by Lee Bezotte
Tcharron raised his dagger but before he had a chance to strike, Dulnear punched him squarely in the chest, sending him flying into the two men behind him.
With all six men on the floor, the sizable brawler looked over them. He was disappointed by both the lack of wisdom in his actions and the brevity of the fight. He peered over the bar at a trembling Faymia, placed a coin upon it, and said, “I am sorry for the mess.”
“It’s okay,” she replied through trembling lips, and reached up to take the coin.
Dulnear returned to the table to collect his bag, took a final look at his fallen opponents, and walked out the door as onlookers stared with mouths agape.
It was early evening when Dulnear returned to his room at the inn. There was still a trace of gray light coming through the large window and, since he was on the second floor, he could see lanterns being lit up and down the street as shopkeepers began shuttering their stores.
There was no need for him to light a lamp this evening. The fatigue of the last several days weighed on him like a heavy blanket, and his plan was to go straight to sleep. The large traveler looked at the bed and knew immediately that he would not fit on it, so he placed the mattress and bedding on the floor under the window, leaning the bed’s wooden frame against the wall. Since all of the blankets were being used to supplement the inadequate mattress, he decided to leave his coat on.
Laying down with his coat wasn’t the most comfortable thing, since there were several weapons stored underneath, but he was too tired to care. As he laid there, he felt his body sigh with relief. It was the most comfortable he’d been since he’d left Laor. Out of habit, he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, occasionally swiping his thumb across the pommel.
Normally the man had the enviable ability to fall asleep quickly in any setting, but thoughts of his friends, Son and Maren, kept him awake. He had changed so much during his time with them, and he wondered what kind of impression his fight in the tavern would have made on their young hearts. He was glad they were not there to see it.
Eventually, the weariness from walking many miles, and the poor rest he had experienced for the last several nights, pulled him into sleep. As he slept, he dreamed that he was in battle, not with unskilled drunkards but experienced men of war. He fought with passion, as he sensed the battle was for something far bigger than foolish skirmishes or personal pride. A feeling of both dread and purpose filled him as he swung his sword without mercy or hesitation at his enemies. It was the type of battle a true northerner wished for but seldom experienced.
Suddenly, the door of the room was shattered, and men with weapons were pouring in like water from a broken dam. In the blink of an eye, Dulnear was awake, alert, and brandishing his enormous sword. He couldn’t clearly see who they were, but he could smell Tcharron’s scented musk.
The man from the north swung his sword into the darkness, striking an attacker. He heard a yell and the thud of a weapon hitting the ground. At almost the same time he felt something strike the side of his head, causing his ear to ring loudly. Urgently focusing his thoughts, he quickly reached behind and grabbed the mattress off the floor. With his left hand, he used the mattress like a shield to cover his head and shoulder, and with his right hand, he held out his sword like a javelin. He took a deep breath, clenched his jaw, and ran forward with all of his might, pushing and cutting through men until he slammed them into the adjacent wall. He could hear bones break and groans of pain but was compelled to flee as quickly as possible.
Before his attackers had a chance to strike a second blow, Dulnear dislodged his sword from the wall, ran back toward the window and crashed through it, leaping down onto the street below. Annoyed for having his sleep interrupted, and angry with himself for staying nearby after the incident in the bar, he ran off into the night.
CHAPTER THREE
RUNAWAY
Dulnear sat on the ground near his campfire. It was dark, and the earth was cold and hard, much like it always was. He was a few days’ walk north of Ahmcathare and happy to have the incident with the slavers behind him. The clearing he sat in was surrounded by tall pine trees, which became more plentiful the further north he traveled. There were fewer farms and villages along the road, and that suited him just fine. Fewer villages meant less people, and less people meant less chances for confrontation.
He sat staring into the fire, listening to the evening breeze, lost in thought. As he poked at the flames with a stick, he heard the gentle sound of a snapping twig from behind a nearby tree. Instinctively, he put his hand inside his coat and reached for a dagger. Gripping his weapon he sat motionless, waiting, willing his heartbeat to remain calm as he listened.
Several seconds went by and there was no other noise. He tossed a pebble in the direction of the sound but there was only silence. This only increased the man’s concern, since an animal surely would have run away from the pebble. Finally, he yelled with an intimidating voice, “Come out of there!”
Still not a sound. Convinced he was not alone, he yelled again, “Come out of there or meet my sword!” and he flung his dagger at the tree, embedding it in the trunk.
There was a gasp in the darkness, and then the sound of footsteps scurrying away. Dulnear jumped to his feet and ran toward the noise. Away from the fire, the woods were as black as coal. Rather than giving chase, he stopped and retrieved his dagger, then stood there, listening and waiting.
First, there was the sound of running. Then, there was the sound of a body colliding with a tree. The man from the north shook his head and grinned as he imagined what it must have looked like. Led by the person’s heavy, pained breathing, it was easy for the warrior to locate them, grab them by the leg, and drag them back to his campfire.
“Why are you following me?” the man from the north growled as he dragged the soul closer to the fire.
“Please don’t hurt me!” the figure pleaded, with arms flailing.
Dulnear, surprised at recognizing the voice, let go of the person’s leg. It was the barmaid from Ahmcathare. By the flickering firelight he could see that she was dressed in men’s clothing and her dark-brown hair was pulled back into a braid. “Faymia?”
“Y-you remember my name?” she asked, still frightened.
The warrior stood there silently, pondering the situation.
“I’m sorry for following you,” she whimpered. “I had nowhere else to turn.”
Not satisfied with the incompleteness of her answer, he repeated his question. “Again, why are you following me?”
Faymia swallowed and answered, “When my master assembled his men to attack you in your room, I escaped. I stole these clothes and ran, and when I saw you jump down onto the street, I followed you. I thought since you fought the slavers in the pub, you would protect me.”
“I had merely reached my limit for barroom idiocy. It had nothing to do with you,” Dulnear explained coldly. “You are a slave. You chose to forfeit proper treatment for a full belly.”
Faymia slowly stood to her feet. Her eyes looked as if she had just received a blow to the stomach, but her posture displayed something more stern. Though she was much smaller than the man from the north, she breathed deeply, drew her shoulders back, and declared, “I’m not proud of my mistakes. I’ve made many, but that doesn’t make you better than me!”
Dulnear raised his chin slightly, crossed his arms, and retorted, “Absolutely I am better than you! I am a warrior of the highest degree, I was born of one of the greatest clans in Tuas-arum, I have tamed both man and beast, and I would NEVER exchange my freedom for the promise of another custard pie!”
The woman’s display of backbone didn’t last long. Her shoulders slumped, her hands trembled and she looked away, staring into the night as if she hoped something would come out of the dark forest to make her life better.
An argument was happening inside the mind of the warrior from the north. He had a genuine disdain for slaves and their masters, but he could see how his words had wounded Fay
mia, and he no longer wished to be a person who wounded others. After standing there silently for a while, he rubbed the back of his neck, pointed to the side of the fire that was opposite his belongings, and offered, “You may sleep there for the night. The accommodations are not much. I will have to decide what to do with you in the morning.”
Faymia looked at the ground that Dulnear pointed to. Like the rest of the area, it was covered in only dirt and pine needles. Without looking at her reluctant host, she walked to the other side of the fire and laid down. She had no blanket or bedding, only the clothes she wore.
The man from the north watched the woman carefully. He then returned to his things and laid down himself. He used his bag as a pillow and stared into the blackness above the trees. It felt strange for him to have a woman sharing his camp with him, even if she was a slave. The harsh words he spoke were nagging at him, and he didn’t want them to be the final words he spoke that day. He broke the silence. “Excuse me, but I must compliment you. I am not easily followed.”
There was no reply.
“And my name is Dulnear,” he added.
Still no reply.
The warrior sighed, closed his eyes, and tried to will himself to sleep.
Faymia shivered as she laid curled up on the cold, hard ground. Her head was swirling with thoughts about her decision to escape the slavers. She knew that she had taken a considerable risk but had little to lose, and longed to be free once again.
There was something about the way the man from the north carried himself in the tavern that made her trust him. It may have just been that it was the first time anyone had dared to interrupt when she was being harassed. Now that she was out in the woods alone with him, she wasn’t so sure she’d judged his character correctly, especially after his less-than-hospitable reception.
His words pierced her and she felt ashamed. She knew he was right about slaves, but wished with everything in her that it didn’t hurt so much to hear the truth. Her back was toward the fire, and she hoped he wasn’t looking at her. The dread that she had made a terrible mistake by following him was growing, and she felt as if the ground was slowly sinking beneath her. She couldn’t go back; she had no family or friends to turn to, and the person she wished would keep her safe seemed exasperated by her presence. Her life felt like one bad choice after another, leaving her cold and hungry, and on the ground with a grumpy, overgrown swordsman.
The woman wondered if Tcharron was looking for her. She had been gone for a few days now and had seen no sign of him or any of his companions. She did, however, have a haunting fear that she would wake up one morning to see slavers surrounding her to take her back.
This night was different though. There was a warrior nearby, and he would not be taken by surprise. She believed that, no matter how he felt about her, he hated the slavers so much that he would fight them if they ever came around, and that gave her a small amount of comfort. It was that bit of comfort that she held on to.
Eventually, her thoughts turned toward the years she’d lived before becoming a slave. The freedom she held then, she took for granted, not knowing what she had. As a girl, she often pined for greener pastures, more luxuries, and a more permissive mother. Looking back, she found it ridiculous that she ever felt restrained as a free person, and would give anything for just a taste of those days once again.
She reflected on these things until her tired eyes could no longer stay open. She closed them, curled up a little more tightly, and drifted into a restless sleep.
The next morning was strangely still and drenched in mist. There was neither the sound of birds singing nor a breeze through the trees. Dulnear sat up and stirred the glowing embers into a small fire that he could make his coffee over. As he did, he noticed that Faymia was gone from her sleeping place, and no longer in the clearing. Just as well, he thought to himself as a sense of relief began to rise in his chest. Where I am going is no place for a woman like her, and I am no slave liberator.
The man from the north nibbled on a cake made of grain and oil while he sipped his coffee. He was just about finished when Faymia came into the clearing with an armful of wild nuts and berries. He unconsciously let out a sigh when he realized that he was not going to be alone after all.
When the woman sat down, she gestured toward the food that she had foraged, but Dulnear shook his head no. He refused to take any action that he believed would place him in debt to a slave.
As she sat nervously filling her stomach, Dulnear observed her oversized boots and coat, and wondered who she stole them from. He then looked up to see purple and yellow bruises around her mouth and right eye. He had not noticed them in the dark the night before. His eyes narrowed, and he used a gentle tone to ask, “Did Tcharron do that to you?”
Still struggling to look Dulnear in the eyes, Faymia wiped the berry juice from her hands onto the ground and answered, “No, Tcharron fancies himself too good for that sort of thing. He has hired lackeys do his beating for him.” She then examined her hands for lingering stains and rubbed them on her oversized pant legs.
Still struggling to find the right words for the situation, the man from the north asked, “Why would he do such a thing?”
Finally looking him in the eyes, the barmaid nervously wrung her hands and answered, “They beat me because of what you did.”
Dulnear felt as if he had been hit with an anvil. His hands began to tremble, and the forest seemed to spin around him. He dropped his coffee cup to the ground and said, “But what I did to Tcharron had nothing to do with you.”
“That’s not the way he saw it,” Faymia explained. “You interrupted him while he was harassing me. In his twisted way of thinking, it was my fault that you injured him and his men.” She then paused and added, “Slaves are very convenient when looking for a person on which to place the blame. We are not allowed to argue our defense.”
“I am so sorry,” was all the warrior could manage to say, though he wanted to say more. The weight of the realization of what his actions cost the barmaid caused him to lower his head, hiding his eyes from her as he stared into the waning fire.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I know you didn’t mean for it to happen.”
Dulnear raised his head and looked at Faymia’s bruised face. “I am returning to the north,” he said. “I do not know what awaits me there, and I am sure it will not be pleasant. You may accompany me as far as the Fuar River, but I must go on from there alone.”
A look of relief washed over the woman and she walked over to the remorseful warrior and hugged his neck. “Thank you,” she said. “I promise not to be a burden.”
The man from the north wiped a tear from his eye. He felt awkward that a strange woman was hugging him, but relieved that she didn’t hold his actions against him. He took a deep breath, gathered his things, stood up and said, “I will do my best to protect you while we travel. However, I would suggest that you give thought to what you will do when we reach the Fuar.”
“I will,” Faymia promised. “And again, thank you.”
“You are welcome,” Dulnear said as he clumsily patted her on the shoulder and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though he wasn’t sure. Then he put out the fire and said, “If you are ready, let us head toward the road.”
CHAPTER FOUR
ALONG THE BRINK ROAD
Dulnear and Faymia continued along the road leading north. After a couple of days’ travel, they came to a small hamlet with a pub and a few modest shops. Since they were closer to the northern border, the tall warrior did not experience the usual stares and strange looks he was used to receiving in other parts of Aun.
Faymia, on the other hand, was looked at quite oddly in her oversized man’s outfit. Noticing the attention the woman was getting, Dulnear suggested, “I think it might be time to find you clothing more suitable for travel. It will be easier on your feet, and you can use your hands for something other than holding up your trousers.”
“But I have no m
oney,” the woman admitted hesitantly.
“I will take care of it,” Dulnear responded with an amiable expression.
Looking slightly embarrassed, the woman asked, “Are you sure? I don’t want to put you out.”
“Not at all,” the man from the north said. “It is the least I can do.” He still felt the weight of causing Faymia pain, and the more time he spent with her, the less he saw her as a slave and the more he considered her an acquaintance.
The two of them entered a small textile and clothing shop. Dulnear followed her to the only aisle of clothing that would be suitable for a woman to travel and camp in. As he stood there watching her look for pants and a shirt that would fit, he felt ill at ease. He had never spent this much time with a woman before, and watching one shop for clothing was something completely foreign to him.
Faymia unfolded a shirt and held it to herself. She turned around toward Dulnear and asked, “What do you think of this one?”
It was a plain white shirt, and the awkward feeling the man from the north already felt multiplied many times over with the question. He answered, “I do not…um, I mean, it is grand. I will meet you over there,” and found himself backing out of the aisle to give the woman space to discover what she’d like to wear on her own.
He waited for quite some time by the counter, where the shop owner tried to make small talk with him. “From the north, are ye?” he asked through a bushy brown mustache.
