The ax raced down and sank into the top of the log almost exactly where Dasen had aimed the blow. He smiled and silently congratulated himself; he had come a long way.
The self-satisfied look on Ral’s face should have been enough to tell him that he was getting a bad assignment, but Wil Muldon had made it look so easy that Dasen did not think much about it. He had looked at the remnants of the carefully maintained grove of apple trees that had been established at one end of the Wilmont green. Only a few of the trees remained standing, their emerging fruit rotting on the ground. The only obvious source of fuel for miles, the trees and their potential crop had been sacrificed to the invaders’ cook fires. At some point, the trees had been cut down and sawed into logs. Wil Muldon had been splitting those logs into quick-burning fractions and piling them on a two-wheeled cart. A big shouldered, broad chested barrel of a man, Wil drove his ax effortlessly through log after log, dissecting them with single, decisive blows.
Ral had provided no instruction or direction beyond pointing toward an ax – he had assigned Teth to hauling water with the same aplomb. Wil had acknowledged his companion with a nod but offered nothing more. So with a shrug, Dasen had placed a log on a stump and lifted the heavy ax. His first swing had missed the log entirely, the ax head ending its downward arc a terrifying few inches from his big toe. Though more cautious, the next blow was not much better. He had hit the log just hard enough to upend it and send it spinning painfully into his shin.
Finally, with a gruff chuckle, Wil had provided some much needed instruction. Now, though it took him several blows, he could at least split the hard logs without serious injury. As Wil had shown him, he lifted the ax, bringing the log with it and brought it back down onto the stump. He smiled as the ax bit deeper into the log forcing the wood apart. A few more blows and the log splintered into two nearly equal halves. He returned one of the halves to the stump and prepared his next blow.
“You know, I saw your family,” Dasen said as he aimed, thinking to strike a conversation. “Louisa, Danny, and the baby . . . .”
“Not now,” Wil warned. “No talking.”
Dasen clamped his jaw shut and watched Wil. Was it just his imagination that Wil’s arms were shaking slightly as he lifted the ax, that the following blow was not as powerful or accurate, that he had a sudden distance in his eyes? Hard memories, Dasen realized. He doesn’t want to think about them now. I was an ass to even mention them.
He was just preparing to apologize when he saw Wil’s eyes pop. He was blanched with fear and almost tripping over himself to get a new log on his stump. His hands shook as he scrambled for the log, and he looked at Dasen with desperation, nearly begging him with his eyes.
Dasen soon found the source of Wil’s distress. Emerging from the tents that covered every inch of the town green were three enormous warriors. They took seats on stumps on the other side of the former grove and started to pick at the food on the wooden plates they carried. They spoke loudly among themselves in their foreign language without seeming to notice the work being done a few paces away. That lack of attention did not matter to Wil. His fear was obvious in his every movement, and he was suddenly working at a blistering pace.
Dasen tried to match him, but there was no chance of that. In only a few minutes, his arms were trembling, his breath came in gasps, there was a painful cramp in his side, and he could feel the blisters forming on his hands. As the minutes passed and his miseries grew, log after log, swing after swing. He began watching the warriors with real hatred. He watched them talking between bites, relishing their meals, arguing over some trivial matter, and prayed that they would just finish their meal and leave. He cursed them under his breath and imagined their heads on his stump as he brought the ax down, feeling the pain it caused in his arms, back, and hands.
A new log followed the last, but before Dasen could lift the ax, a string of strange words shook the clearing. He looked up and narrowly caught himself before his eyes met those of the man who had spoken. The warrior bellowed again, “Kälargh duthür’ra tu churtü-thie, te-adeate!”
Dasen did not understand a word, but Wil helped him again. He dropped his ax and ran eagerly to the warriors, head bowed, shoulders slumped, knees bent, hands out, a beggar receiving alms from a king. Dasen followed, trying his best to match what appeared to be a well-practiced posture of belittlement. The warriors handed their plates to the boys without even looking toward them and walked off without another word.
As soon as they were out of sight, Wil attacked the scraps remaining on the two plates he had taken, voraciously lapping them up with his fingers and shoveling it into his mouth as if he had not eaten in weeks. Dasen looked at the plate he had been given. It held a few pieces of boiled potato, a bone with a few traces of meat, and a corner of doughy flatbread. Revolted, Dasen almost refused the scraps, but a painful rumble from his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten in more than a day. With a great breath, he swallowed his pride and tried to keep from thinking about the man who had been chewing on these scraps a moment before.
When he finished, Wil grabbed his plate, licked it clean, and gnawed on the bone until not even a dog would be interested in what was left. He looked at the setting sun, the smoke rising from the camp in endless streamers, then at Dasen. He licked his lips, a hungry look in his eye that set Dasen back, and said, “I’ll deliver the wood. You keep chopping till Ral dismisses ya.”
A moment later, he had added the empty plates to the top of the cart and was pulling it down a narrow road defined only by the larger gap between the rows of tents. Dasen sighed, feeling the pit in his stomach more acutely now that it had been reminded of its purpose. He looked back at the pile of logs, at his ax, then at his raw hands. The very thought of hefting the ax was torture.
He was just wondering what would happen if he stopped, when Teth slipped through the nearby tents and walked quickly toward him. She held two wooden buckets suspended from each end of a sturdy pole that was spread across her shoulders. The buckets were noticeably empty and swung effortlessly back and forth as she maneuvered around the last of the tents. She nervously inspected the stumps around them. “Dasen, quick, follow me. We’re getting out of here,” she whispered as she passed.
Dasen tried to question her, but she shot him an icy glare, so he snapped his mouth shut and fell in silently behind her.
From Across the Clouded Range Page 97
