Man from the North: Book Two of the Aun Series

by Lee Bezotte

  While she waited, the woman thought about the events of the past few days. She knew she had made many bad decisions in her life, and prayed that running away from Tcharron wasn’t another one. She only knew that the freedom she now experienced, even though it was mixed with peril and uncertainty, was better than being a slave. She felt a sense of dignity and she wanted to hold onto that. If she were to die running, at least it was because of her choice to run, and not because of the cruel whim of a slaver.

  It was almost dark when Dulnear returned with a freshly killed rabbit. As he skinned the animal and prepared it for roasting over the fire, Faymia wondered how many rabbit furs it would take to make him a new coat. Then she smiled to herself in amusement at the thought of the muscular warrior wearing a patchwork rabbit skin coat.

  When the animal was done roasting, the man tore it in two and handed half of it to Faymia. “This should warm you up,” he said, already biting into his half.

  She gratefully accepted the cooked game, hiding that it was uncomfortably hot in her hands. “Thank you,” she replied with a hint of a smile.

  “I am sorry, I should have let it cool a bit first,” Dulnear apologized.

  Faymia was surprised. She never mentioned that the meat was too hot and felt she’d hid her reaction well. “I…um…” she muttered.

  “I know your looks,” the man from the north responded. “That is the face you make when you are trying to hide pain.”

  The runaway woman was deeply touched by Dulnear’s simple statement. She was looking in his direction, but her thoughts drew her focus inward. He noticed, she thought to herself. She had never been noticed in such a manner before. She felt seen, and important. The man from the north made her feel like she mattered. Around him, she found it easier to believe that she was good for more than pleasuring men and being the object of crude jokes. “Thank you for noticing,” she said. “It’s cooling off a bit, and I’m too hungry to put it down anyway.” She smiled and bit into the meat, appreciating some cooked food after a long, trying day.

  The two sat and enjoyed their rabbit together, staring into the fire and occasionally making small talk. When the woman was done eating, she set the remains of her dinner beside her and slipped on her warm, dry boots. Despite the day, she was content.

  After some time, Faymia swallowed and asked, “Dulnear, do you have a woman?” She immediately regretted asking the question, but listened intently for the answer anyway.

  Staring into the forest beyond the clearing, the man from the north answered, “I have very high standards.”

  Something about those words caused the runaway slave to feel discouraged. Only moments earlier she’d felt important, but now the feelings of worthlessness were returning. She began to ask, “What if—”

  “Shhhhh!” Dulnear cut her off, still staring into the woods. He then grabbed her leftover rabbit carcass and flung it into the dark forest. The two sat motionless in silence until the sound of wolves fighting over the picked-over rabbit erupted just beyond the clearing.

  Immediately, the northern warrior jumped to his feet and began tossing handfuls of twigs and grass into the fire. As he did, the sound of howling could be heard from all directions. Faymia froze with fear. Her eyes were wide, and her heart felt like it was trying to escape from her chest.

  “We have to get you off the ground!” the large man exclaimed, and he picked her up as if she was a child. He sprinted to the nearest tall tree and hefted her into it. He then drew his knife and ran off into the darkness.

  The sound of howling wolves could be heard from all around. Amidst the grip of crippling panic, Faymia became aware of another sensation. Her hands were throbbing with pain and she could feel blood running down her arms, making its way under the sleeves of her shirt. What’s happening to me? she wondered. Then it dawned on her; I’m clinging to a black pine!

  With no sign of Dulnear, pain radiating through her hands and arms, and surrounded by beasts in the darkness, all she could do was whisper prayers into the night.

  Dulnear focused on keeping his breath quiet and controlled. He knew that the wolves’ hearing was astounding, and they had the advantage in the pitch-black night. He walked slowly and silently through the dark woods, listening for any sound that would indicate the location of the animals. All he could hear was the crackling of the waning fire and his own heartbeat. With his right hand he held his knife out in front of him, ready to plunge it into any beast that came near. The man knew that, in order to survive the night, he had to become the predator and the wolves had to become the prey; but that was far easier said than done. Hoping that the pine sap smeared on his side, arms, and shoulders was masking his scent some, he continued moving, listening, and trying to detect the odor of the deadly animals.

  From his right side, the northerner heard the subtle sound of a creature sniffing. He thrust his knife into the darkness, but only made contact with the air. Immediately, he felt teeth sinking into his forearm and pain coursing up to his shoulder like heated lightning. He stifled a yelp, dropped his knife into his left hand, and repeatedly stabbed the wolf in the side of its neck until it released him and fell limp. Ignoring the pain in his arm, he moved quickly in the darkness to remove part of the animal’s skin. Cutting off an additional strip of fur, he tied the pelt around his left arm. He reckoned that the pelt would make him smell more like a wolf, and that he could use it to protect himself from another attack.

  The man from the north decided to hunt closer to the perimeter of his camp. That way, he would have better visibility from the glow of the campfire. As he made his way, he could see the silhouette of a wolf standing just outside of the clearing. Its eyes were locked onto Faymia as she stood restlessly in the black pine. Dulnear stood silently and waited for the right moment. Then the animal let loose a chilling howl, long and loud. As it did, the warrior dashed toward it and opened its neck with his knife. The wolf whimpered and took its last breath as it dropped to the ground.

  From where he stood, Dulnear could see his friend clinging to the tree he’d placed her in. Something wasn’t right; she seemed to be struggling to hold on. He began to sprint over to her and felt something chomping at his left leg and right shoulder. Searing pain latched onto him as two wolves tore at his flesh. He could hear their snarls mixed with Faymia’s screams from across the clearing.

  The man from the north moved his knife to his left hand again and began stabbing at the wolf that was gripping his right shoulder with its fangs. The stabbing seemed to be doing little to slow the beast down as it forcefully whipped its head back and forth with a jaw full of Dulnear’s muscle and skin. The man reached down and grabbed the wolf that was attacking his leg and swung it violently into a nearby tree. He could hear its bones cracking, then he tossed the body into the darkness. Just as he was about to grab the wolf latched onto his shoulder, another sprang from the darkness and leapt toward his neck.

  Just in time, Dulnear raised his left arm, and the pelt fastened around his arm absorbed some of the bite. No longer able to stab at the wolf on his shoulder, he attempted to shake both animals off with quick, jerking motions. In his furious dance to be free, the man fell backwards onto his back. The fall temporarily stunned the wolf on his shoulder, but it wasn’t long before it was on top of him, joining the other animal that was trying to tear at his neck. Desperation overcame the man from the north and he stabbed wildly at the beasts with his right hand while trying to beat them back with his left. Though he was able to injure the wolf nearest the knife-wielding hand, it didn’t seem to do much to slow the carnivore down. He knew that if he stopped fighting even for a second, he would be dead, and his friend would not be far behind.

  Just then, a shriek could be heard from across the clearing, drawing the beasts’ attention. The wounded northerner looked up to see that the woman had fallen out of the tree and now the wolves were running toward her as she scrambled to her feet.

  Faymia quickly reached for a branch that was lying partially out of the
fire and began swinging the fiery end at the wolves, stopping them in their tracks. As they bared their fangs and barked ferociously, Dulnear approached from behind and plunged his knife into the side of one of them. His exhausted, bloodied arms were heavy and weak, but he willed them to cut the life out of the animal. With the surviving wolf’s attention now on the large man, Faymia smashed at its skull with her burning branch, stunning it, thus bringing its attention back onto her.

  The man from the north crawled behind the monster and tore open its neck with his blade. As blood flowed from the beast, he watched it die with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness.

  The warrior stood to make sure his friend was all right. As he approached her, a strange sensation overcame him. The woods spun, and all went dark. He fainted, falling back to the ground.

  It was dark, and the sights and sounds that swirled around Dulnear seemed distorted and difficult to discern, much like what one experiences when suddenly pulled underwater. The man concentrated hard to focus on where he was and what was happening. Eventually, he found himself standing in blackness, able to block out the chaos around him, but still disoriented.

  A muffled voice called out to him from the darkness. As the voice became clearer and closer, the man from the north could hear it calling, “Marhail! Marhail!” It caused the hair on his arms to stand on end and sent a chill down his spine.

  Dulnear was familiar with the word, for he had yelled it many times before rushing to battle with an enemy. It was intended to instill fear in an opponent, as it was a call to rain death down upon them. In the past, he would simply brush the word off; but this time was different, for he was truly afraid. His hands shook, and he desperately looked around to find the source of the haunting wail. But deep and cold it continued to sound from the darkness.

  Suddenly, the blurred shapes and colors all around him came into focus and the fallen Tromdel stood before him. His skin was pale, his hair and beard matted with blood, and maggots clung to the fatal wound in his chest. “Marhail!” he repeated with a sinister grin. “Soon, son of Athnear, you will suffer a fate worse than mine!”

  “I am only dreaming,” Dulnear retorted apprehensively. “My life is in the hands of the Great Father.”

  “Do you really think sacrificing yourself for those children will make up for all of the blood you’ve spilled?” the ghost asked with a laugh that dripped black with malice. He then drew his sword and raised it over his head to strike.

  Dulnear reached for his weapon but it was not there. Panicking, he answered, “I do not—” but he was interrupted when two northerners appeared behind him. Violently, they jerked him to the ground and held him there, while a third appeared over him with a long, rusty knife. The third northerner plunged the knife into Dulnear’s chest and carved a crude hole. He then reached in and took out the warrior’s still-beating heart.

  The dreaming Dulnear watched as his heart was held aloft. He tried to pray for help, but no words would sound from his mouth. Then he tried reaching for the heart so he could put it back inside his chest, but his arms were too weak to fight his attackers. Hopelessness and fear encompassed him like a burning blanket wrapped around his body, and he believed that true death was only a breath away.

  In an instant, Dulnear was alone, lying on the ground. All was black except for a trace of light that shined down on him. He lifted his head to survey the hole in his chest. The hopelessness and fear gave way as an all-consuming feeling of emptiness grew within him and the world faded to darkness.

  “Marhail,” he heard the familiar voice whisper again from the black.

  “It is just a dream,” the man from the north whispered to himself. “It is just a dream.”

  The next morning, Dulnear woke to pain all over his body. He was partially covered by Faymia’s cloak and had fresh layers of pine resin smeared across his wounds. The larger lacerations were wrapped in small strips cut from the bottom of the cloak. The woman was tending the fire and didn’t notice he was awake yet. “Faymia,” he called out to her with a weak voice. “What happened?”

  She rushed to his side and answered, “You fell unconscious; I couldn’t wake you.”

  “Did we get all of the wolves?” the man asked.

  “I believe we did,” she answered. “There was no more howling after you passed out. I dragged their bodies past the southern edge of the clearing. They have a terrible odor!”

  “That they do,” Dulnear agreed. “I am glad you are safe.”

  The runaway slave smiled with her eyes. “And I’m glad you’re awake. You gave me quite a scare.”

  The hard traveling, lack of sleep, and injuries were taking their toll on the mighty northerner, and he knew it. He tried to look strong for his friend. “I am sorry. I really am fine,” he assured her.

  Faymia spoke softly, “I know your looks. That’s the face you make when you’re trying to hide pain.”

  The man from the north gave a tired smile and examined the sap-covered wounds on his arm and shoulder. He was grateful that his friend tended to them in the night, but they still throbbed with pain. “I suppose it would be beneficial to rest a little while longer,” he admitted.

  “That’s a good idea,” she said. “I’ll see if I can gather some berries for us.”

  Dulnear coughed and laid his head down. “Do not go too far from the clearing,” he instructed. He then closed his eyes and drifted back into a restless sleep.

  A little while later, the man opened his eyes again to find his friend sitting nearby nibbling on berries and poking at the fire. “How long did I sleep?” he asked groggily as he raised his head.

  Faymia moved to sit next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. “It’s mid-afternoon,” she said.

  “I’m sorry for sleeping so long,” Dulnear apologized. “I should catch us some dinner.” As he attempted to sit up, pain coursed through his shoulder, taking his breath away. He winced and laid his head back down.

  “It’s okay,” Faymia answered. “I’ve already taken care of that,” and she pointed toward a dead squirrel nearby.

  The man from the north reached out for the woman’s hand, exhaled, and said, “Thank you. Your kindness means very much to me.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she said. Then she paused, and her expression changed as she asked, “Dulnear, what is a Marhail?”

  The feelings that accompanied the previous night’s dream washed over the injured warrior. He remembered the blackness, Tromdel’s voice, and watching his heart being cut out and held out of reach. He released the woman’s hand, swallowed, and said hesitantly, “It is a curse intended to strike fear into an enemy.”

  The woman made a pained expression. “You were saying it in your sleep last night,” she explained.

  “I am very sorry,” the man said. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

  Faymia looked at Dulnear’s face for a moment. Her head tilted sideways and her voice softened. “Why do we have to part ways when we reach Tuas-arum?” she asked.

  For a moment, Dulnear wrestled with whether or not he should tell Faymia what he was doing, but he had grown fond of her and felt that he could trust her with his story. He told her about leaving Tuas-arum to escape the violent ways of his people. He told her about his friends, Son and Maren, and their small farm in Laor. He also told her about killing Tromdel after he followed him south and challenged him to a death duel. “I am going to offer myself in restitution to Tromdel’s family,” he explained.

  The woman had a look of disbelief. She asked indignantly, “What do you have to make restitution for? If anything, his family should be apologizing that their blowhard kin tried to kill you!”

  “I know,” the man from the north said. “But northerners do not live by the same sense of fairness and justice that others do. It is a destructive code of existence. From an early age, we are taught that physical dominance over others is what brings the highest esteem. We are raised on violence, hatred, and revenge. It is our way of life.” He then l
ooked away, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. “Son and Maren will never be truly safe if I do not do this. I love them, and this is the only way.”

  Faymia’s eyes began to turn red and she wiped her nose with the handkerchief Dulnear had given her earlier. “What will happen when you offer yourself in restitution?” she asked.

  “That depends,” he answered. “My life will be in the hands of Tromdel’s family. I will plead for their forgiveness, but…” then he hesitated. “It is most likely that they will execute me.”

  “No!” the woman said with voice raised. “You cannot do this! There has to be another way!”

  “I wish that there was,” said Dulnear. “Vengeance will be their only priority. They will come for me, and they will use the children to make me suffer. This is the only way.”

  Faymia cried. Her shoulders shook and she reached out to hold Dulnear’s hand once again. “But you could fight them, you could defend the children.”

  “That is true,” the man admitted. “But that will only beget more violence. This way, the circle is broken.”

  “It’s not fair!” the woman exclaimed. “It shouldn’t be this way.” She sat silent for a moment. Her tears subsided, and she looked as if all of the strength was drained from her body.

  Dulnear continued, gently squeezing her hand, “Sometimes the wisest thing to do is the most difficult thing, especially when it is for those you love. I did not want to leave the children, and now I do not want to leave you. But I cannot allow myself to be tempted by self-preservation if I want to do the right thing.”

  “I won’t leave you,” she said as she quietly began to weep again.

  “If you do not, then you will watch me die,” the warrior said as a tear fell from his eye.

  “Then I will hold your hand as you pass into the next life!” Faymia exclaimed, then she laid her head down on her friend’s chest and cried some more.