The Godseeker Duet

by David A Willson

  A strong hand gripped her by the upper arm and pushed her to the ground near Bylo. It was a woman!

  The stranger stood in front of her, the grips of two swords visible in scabbards strapped to her back. She had brown, wavy hair with a few strands of gray. Wearing a harsh expression, her high cheekbones and blue eyes were illuminated by the dancing firelight, almost as biting as they were beautiful.

  "Let me look at that," she said. She had a deep voice for a woman, and distinct, deliberate speech. She put her hand to Nara's neck, then shifted Nara's clothing, looking for a wound and finding none.

  "Did he cut you?"

  "No," Nara lied. "Who are you?”

  "I'm Gwyn," the woman said. "And it looks like you are fine. Must have been his blood." She turned to Bylo and glanced down at Mykel. "What about him?"

  Bylo lifted the blanket he had been using to apply pressure to Mykel's abdomen. The bleeding had stopped but the wound still gaped, a deep and dangerous cut. The edges of the flesh were splayed open, and severed muscles could be seen beneath. Nara cringed at the sight of Mykel's horrific wound and rushed to his side.

  "He won't make it," the woman said to Bylo. "It's a gut wound; he won't be able to travel, and it's sure to become infected. I'm surprised it isn't still bleeding."

  The woman grabbed a log from the fire and held it up high, one end flaming like a torch. Nara looked about to see several still forms within a dozen paces of the firelight. They were surrounded by dead men.

  The woman turned to Bylo. "Help me get rid of these vermin."

  "I'm staying with the boy," Bylo said. There was frustration in his voice.

  "It's okay, Bylo. I'll stay," Nara said, laying a hand on Mykel's chest. After a moment by his side, her face went flush, her headache came on stronger, and her belly throbbed again with the pain of Mykel's wound. She rose and moved away a few steps to retch her dinner into some nearby bushes before coming back to his side.

  Nara watched Bylo and the woman drag the dead ruffians away from the camp. Dead human beings. They were breathing just moments ago, and now they were silent. The contrast was horrible, demonstrating how easily life was snuffed out, but it could just as easily have been Nara, Bylo and Mykel that were being thrown into a pile. The weight of the moment hung heavily on her, tears threatening to make their presence known.

  Bylo returned, gathered logs in his arms to stoke the fire, then sat to attend to Mykel. He tried to dress his wound but grunted in frustration. "Bandages will not be enough. I need dried gut. Or thread. To make sutures.”

  The woman shrugged and produced nothing to help. Did she have no materials, or simply not care?

  "My friend is dying," Nara said. "Please help!"

  "I have no suture material. Not that it will matter. It will be a blessing if he doesn't wake, trust me. It's over for your friend. And... I'm sorry for your loss."

  Bylo looked at Nara, lips pursed, clearly sharing her sense of loss. "I'll bandage him tonight," he said. "In the morning, we will try to wake him. If he can wake."

  Nara nodded. If Mykel woke, he could heal himself, as he did with his finger. But what if he couldn't wake? Could his new magic work while he slept? What if it didn't? She would heal him herself if she could. Knitters could do it, but she had never practiced such a thing and had no idea if her magic could work this way.

  She closed her eyes and placed her hand on his hip. Through the dull pounding of the pain she shared with him, she sensed the health rune, blurry and indistinct. She tried to feed it, but it refused her, dancing away from her vision as if to tell her that it belonged only to Mykel. She poured more energy into it, but it refused her again. How did knitters do it? What pattern did they see when they practiced their craft? Oh, if she had practiced her magic instead of listening to Bylo's warnings, she might be able to save Mykel now. Gentle words meant for his ears escaped her lips, and she clung close to him, her hand remaining on his chest. His light was strong, so she took comfort in that, but this was far more serious than a finger sliced open by a fishing hook.

  "Who are you?" Bylo asked of the woman who had saved them as they returned to the fireside.

  "Another traveler," she said. "Headed north. I was camping a little to the south when I saw these men sneak toward your camp."

  "Thanks for your help," Bylo said. "You can join us if you wish."

  "I think I will, actually," she said, "Thank you." She then scattered the logs and began to stomp out the flames that were keeping them warm. "No fires at night. You're asking for trouble."

  Bylo sighed, then covered Nara and Mykel with a blanket.

  "Thank you," Nara said. She snuggled closer to Mykel, hoping to keep him warm now that they had no fire, and thought of the danger she continued to present to him. This journey had been to protect them. To hide them. She couldn't bear to think of being apart from Mykel. To lose him. For as long as she could remember, he had been near, by her side. Other than Bylo, he was the only one who listened to her when she was weak or laughed with her when she was strong. Was he now dying by her side? Was it her fault, somehow?

  Her mind wandered back to Dimmitt and how Dei had saved them both on the announcement stage. If not for Him, they would both be dead.

  Help us now, she prayed. If you're there, please help us now.

  Imbuing the ceppit had set a chain of dangerous events in motion. When would the pain end? She adjusted the blanket and cuddled close to Mykel, eventually closing her eyes and falling asleep.

  Gwyn placed her bedroll near the foolish travelers. She had not initially planned on breaking her cover, but when the bandits approached the girl and her companions, she had little choice but to intervene and save the minister's prize from calamity. As she now scanned the darkness for more unwelcome visitors, she spied the light of someone coming close. The figure moved slowly but deliberately, making no effort to hide their approach. Gwyn sprang to her feet.

  "Gwyn," the stranger said in a low tone, not waking any of the others. It was a female voice. "Follow me."

  The woman moved as if she was old or crippled, aided by a walking stick as she headed toward the nearby trees from which she had emerged.

  Wondering how the stranger had known her name, and concerned about the implications, Gwyn followed. As they approached the trees, Gwyn considered drawing her swords.

  "That won't work out well for you, Gwyn Khoury," the woman said.

  Gwyn hesitated. How had she known her intentions? Or her name? Did she also know her mission? Gwyn could not allow it to be revealed it to the others. The woman must be silenced.

  Gwyn stepped more quickly, intending to charge, but just as she came close to her target, the woman used her walking stick to lift a loose root in Gwyn's path. Gwyn tripped forward, a twist midair preventing the collision of her head on a rock. Just as she thought she had avoided injury, the walking stick came down on her nose with brutal force.

  Gwyn shrugged off the pain and rolled to her feet. She touched her nose—it was bleeding and probably broken, the stinging pain affecting her vision. She wiped the blood on her shirt, then focused on her target. The woman stood calmly in front of her, a smug smile on her face. Gwyn planned a charge, intending to grab the woman's arm and take her down to the ground. She stepped lightly to one side, then to the other, using a fast but circuitous approach to keep her opponent guessing. The confusion would contribute to the chance of taking the woman off her feet once she finally closed the distance and swept her legs out from under her. Or so it usually went.

  But this woman made no changes to her stance as Gwyn approached. She simply stood, knees bent, arms and shoulders relaxed. When Gwyn finally closed in, she reached for the woman's shoulder in an attempted to follow with a leg sweep. To her surprise, she grabbed nothing but air.

  As Gwyn sailed by, the woman deftly pushed Gwyn aside, altering her trajectory into the side of a tree. The blow against Gwyn’s rib cage knocked the wind out of her.

  So little effort by the woman, and now Gyw
n was in heavy pain. This woman far outmatched her, even without a weapon.

  "You fail to react to changing circumstances," she said. "You don't anticipate your opponent. You ignore your surroundings. The root and the tree have caused you pain." She chuckled. "Living things have always given you trouble, haven't they?"

  The stranger's admonishments sounded like the scoldings of a master. Gwyn had seen weapon masters duel in Fairmont, but she herself had never approached the level of skill necessary to train with them.

  "You intend to betray them," the woman said. “To give them to a dark man.”

  "How could you…?”

  "Worry not. I won't tell."

  Gwyn didn't know what to say. She engaged her sight and confirmed what she now suspected. The woman was gifted.

  "Gwyn Khoury, you are not a very nice person today. Probably won't be tomorrow either. Just do me a favor."

  Gwyn paused. It seemed as if the woman could easily kill her and still might. "Who are you? Who sent you?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I want to know." Gwyn stood and brushed herself off.

  "We don't always get what we want, do we? All you need to know is this: I mean you no harm. I won't interfere with your plans. Betray them if you must. Tell the minister what you will. But don't kill them yourself."

  Gwyn considered the terms of the agreement. She had no intention of killing them, anyway. Her mission was to retrieve the girl. There was nothing to lose in this bargain, was there?

  "They will suffer enough pain by your hand without you stabbing them in the back on top of it," the woman said. Then she walked away.

  Mykel woke in the middle of the night to darkness, Nara's arm draped across his chest. A familiar snore revealed that Bylo was sleeping nearby. Mykel removed Nara's arm and put a hand to his belly only to find loose bandages. A dull, pounding pain in his gut grew intensely, bringing back memories of the recent attack and the blade slicing him open.

  In the darkness, he carefully pulled up the bandages, sharp pains joining the dull ones as he did so, and his fingers found loose flesh and wetness beneath. Blood. He put his fingers over the tattoo on his hip, even as dizziness came over him. Then he felt foolish; touching the rune would accomplish nothing. That's not how this magic worked.

  He dropped his hands to his sides, rested his head back on the ground and closed his eyes, trying to remember the shape of the tattoo in his mind. It snapped into his vision instantly. He gathered his resolve and fed the symbol some of his energy, breathing on it, as Nara said. He then reached down to his wound, the pain now less pronounced than before, but damaged flesh was still apparent. He laid his head back again, summoned the image, and fed it much more, so much that he felt lightheaded. He waited for the vertigo to pass and reached down again. The wound had closed. Healed. He pushed against it, feeling the taut muscle underneath the skin. There was no pain at all. Incredible.

  A few rays of sun over the horizon announced the coming of morning, and a noise from the trees about fifty feet away caught his attention. Mykel extracted himself from the blankets and rose, feeling strong, if a bit sleepy. Was someone watching them? He walked in the direction of the sound, reaching down to grab a small log. If another ambush had come upon them, he would not be surprised again, though he would have preferred a sword or a club over this piece of wood.

  A woman walked out of the woods just as he approached—a small woman, Nara's height but much older. She had short silver hair and a patch over one eye.

  "Who are you?" Mykel asked, brandishing the log.

  "He's doing fine without you."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Sammy. He caught two coneys today."

  Shock at hearing his brother's name stopped him in his tracks. He had dared not think of Sammy at length for fear that the grief would tear him apart. Fear of the authorities and the church barred Mykel from returning for Sammy, and confusion was now added to Mykel's angst.

  "Who are you?" he asked again, his voice cracking with the effort, anger and frustration rising at once.

  "My name is Anne. I'm a friend, Mykel," she said. "I'll help."

  "I don't trust strange women who hide in the trees late at night and talk about my family."

  The old woman chuckled. "Son, you don't trust anyone; it don't matter about the trees."

  Mykel didn't know how to reply and took a moment to compose himself. "Have you come from Dimmitt? Are you sure Sammy's okay?"

  "After your announcement, Lina Tibbins spent the whole day with him. He cried a bit. Then she kissed him." The woman smiled.

  Mykel wiped a tear that raced down his cheek, and he failed to restrain a curious grin. "She kissed him?"

  "He worries for you, but he'll be fine."

  "Will I see him again?"

  "Do you want to see him again?"

  "Of course!"

  "Then make it happen, young warrior. Nobody holds you back."

  Young warrior? The woman turned to walk away.

  "Where are you going?" he asked.

  "I'll be back tomorrow."

  "But wait, uh, I wanted to…" His words trailed off, mouth open. He dropped the log at his feet as she disappeared into the woods. What had just happened? Who was this stranger, and how dare she come into their camp like this, drop news of Sammy she couldn't possibly know, then leave again? And how did she know about Lina, about Sammy’s traps and the coneys he caught? There was something odd yet powerful about the woman that seemed in character with his life of late. A new life of craziness. Of magic and fear and wonder. And danger.

  After a time staring out toward the woods where the woman had departed, Mykel turned in a direction of his own. He found a fallen tree and sat on it, inspecting his belly in the growing light. A thin pink scar could be seen where the wound had been. He touched his mouth and wondered. Could he heal his scarred lip as well? He kept his fingers pressed to the lip and summoned the rune again, feeding it and hoping it would take away the blemish.

  He moved his fingers over his lip. The tight, inflexible flesh had not changed; the scar remained. So, his magic could heal wounds but would not remove scars. Scars would always be a part of him, it seemed, a record of pain for others to see. His life would be very different from that of other gifted folks.

  He didn't know how long he sat there, but as the sun began to fully illuminate the morning, he made his way back toward the camp to lie by Nara's side. She stirred as he came close, and she reached out to him. He grabbed her hand in his. "Go back to sleep," he said. "I'm fine."

  They slept.

  16

  Barbarians

  Bann – Frozen Lands

  Northernmost Fort in the Great Land

  General Zebediah Cross stood proudly at the front of his army, resplendent in the dark, plate-mail armor. He was a giant, well over six feet tall and almost three hundred pounds of muscle and bone. He stood out among men, even soldiers. With olive-toned skin, sporting long sideburns, even in his mid-forties he remained intimidating, holding the loyalty of his troops through action and violence.

  Bann was the largest fortification in the Frozen North, a region known for tundra, mosquitos, and barbarian incursions. The siege should only have taken a few weeks, but these crafty, spear-wielding fiends had held on twice that long, led by a fierce chieftain who called himself Cnut Magnusson. Cross had better things to do than sit and wait for the light-skinned hairballs of the north to starve, so he had taken drastic action today.

  Moments ago, he had sent most of his forces at a central tower, attracting the enemy's archers away from the nearby walls. It had left his true target unguarded. A single young flamer had then been used. She was a girl, no more than seventeen, and was guarded by shield men as she attacked the exposed tower while the enemy was distracted, destroying the fortification in a cataclysmic explosion that consumed the soldiers and, sadly, the flamer. But the cost had proven worthwhile when the stone wall came tumbling down.

  With the breach now
accomplished, Cross ordered his entire force toward the opening, flooding his superior troops into the now vulnerable fortification. He followed on foot.

  Wherever the royal troops went, destruction followed. Without having to face an enemy on high walls, Cross' better armed, better-trained men in superior numbers were unstoppable. They suffered few losses as the enemy retreated or surrendered en masse. A small force of more experienced warriors was holding out in the inner keep, but in short order, Cross' men battered through the heavy wood barrier and exposed them.

  As they entered the inner chamber, Cross spied six of the chieftain's private guard protecting him. They wielded spears, swords, and defiant expressions on their faces, but were vastly outnumbered.

  Sunlight from windows high atop the chamber walls provided the illumination, showing a circular throne room. Fifty feet across, the room held a crude wood-and-stone throne in a well-lit area to one side. Magnusson stood in front of the throne, feet planted firmly and his eyes locked on Cross.

  In his mid-thirties, the barbarian chieftain was easily a decade younger than Cross and stood a head higher, almost seven feet. He was thin but well-muscled and wore a brown beard and long, brown hair. His braids reached mid-back, and scars and tattoos festooned his bare torso. Studded-leather greaves covered his legs, and a bone crown sat upon his head. Ornate Roska battle symbols were painted in red, blue, and yellow on his face, shoulders, and arms. In his left hand, he carried a ten-foot spear, the head of which appeared to be fashioned from fine steel and must have weighed eight pounds.

  Cross stood fifty feet away across the large chamber, head to toe in dark armor, a two-handed sword resting in a giant scabbard across his back. His black-enameled helm, the visor flipped up so he could see, completed the contrast between the civilized general and the barbarian chieftain. For a moment, they stood and looked at each other, and Cross' heart began to beat faster in anticipation of the impending conflict.