The Orphan and the Shadow Walker

by Graeme Bourke

  “They try but whenever the soldiers turn up they flee high into the mountains, wait there until they are gone and then come back down again. It’s usually the villagers that suffer, the soldiers blame them, accuse them of assisting the bandits. They burn a few houses, kill some of the men and rape the women.”

  Elijah finished off the last of his tea, stood up and began packing away his gear while Mica sipped at her tea and looked down into the gentle sloping valley and the faint trail that divided it. The hills here were heavily wooded with a forest of giant firs that reached high into the sky. The road disappeared into the forest at the end of the valley.

  Three hours of easy walking through the forest saw them at the main road, which wasn’t much different than the trail they had been on. It was just another twin rutted track. They moved back away from the road and into the edge of the forest where they could easily see but would not be seen themselves. They drank from their water bags, sat down, chewed on some dried meat and waited.

  “Which way do we go?”

  “South towards the capital, Darfor.”

  “Tell me about Steppland, Elijah?”

  “Steppland is so named because it is situated in the centre of the great continent of Islabad. It has no ports to the sea like the other provinces. It relies on trade with its neighbours for commodities that it can’t produce itself.

  “A third of Steppland is high mountains, so high that the snow never melts; so high that very few people ever venture there, although there are tribes called Manutes that live on the fringes of the mountains. They tend to shun the normal world, are fierce fighters and bare no allegiance to anyone except themselves.

  “After the battle of Tursy, the king sent an army into the mountains. They suffered numerous defeats. The tribes were able to defend their land. The king gave up on them, conceding that the land they held was valueless and not worth the trouble to conquer. As long as the tribes stayed where they were and gave him no trouble he was prepared to forget them.

  “They say that the Queen of Steppland, Isabella, came from the mountain tribes; was born there. She was a rare beauty, a woman of stature, a shrewd woman who knew how to handle men, knew how to rally the people.”

  “Even to their deaths?”

  “Yes. The people still pine for the old days, for a king and queen who would be just and fair. Thomas Letcher’s only interest is in filling his coffers, in making himself rich beyond all imagination. Hence the people have to suffer his draconian taxes. He is bleeding the people dry and soon they will have nothing left to give.”

  “It sounds like the country is ripe for rebellion.”

  “Impossible, the Lothian troops and mercenaries keep the people in check. Spies and traitors are everywhere, paid by the king to betray those who even mention insurrection. People sometimes just disappear and are never heard of again; their only crime might be to complain about the hard times, as people will.”

  “You paint a depressing picture, Elijah.”

  “A word of warning, do not under any circumstances trust anyone, do not mention Agar, or anything about your past.”

  “What did Agar tell you?”

  “He told me how he found you, how you have vowed to take revenge on those who killed your parents.”

  Mica said nothing for a moment. “We will need a cover story then.”

  “Yes, people will be curious; will ask questions, we need to have some answers ready for them.”

  “I can be your niece that you had left in Cragmoor.”

  “That might work.”

  They spent the next hour going over a story, keeping it within the bounds of truth and then adding their own ideas to the fringes. It wasn’t long after this that a string of carts, wagons and riders appeared on the road.

  “It’s a caravan. They are travelling together for protection. We will join them,” said Elijah as he gathered his gear.

  They waited until the slow moving caravan had almost gone past them, then they joined onto the tail end, behind a tinker’s square van that was painted red and adorned with bright blue tassels hanging from the roof. Four horses, two white and two brown pulled the wagon.

  It was several minutes before the driver of the wagon, a well dressed rounded man with a pudgy red face and thinning grey hair noticed them. He said something to his companion, a big broad shouldered man with curly blond hair who had a smile on his high cheek-boned face. He looked at them with interest and waved. Elijah nodded his acknowledgement.

  They followed the wagon at a quick walking pace through the forest. The big man in the passenger seat kept smiling at them and waving. Elijah deduced that the man was a simpleton.

  Later in the afternoon the trees began to thin, patches of green grass appeared and the sun warmed considerably. Mica felt hot and sticky. A bath is what she craved, some soapy warm water to soothe her aching body, but she knew that some sort of civilization was days away yet. She would have to be content with a wash in a cold stream and to dangle her feet in the cool water. She took a sip from the water bag and let some of it spill over her face. It felt deliciously cool.

  As the evening approached the caravan stopped at a small stream. The wagons, carts and vans were formed into a protective circle. The pudgy man from the van they were following leapt down from his seat, stretched himself and walked over to Elijah.

  “Gabriel is the name, tinker and merchant,” he said as he bowed slightly.

  “I’m Elijah, a storyteller and this is my niece, Mica.”

  Gabriel cast his eyes over the young lady dressed as a man. There was no mistaking the protruding breasts, the hourglass figure and the stunning eyes framed by a delicate face of intense beauty. He also noticed that she wore a sword. It was most un-lady like, accept that it seemed to be part of her, fitted her like a glove. He sensed that the sword was no mere decoration as she stood there staring back at him. This woman had no fear, her bearing and her eyes reflected that.

  “This is Adar,” he said, nodding his head toward his companion who was standing beside him. “He is a simpleton, but a kinder man you would never meet. He knows how to use a staff to protect himself. I have seen no one better in all my years.”

  Adar was a big man, well over six feet tall. His shoulders were broad and wide beneath his black shirt with its two missing buttons. The man might be a simpleton thought Elijah, but he sensed that he was a man of strength. He wore grey breeches with a leather belt and a knife in a scabbard at his side. On his feet were well-worn boots laced with string.

  “The caravan master will demand a tax, sir,” said Gabriel.

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” replied Elijah, thinking of the small amount of coins in his purse.

  “You must join us. When word gets around that you are a storyteller we will have extra company.” He turned to Adar. “Collect some wood for the fire.” The big man with the perpetual smile sauntered off into the forest.

  As darkness approached small fires began to pop up around the camp. The caravan master, an overweight man with shifty eyes and wearing a sword extracted the last of Elijah’s coins. It was an exorbitant price but he had no choice really. There was safety in numbers and it was better to be poor and alive than to be slain by bandits.

  The caravan master’s task, along with the two men he employed, was to see them through the land, to protect them from the bandits, to barter with villagers for food and right of way, to see that they passed through the check points, unheeded, unmolested and with their money and belongings safe.

  The three men were ex-soldiers, as were most of the men who worked as guides. They were either too old for the battlefield, or had served out their time and had been de-commissioned. Being ex-soldiers, they still had contacts, still had friends in the army, which gave them advantages that others could not claim.

  Mica said very little as she busied herself boiling the rice. She added some herbs to give it flavour. Some fresh meat would have been nice. Maybe tomorrow she could find a rabbit or two. She was caut
ious with the tinker, not wishing to become too friendly with him. She helped Adar with the fire and with the cooking. He seemed delighted to have someone to help him.

  When the caravan master had arrived she noticed his leering look, she had seen that stare before with men in the village who had lusted after her. When she was a child the men took no notice of her but as soon as she started to develop breasts it all changed. Roving hands in the crowded market would often caress her buttocks and the seemingly accidental touching of her breasts was a common occurrence. She started wearing a knife with a razor sharp blade. She never had an occasion to use it, although she had threatened a couple of the more adventurous men who had wanted more than a feel of her buttocks and breasts. If she had stayed in the village she knew the men would have taken her, she could see it in their eyes on those last days. They were waiting for Agar to die.

  The simpleton spoke with very few words; his ability to speak seemed stilted, difficult, and he often stammered, but Mica warmed to him. He did not look at her like other men; he was friendly, cheerful, and always seemed to be in a state of happiness. She envied him.

  Sitting away from the fire, nearer to the wagon and on the ground with her legs crossed she spooned the rice from the bowl, Adar sat beside her.

  “Adar like food,” he said, dipping into his bowl with his spoon.

  Mica ate the last of the rice from her bowl and then placed it on the ground beside her.

  “Adar have more.”

  “It seems Adar has taken a shine to your niece,” said Gabriel as he and Elijah moved closer to the fire to further feel its warmth.

  Elijah peered across into the shadowed light at Mica. Adar stood up, walked over to the fire and retrieved the pot. “More,” he said as he tipped what was left into his bowl and sat down with them.

  “She can be rather infectious at times and she can cook as well. It’s one of her many talents,” said Elijah knowing that Mica had added some extra herbs to the rice.

  “Can she use that sword?”

  “As well as any man,” said Elijah, watching Mica retrieve her blanket and lie down.

  Gabriel was curious, he wanted to know more; something about these two didn’t fit. The girl was darker, olive skinned like the sailors he had seen in the ports from foreign lands across the sea.

  “I don’t mean to be intrusive, or disrespectful, but your niece bears the skin colour of foreign lands.”

  Elijah laughed, as if not taking Gabriel’s question with any alarm. “It is a question I’m often asked. Her father was a sailor, he took a wife from a land across the sea, they both perished in a storm. Mica was one of the few survivors from the shipwreck. She was only six years old.

  “And you have raised the child?”

  “No, not exactly, she stayed with a friend of mine at Cragmoor. It’s a small village out of the way, north of here and closer to the mountains.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Bacca, do you know it?” asked Elijah.

  “It is the main port in Lothia.”

  “I haven’t been back there for a long time.”

  “Then you would know the Anchor Inn in the harbour?”

  Elijah knew that Gabriel was testing him, trying to find out if he was lying. He had been born in Bacca, and had lived there most of his life until the civil war twenty years ago. He had been betrayed by his own brother and was lucky to escape with his life, but it was not so for his wife and two children. They were arrested when Thomas Letcher’s men came searching for him. He never saw or heard of them again.

  “Yes, I knew it well. Does old Arthur Symons still own it?”

  Alas, he was murdered a few years back. It is rumored that it was the king’s men, as he wanted the inn. It turned over a tidy sum and was quite profitable. There’s a manager there now named Krag, a beast of a man who is totally corrupt; he cheats and robs his customers.”

  “It was a jolly place once.”

  “So was Bacca, so was Lothia. How long have you been a storyteller?”

  “Since the civil war in Lothia, I became a refugee like many of my kinsmen. I had to find some way of feeding myself, some way of surviving. I found I had a gift for storytelling,” said Elijah, which was the truth. That’s what he and Mica had decided to say, to stay as close as they could to the truth, that way they were less likely to be found out. While Mica’s origins were unknown, his was well known to his enemies.

  “A storyteller’s life is not the life for a young woman.”

  “No, it’s not. That’s what worries me. She is young and needs to secure herself some sort of future.”

  “A husband is what she needs.”

  Elijah laughed. “A husband indeed, but who would have her. She is arrogant, feisty, and has a mind of her own.”

  Gabriel peered across at the young woman, even in the darkness her beauty shone like a beacon. “A woman with her looks could marry a prince, or even a king.”

  “But alas there are no princes in the land anymore and but one king, a lecherous king with nothing but greed and debauchery on his mind.”

  “It’s a sad state of affairs. The country is slowly being ruined. People cannot afford to pay the taxes, the soldiers take all their crops, I fear for them, I fear for the coming winter. How are they to feed their families?”

  “For sure, it is a worrying time.”

  “Where are you bound?” asked Gabriel as he stoked the fire and added another couple of logs.

  “To Tursy,” replied Elijah, bending back slightly from the now blazing fire.

  “Like so many of us. I go every year. It’s quite profitable for me there.”

  Elijah had seen many tinkers on his travels, some were pure rogues. They often sold inferior goods and cheated their customers whenever they could. But on the whole most of the tinkers were respectable businessmen, who were just trying to make a living by selling or trading anything they could get their hands on.

  You have travelled far, I presume,” asked Elijah, knowing full well that a tinker would make an excellent cover for one of the king’s spies.

  “I have journeyed through the seven provinces of Islabad. I have been in snow storms and seen the high mountains of Steppland. Enjoyed the warmth of Lothian beaches and travelled to the great plains of Moorland. I have seen many wonderful sights.”

  “It’s a wonder our paths haven’t crossed before.”

  “Yes it is, but there are many roads, many towns, villages and cities.”

  Elijah stood up, he was reluctant to leave the warmth of the fire but he was becoming tired and didn’t wish to continue the conversation with the tinker. He had said enough. He was glad that the word had not yet spread through the caravan that he was a storyteller, he just wanted to sleep. He knew it would probably be different tomorrow night.

  “I will bid you goodnight.”

  “See you bright and early in the morning,” replied Gabriel.

  Elijah went over to where Mica lay sleeping and made his bed next to her. As he snuggled down he saw Gabriel leave his place at the fire and walk over to an adjoining fire. He felt for his dagger at his side, retrieved it and put it under his pack that he was using as a pillow. He noticed that Mica had her sword tucked in beside her, close and handy.

  The night passed without event and true to his word Gabriel and Adar were up long before the sun rose, feeding and securing the horses and lighting the fire. He and Mica rose, washed themselves in the cold water of the stream and then had some toasted bread, courtesy of the tinker who baked his own bread, and some wild honey.

  “Mica, want more honey?” asked Adar.

  “No thank you, Adar, I have had my fill.”

  “Mica, ride in wagon today, Adar walk.”

  “No, I can’t do that, it’s your wagon.”

  “Adar strong and master will be glad of conversation with lady.”

  “And that I will, Mica,” said Gabriel as he stowed the last of his gear in the rear of the wagon. “Here, give me your pack, I will p
ut it in the back, yours too Elijah.”

  Elijah passed him his pack. “That will make the day much easier.”

  Gabriel retrieved a staff from the rear of the wagon, it was easily seven feet long and about three inches through; he gave it to Adar whose big hands clasped onto it with ease.

  The caravan began to form up to the hasty roar of Argon, the caravan master. The sun rose, crimson beneath the clouds, promising another fine day. Today the tinker’s wagon was in the centre of the caravan. They were following a covered wagon with two blond haired children, a boy and a girl around seven or eight years in the back, they waved to Mica. She waved back and smiled at them.

  Mica had taken her sword off as it she was not able to access it quickly enough from the sitting position, and besides it was a little uncomfortable. Her bow and quiver of arrows she placed behind the seat. It was something that Agar had instilled in her, to always keep her weapons in reach.

  “I presume you can use that bow,” enquired Gabriel as he flicked the reins to signal the horses to pick up the pace.

  “Yes, keep your eyes peeled for some rabbits. We could do with some meat in our rice.”

  “Sounds delightful, I will certainly keep my eyes peeled.”

  The country they were now going through was sparsely timbered, with low-lying hills. The grass was long, dry, yellow and dreary looking. There was no sign of any houses or farms.

  “How far away is the next town?”

  “Two days away,” replied Gabriel.

  “What sort of town is it?”

  “A river town, it’s called Tumult, after the river that flows through it. We will have to cross a bridge there where we may be searched for contraband and questioned.”

  Gabriel noticed a sudden look in her eyes, a hint of fear. It was only there for a fleeting second. Maybe it was just a young woman’s fear and nothing more.

  “I suppose this is exciting for you, the travelling and seeing new places.”

  “Yes it is, but I have heard bad things of the soldiers.”

  “Sadly that is true, that’s why we travel together. The soldiers are less likely to bother a large body of people, unless of course they have reason to.”