by Lee Bezotte
When she came back, she lightly wrapped his arm, occasionally wincing at the sight of the painful-looking injury. When she was finished caring for him, she took his hand and helped him stand up. She then put her hands around his waist and slid his sword belt so that he could reach the hilt with his left hand. “You never know,” she said with an awkward smile.
Dulnear suppressed a grin. He was amused by her gesture, but the sadness smothered his amusement. Suddenly, he remembered something. “Faymia!” he said urgently. “We have to—” Just then, the sound of drunken men carrying on outside the house could be heard. He threw on his coat, crouched down, and peered out the window to see the revelers that had been gathered at Shenndel’s estate. “We have to get out of here!” he whispered.
There was a noise at the kitchen door and the pair froze. Then the sound of Thorndel’s voice could be heard, shouting, “No, the other door!” Dulnear and Faymia stood frozen as they heard the other rear entrance to the house open. A gang of carousing northerners poured into the narrow hall adjacent to the kitchen. It sounded like a parade of tipsy buffoons laughing and talking about how disgusted they were by the size of the home. “He is probably wallowing in the drawing room,” someone said, and they began to make their way down the hall and up the stairs.
Dulnear felt violated by the invasion of ne’er-do-wells. He wished for the strength to confront them, but that desire was immediately eclipsed by the contempt he felt for his current condition. He breathed deeply and instructed, “We will make for the tree line at the southern edge of the property.”
After briefly checking for stragglers, they ran toward the outbuilding that housed the yoke and wagon that Dulnear pulled to Shenndel’s house. Hiding behind the building, Dulnear hoped that they could make it across his land before Thorndel or any of his friends noticed them. There was plenty of daylight, and he was counting on the party to be too drunk to notice any movement from outside the house. When they were confident that they had not been seen they dashed further, to a large oak tree. Hiding behind the oak, the man from the north gave a sad chuckle.
“What is it?” Faymia asked.
“Just a memory,” the large man explained. “Remind me sometime to tell you about the time I tricked my brother into jumping out of this tree.”
The woman’s eyebrows raised and a bemused smile crept across her face. “You can bet I will,” she said.
Returning to the urgency of the moment, Dulnear said, “There is another cluster of trees a short distance from here. Once we reach it, we should be out of view from the house. If we are fortunate, they will have moved on from the drawing room, and are searching for me on the third floor.”
The two sprinted to the group of trees unseen. Once there, Dulnear explained, “We can travel back the way we came. Once we reach the river, we will walk west until we reach the Contuent Bridge. Hopefully Thorndel will be too drunk—or too lazy—to follow through with his threat.”
The two traveled south through woods and fields. At first, every scurrying creature and every random sound set Faymia on edge. She dreaded waking one morning to an ambush of northerners, especially after her experience with the Malitae. Eventually, she grew in the confidence that there didn’t seem to be anyone following them. They made camp every night, as they always did, but Faymia did the hunting and cooking while Dulnear rested. She was concerned for him, and continually kept an eye on him as she performed camp chores. He did very little talking, and spent most nights staring into the fire as if his mind was elsewhere.
One night, as they sat across the campfire from each other, she asked, “Where will we go once we cross the Fuar?”
As if awoken from a trance, the man answered, “There is a farm outside of Blackcloth. My friend Aesef is there. He is both kind and wise, and I would very much like to see him.”
Curious about how a warrior from the north was acquainted with a farmer from the south, she asked, “How do you know this farmer?”
“I helped him get rid of some unwanted company,” he answered. Then he stared into the fire for a moment before continuing, “It is where I killed Tromdel. He stole something very valuable to me in order to draw me into a confrontation. It was my Cre-dreact, the sword that my father used to train me as a lad. He joined in with some southern hoodlums and they made their camp on Aesef’s land. During our battle, he attacked the boy I was protecting, and I ended his life.” He then laid down and pulled his coat around his neck.
Faymia moved closer to Dulnear. She wished that she could take his pain and release him from the grip of anguish and regret. “How did you come to be acquainted with the boy?” she asked.
The large man’s expression changed as he began talking about the boy. He looked wistful and began, “I had just left my home to explore the southern lands by foot. I was hoping to make a more peaceful life for myself. One day, as I was dining in a pub, the boy Son walked in, hoping to fill his canteen. A good-for-nothing man bullied and robbed him. He was alone, and had no one to stand up for him. His father abandoned him, and his mother was lost to insanity. It seemed wrong not to involve myself. I protected him, taught him to use a sword, and about courage, and fortitude. I am as proud of him as a person could be.” As a tear ran down his temple, he added, “He is like my own, and I made this journey for his protection.”
“And what about the girl Maren?” she asked.
Dulnear smiled as another tear fell, and answered, “Son and I found her orphaned when her mother and father died on the road to Blackcloth. The boy insisted that we take her in. She is quirky, and lovely, and I fear that one day she will get lost in a storybook and never come back.”
Faymia smiled. She felt close to the man as he shared about the children. She hoped to one day see them together and be a part of their lives. “Do you think you’ll see them again?” she asked.
“I do hope so, but I really don’t know,” he answered. “If I was confident that Thorndel would not track me, I would definitely say yes. No other northerner would ever bother with me because there is no honor in killing a Nairetu. But Thorndel is different. He seems to care not for honor or esteem, only revenge, even though I have already made restitution.” He then closed his eyes, pulled his coat closed a little tighter, and began to shiver. “I have already made restitution,” he repeated to himself. Then, trailing off, he whispered, “I do not understand.”
The woman was troubled. Dulnear traveled most of the way to Tuas-arum without ever seeming to care much about the cold, and now he was shaking. She touched his forehead. He was burning up with fever. She said a prayer and watched him until he was sound asleep. Eventually, though she was gripped with uneasiness, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
After traveling through the thick northern woods, the two reached the Fuar River. Its frigid, raging current and abundant mist was a reminder of their narrow escape from the Malitae. They traveled westward along its bank, stopping often to rest and retreat into the woods to allow themselves a break from the relentless moisture. It was slow going, as Dulnear’s condition seemed to worsen each day. Eventually, the Contuent Bridge came into view, and they were able to cross into southern Aun.
Once out of the north, they began walking west until they reached the road that led southward toward Blackcloth. It was a well-worn path that was surrounded by dense forest to the west and open fields, lush with tall grass, to the east. From where the two roads met, they could see a great distance and Dulnear walked along, his eyes surveying the landscape.
After traveling south for a while, the man from the north spotted a large, moss-covered tree trunk that had fallen near the road. “I need to rest for a moment,” he stated, and sat on the log as he looked out over the eastern fields. The sky was its usual heavy curtain of gray, and the wind seemed uncertain as it shifted in intensity with each passing moment, whipping his hair against his pale face.
Faymia sat down at his left, and asked, “Are you okay?”
He didn’t answer but continued to st
are into the horizon, his head slightly rocking back and forth as if it had become heavier from their journey south. The great sadness and fever that soaked him drained all of his strength.
As the two looked out into the sky together, the wind kicked up and began to push the clouds northerly like a mighty, invisible hand. Fingers of late afternoon sunlight broke through the gray ceiling and danced across the fields. It was a rarely seen display in the usually dismal Aun, and something in the man from the north longed to take in the golden luminance like a thirsty tree. The defeated warrior and the spent slave woman held hands and watched in engrossment until the waltzing sunlight retreated up to the heavens and the gray clouds returned.
When Dulnear turned his attention toward Faymia, he noticed that her cheek was streaked with tears. He squeezed her hand gently, and wanted to ask about them, but instead just watched the last teardrop hang from her chin until it let go and fell onto her cloak. Finally, he said, “Perhaps we should be on our way,” and the two moved slowly toward Blackcloth, hand in hand.
Later that day, the two approached a village. It was small but bustling with activity as they walked the road that brought them from one end of the town to the other. There was a pub and a few shops that had a steady flow of people coming and going. Occasionally, someone would give the travelers a second glance, and Faymia would do her best to keep her nerves calm. It was the first time they had seen a village since stopping to purchase new clothes for the woman and it made her uncomfortable to be there. If there were any associates of Tcharron there, word was sure to get back to him that she was still alive, and Dulnear was in no condition to protect her.
Despite being hungry and tired, they did not stop but continued on until they found a place to camp for the night. It was well hidden from the road and contained a small area of flat ground surrounded by large stones and fallen trees. The man from the north was pale and weak, and had very little to say. Concerned, the woman continued to take on the chores of building a fire, catching rabbit, and cooking dinner so that he could rest.
She forced two forked sticks into the ground and removed the bark from a third stick to make a spit to roast the rabbit over. When the rabbit was ready to eat, Dulnear was already sound asleep. Faymia decided to let him sleep, but left some meat for him on the spit in case he woke up hungry later in the night. When she had finished eating, she tossed the inedible parts of the game deeper into the woods and prepared a place to lie down near her friend.
She laid down on her back, wrapped in her cloak, and stared into the somber night sky. She listened to the sick warrior’s breathing. It was much louder and heavier than was usual for him. She said a prayer and hoped he would be feeling better in the morning, but it did little to set her mind at ease.
Hours later, she was still awake, haunted by fears of losing her friend and the freedom she longed to keep. When she did eventually fall asleep, it was restless and fitful.
The next morning, Faymia woke to the sound of voices. She sat up quickly and looked around. Hearing footsteps and commotion from the direction of the road, she remained still and listened intently. As the sound of the people on the road faded into the distance, she was relieved that the fire was no longer smoldering, and that their camp was well hidden.
When she got up, she discovered that the rabbit she had left on the spit was still there, untouched, and Dulnear was still sleeping. She went to check on him, and found that he was trembling, and his face was hot. She carefully pulled back the sleeve of his coat, removed the dressing, and saw that the wound at the end of his arm was oozing a green substance, and the area around it was red and swollen.
She gently replaced the bandage and searched the inside of the man’s bag for something that would help. There, she found a leather pouch filled with coins, and placed it in her own bag. She then dragged some fallen tree limbs near where her friend was sleeping, and did what she could to make sure that their campsite was even more difficult to see from the road than before.
She was going to have to leave Dulnear alone, and the thought of that frightened her. Her friend, whom she had great fondness for, was unable to care for or protect himself. He would be completely vulnerable if Thorndel tracked them there. Also, she was going to have to return to the village they passed through the day before. Her plan was to get what she needed, return to the man quickly, and hope for the best.
Faymia hid her bow and arrows but kept her sword with her, under her cloak. She kissed her friend on the forehead, said another prayer, and walked quickly back in the direction of the village.
When Faymia entered the village, she headed straight for the pub. It was a busy place filled with chattering patrons who were putting off more productive activities for a morning brew. She disliked being there. The familiar smell of smoke and ale stirred memories in her that she would rather forget. Fortunately, it was still early enough in the day that most of the patrons were still sober.
She approached the barkeep, who was wiping down the counter, and politely asked, “Excuse me, can you please tell me where I can buy some medicine?”
From behind the bar, the stocky, unkempt man replied rudely, “Excuse me, but do I look like the town answer man?” He then placed an empty mug upon the bar and waited for her to reply.
Faymia had forgotten how men treated her when Dulnear was not at her side. She fought back the desire to say something disrespectful, knowing that the wisest thing was to draw as little attention to herself as possible. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll have a mug of stout. Here, you may keep the change,” and she placed a coin from Dulnear’s leather pouch on the bar.
The barkeep filled the mug for her, took the money, and gave her a crooked smile. “There’s an apothecary who lives up the westward path at the southern edge of town. He’s not home much, but you can give him a try,” he said as he toweled off a freshly washed stein. “What do you need him for?”
The woman ignored the barkeep’s question, quickly took a considerable gulp of the stout, and replied, “Thank you for your help,” before jogging out the door.
She dashed to the southern edge of the village, finding the westward path. It was narrow, and winding, and led up a high hill. It had few homes along it, and the woman hoped that it wasn’t going to be a long hike. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, only that she was mostly confident that she’d know it when she found it.
Eventually, she came to a small thatched cottage on the right side of the path. The garden was unkempt and littered with odds and ends that she couldn’t identify. She almost kept walking but was startled when, from inside the house, there was the sound of an angry donkey. There was a loud, “Hee-haw!” and suddenly the front door was shattered from the inside. Immediately, the newly freed beast came running out. She gasped as it ran straight toward her and brayed noisily. It stopped just an arm’s length in front of her, then sat down and sniffed the air as if expecting something. Frozen in a state of shock and amusement, Faymia stood there wide-eyed, wondering if she should back away.
“Never mind him,” a voice called from the porch. “He didn’t like the smell of his lungworm medicine. Are ye lost?”
Faymia looked toward the doorway where a freckled old man stood. He stood about her height and, though the top of his head was bald, he had the most amusing combover padded with curly, white hair. “Are you the apothecary?” she asked.
“At yer service,” he answered with an awkward smile. “What can I do for ye?”
“I have a sick friend,” she began, the urgency returning to her. “He has a severe burn. I think it’s infected. He’s burning with fever.”
The kindly man pushed his lips together and squinted. Rubbing his chin, he said, “Why don’t ye come in. I’ll see what I can find.” Then he turned and slowly made his way back into the house.
Faymia followed him, stepping over pieces of broken door and wishing that he would move faster. There was a thin layer of smoke in the air, and the combined smells of oils and oi
ntments was almost more than she could bear. The walls were lined with shelves stocked with jars of all shapes and sizes. There was a large table in the center of the front room where the apothecary had been mixing dried herbs of varying shades of green and yellow. There was also an oil lamp, and she could see black marks on the table where there had clearly been an accident or two. She wondered why the donkey was inside the house but, before she could give it much thought, her contemplation was interrupted by the old man.
“Now, a bad burn, ye say?” the apothecary asked as he searched among the many jars along the wall and continued to rub his whiskery chin.
“Yessir,” she answered. “Actually, his hand was removed, and his arm placed in the fire.”
“You don’t say!” the man responded. “Is he a soldier? There hasn’t been a war around here fer quite some time.”
“He’s from the north,” she answered. It was more information than she cared to give, but there was something about the old man she felt she could trust.
“Oh, I see,” he said. “There’s always fighting in the north. Never seems to stop. Violent people up there.” He then took down a small jar of a gooey green and gray substance. When he removed the lid, a putrid odor mingled with the other scents in the air. “This should help the burn,” he stated as he sniffed the jar and wrinkled his nose.
Faymia gagged. “What is that?”
“Snail slime,” the old man explained. “Spread this on the burn before putting on fresh bandages. It will ease the pain, and keep the wound from getting worse.” He replaced the lid, handed her the jar, then walked over to the opposite wall where dried leaves and flowers filled the shelves from floor to ceiling. “Okay, now what do I have for a fever?” he thought to himself aloud. He finally stood on his toes, reached high, and pulled down a jar of small dried leaves. “Here we go, coriander. Make a tea from this as often as he’ll drink it,” he said as he handed her the jar.
