprised glances from others working in the vicinity. The warrior attempted to help, mimicking what he thought his companion was doing, but Ponari instantly recognized he wasn’t used to this brand of work. His weeding was clumsy and inexperienced. Instead of inserting two fingers into the soil to grasp the root, he pinched off the crown.
“I can tell farming isn’t among your talents,” said Ponari, smiling.
Warburm chuckled, amusement suffusing his features. He was newly clean-shaven, a razor having shorn several days’ growth of hair from his chin and above his upper lip. Ponari studied him, wondering if perhaps... Does this have anything to do with my comment yesterday about disliking men who hide their faces under mats of fur?
“Sometimes I fantasize ’bout what it might be like ta live a simple life. But I know I’d get bored. Some people don’t mix well with stability. It can be tiring ta always be moving, ta never know where your next meal be coming from or where you’ll lie down your head, but there be a thrill in that too. In a place like Santimon - no disrespect meant - but every day be like every other one. That ain’t no life for me. And I suspect it ain’t no life for you, either.”
For a moment, she thought he was going to ask her to come along. When she looked into his eyes, she was sure of it. Her heart started beating faster, charged by anticipation. But the invitation never came. Maybe Warburm realized he was in no position to offer her anything and wouldn’t be until his confrontation with the bandits had been resolved. Still, his not saying the words left her with a sense of deep disappointment, as if something had slipped away. Part of her wanted to cry but tears had never been her way.
They continued talking for a while after that but Ponari’s heart wasn’t in their discussion. Her responses became distant and monosyllabic. Sensing that something had changed between them, Warburm excused himself and returned to the monumental task of preparing to engage the bandits. Other mercenaries had begun to arrive at Santimon - the hour of the confrontation was growing closer.
Over the next week, as arrangements for the northward assault outpaced those for the Midsummer holiday, Warburm’s absorption in battle preparations didn’t allow him opportunities for additional social conversations. Ponari’s birthday passed without comment; even her father, who always favored her with a kiss and a small trinket, didn’t remember - or chose not to mark the day because of what it augured. He had moved out of the house and gone to live with the mercenaries in their camp, claiming that it was important for him to bond with them if he was going to fight alongside them. With him gone and Warburm no longer in the village, Ponari felt alone and vulnerable. Janelle was seemingly counting the days until she would be rid of her daughter.
The band of mercenaries departed fiv
e days before Midsummer, leaving just past dawn for the trek to the north and west. Warburm’s best estimates were that the march would bring them into contact with the bandits on the morrow. He didn’t expect it would be a long fight but he warned that it would be bloody and the casualties on both sides would likely be high.
Before leaving, Debanrack came back to the village to bid his family goodbye. As her father took his leave of her, Ponari couldn’t keep the tears from welling up. With him gone, with Warburm gone, she would truly be alone.
“Here now, don’t cry. I’ll be back in time to celebrate Midsummer then we’ll figure out a solution to your problem. If I come back a hero, they won’t be able to send you away if I don’t agree with the decision.”
“And if I don’t see you again?” It was hard to say those words but harder still to imagine that this was the last time she might speak with the man who had been as much a companion as a father for sixteen years.
“I won’t lie and say it’s not a possibility. But the two-hundred men I’m going with are all stout fighters. I have confidence in them. Warburm is keeping me in reserve; I’m good with a bow and he wants the archers behind the hand-to-hand ranks, picking off bandits that try to outflank us. And if something and one of them gets through then at least I’ll have died for something. Too many people in Santimon just get old and stop living. Die in their sleep or wither away. That’s not for me and it’s not for you, either. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that this village is too small for you. Exile is too harsh but maybe there’s another way… When it comes time to make your decision, let your heart guide you. Don’t be afraid of the unknown. Fear holds too many of us back. It’s held me back for far too long.”
Those aren’t words he would be saying if he thought he was coming back.
The departure of Warburm’s fighting force was hardly noticed by most of those who lived in the village. Debanrack was the only inhabitant of Santimon to accompany them and they had established their camp far enough away in the woods that only those who ventured to the edges of the western fields were aware of their presence. For the next three days, life continued as always with the village readying itself for the most joyful holiday of the year.
On the third morning after the men’s departure, Ponari wandered out to the abandoned campsite, straining eyes and ears to see or hear some sign of the band’s impending return. By now, the battle had surely been decided. It was a matter of waiting to learn the result. A small voice in her mind argued that it was too early for any word to arrive but that didn’t prevent her from loitering for nearly an hour, her patience thin and nerves frayed. There was a knot of anxiety between her breasts that wouldn’t go away. I’ll come back tomorrow and then I’ll know.
It didn’t take that long. The late afternoon was casting long shadows and Ponari was stacking firewood - a year-long task that continued even when indoor fires weren’t needed - when a shape approached from behind. The man’s sudden presence was so unexpected that Ponari dropped the bundle she was carrying. She had never imagined that Warburm could move so quietly. One look at his face, grim and marked with new cuts that would become future scars, and the knot in her chest tightened until she found it difficult to breathe.
He didn’t have to say the words. They weren’t necessary. Instead, he enfolded her in his big arms and let her bury her face against his leather jerkin. She wept silently, trying to be strong. Warburm, solid as a tree, held her tight until long after the tears had stopped.
“He died a good death. When my time comes, I wish I’d go so well. Some of them bastards got through our lines and was going for the wounded. Your father took ’em down, all except the one that got him. He notched six arrows and brought down six fuckers. I be proud ta have fought alongside him. All the men, hardened warriors through-and-through, think the same.”
Numb, Ponari nodded. Someday, she assumed, it would matter to her how Debanrack had died. Someday it would matter that he had been regarded as a brave man, perhaps even a hero, by those who had gone into battle with him. But today wasn’t that day. Today, all that mattered was that her father was dead and her last hope had died with him. Now she was truly alone.
Warburm left her for a short time so he could inform her mother and the village elders. Apparently, the mercenaries had won a great battle, scattering the bandits far and wide across the North. Casualties had been light - less than a dozen dead and twenty wounded. The bandits had lost perhaps half their number but Warburm was concerned that the remnants might reform. For that reason, he intended to remain in the region for a while.
That night, as if by an unspoken agreement, Ponari found herself in the small cottage the elders had designated as Warburm’s lodgings. She had nowhere else to go. Her mother didn’t want an “ungrateful” daughter intruding on the family’s grief. Ponari could sleep in the fields - she had done that before, although in less tragic circumstances - but the adventurer had made it clear that she was welcome to stay with him. He gave her the bed and stretched out on the floor, claiming to sleep better with hard-packed dirt beneath his back than on a straw-stuffed mattress. She didn’t know if it was true or not but she was thankful for his generosity.
Ponari lay awake for most of the night, listening to her sleeping companion snore. What would become of her? With Debanrack’s death, she had lost her lone advocate in the village. Some part of her had believed that, when it came time for her to make her decision, he would have provided a magical solution. She had counted on him. Now, all that remained was her mother with her brutal sense of what was right and wrong. And, unless Ponari capitulated and married one of the local boys, she would be in the wrong. Two more days and two more nights. That was all that remained to her before capitulation and exile. Why not choose the quicker death?
The next day, she went out to the fields as usual and worked harder than she ever had. Through exhaustion, she sought to banish loneliness and fear. It worked. Once, looking back toward the village, she saw the imposing figure of Warburm standing there, his gaze directed at her. By the time she returned to his cabin after picking at the evening meal her mother had allowed her to share, her thoughts were only of sleep.
Warburm was waiting for her. “Tomorrow be Midsummer,” he said quietly as she collapsed on the bed. “In some places, this be the high holiday of the year. In other places, it be just another chance ta drink and whore.”
“It’s a celebration like none other here. Many people become promised to each other.” Her words were without inflection.
“Aye. Your father told me what it means for you. I admire your courage, Ponari, for standing up ta them all the way you’ve done. For knowing your mind and standing firm. For not marrying some milksop just because it were the easy way. Can’t say I know many people - men or women - with that much steel in their spines. That be why I made a promise ta your father. He asked but he didn’t need ta. I woulda done it any way.”
Warburm rose from the chair across the room and sat on the bed. Gently, he rested one hand on her left thigh - an intimate touch but one she could easily brush away. She didn’t. Her heart started to race. Her weariness evaporated.
“What did you promise him?”
“You know the answer ta that, Lassie.”
He leaned toward her and, all at once, she could feel the warmth of his body, smell his distinctly male scent, and feel his breath on the side of her neck where his lips brushed her skin. The touch of his tongue on her flesh combusted so forcefully that she was unprepared for its heat. The hand on her leg began a leisurely journey upward, its eventual goal as unmistakable as the promise Warburm had made to Debanrack.
“I’m a virgin,” she whispered. It sounded like a confession, a sin for which she craved forgiveness.
“I know, Ponari. I know. Ain’t nothing we can’t fix together tonight.”
The next morning, when the sun crossed the horizon to herald the arrival of Midsummer’s Day, one of Ponari’s defining characteristics had been swept
away in a tide of passion and tenderness. She had made her choice and it was one she wouldn’t live to regret. Exile with Warburm was no punishment.
The Knave
Although much of Justin’s background can be found in “his” chapters of “The Curse in the Gift”, I was sufficiently fascinated with the character that I wanted to explore what he was like before he became The Lord of Fire. This story takes place a few years before Justin’s exposure to the portal during the period when his dissolute youth led him to become a servant of the Temple. The time period is similar to that of “The Virgin” - about 25 years prior to the beginning of the trilogy.
It was the darkest part of the night - the small hours halfway between midnight and the first light of dawn when the most nefarious deeds were often committed with only mice and roaches as witnesses. For the boy who went by the title of “The Knave”, this was the best time of the day. He could gaze out the low, wide window in his sleeping chamber, thrown open to allow the entry of the cooling breeze of late Summer, and imagine all the things going on in the streets and residences of Basingham. Most of the city’s good citizens would be abed while a select few, members of the Watch, would be patrolling the mostly deserted byways. Innkeepers and tavern owners would be shutting down their common rooms and throwing out those too drunk to exit on their own. And somewhere, in the stygian depths of some dank back alley, an unfortunate wayfarer would be breathing his last as his throat was opened from one side to the other.
With a sigh, The Knave turned back to his rooms. They were spacious, as befitted the third-born son of a duke, although not as ostentatious as those of his elder brothers. He glanced at the bed and the naked girl in it and felt a momentary rush of irritation. Could he never find solitude? Even in this lost, quiet hour, there was another presence near to him. She stirred in her sleep, as if sensing his disquiet, but the fit of pique passed. He was fond of this one - too fond, truth be told. It wasn’t just that she could do things for him that no other girl or woman had been able to do but she never made demands. It wasn’t passivity - she could be aggressive when the need arose - but she didn’t ask for money or favors or for him to put in a good word for her with the Master.
The Last Whisper of the Gods Saga: Stories from Ayberia Page 4
