Man from the North: Book Two of the Aun Series

by Lee Bezotte

  “Thank you very much, sir,” the woman said as she pulled a coin from the leather pouch.

  “You’re most welcome,” the apothecary said with a smile as he pocketed the coin. “Is there anything else you’ll be needin’ today?”

  Faymia cleared her throat and swallowed. Nervously, she asked, “How much for the mule?”

  Faymia quickly made her way back to the campsite. She had already been gone for the entire morning, and her concern for the man from the north was playing with her imagination. When she arrived, Dulnear was asleep. The remaining rabbit looked as if it had been nibbled at but most of it was still on the spit. After she tied up the mule, she knelt by the man’s side and gently attempted to wake him up. It took several tries until he finally opened his eyes in a feverish stupor.

  “You came back,” he said with a weak voice. “I thought you took my money and left me.”

  The statement took Faymia by surprise but she shrugged it off. “I’m afraid it will take more than a fever and a stinky arm to get rid of me,” she retorted. “Now, try to sit up so I can take care of this burn.” She then helped him sit up and cautiously slid the coat off of his right arm. It was no easy task, since the giant man’s upper body swayed back and forth like a tall, dead tree in an angry wind. When she removed the bandage, the smell was worse than before, and she hid her reaction so that he would not become discouraged.

  “What is that horrible odor?” the man asked.

  “It’s okay. I just need to clean something up,” she answered. “Can you sit up for a moment while I warm some water?”

  “I reckon so,” he said as he continued to sway precariously.

  The woman took a coffee pot from Dulnear’s bag and emptied her canteen into it. She quickly got the fire going again and started to heat up the water. Once it was hot enough, she used some of it to wash his wound, and saved the rest to make the tea with.

  As she opened the jar that the apothecary sold her, she said, “This isn’t going to smell very good, but it will heal the burn.” She then carefully applied the snail ointment to the end of his arm.

  “But you just got rid of the other stench,” the man said, almost asleep while sitting up.

  She then put a fresh dressing on the wound and assisted him to ease his arm back into his coat. Then she prepared the coriander tea and urged him to take a few sips of it before he became too weak to sit up any longer.

  She gave him some time to rest, then helped him drink the remainder of the tea. Eventually, she managed to get him off the ground and onto the donkey. He laid on his stomach across the animal’s back. He was so large that only his trunk fit on its back and his feet dragged along the ground on both sides.

  Once Faymia had her friend secured on the mule, she packed up their belongings, removed any signs that they had been there, and headed towards Blackcloth.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  REUNIONS AND REVELATIONS

  Dulnear awoke, but his eyelids were too heavy to open. He was lying in a bed, and the scent of his surroundings was familiar. For a moment, he thought he might still be sleeping and that his sense of consciousness was just another dream. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he was startled. Hovering next to his bed was a small, dark-haired girl with an expressionless face, and she was staring intently at the resting giant.

  “Good morning,” she whispered, with eyes growing wider.

  Realizing who the face belonged to, Dulnear exhaled with relief. “Maren!” he exclaimed. “Where am I? How did you get here?”

  “By horse,” she answered, then hugged the man and ran out of the room.

  As the sound of the girl’s footsteps trailed off, the world around Dulnear began to come into focus. He realized that he was in one of the guest rooms of his friend Aesef’s house. He didn’t know how Faymia managed to get him there, but he was glad that she did. He reckoned the old farmer must have sent his servant, Phel, to Laor to collect Son and Maren.

  While he was still gathering his thoughts, another voice spoke. “You’re awake!” The boy Son stood in the doorway, beaming. His cheeks were rosy, and his blonde hair was blown in every direction.

  “It is you!” the man from the north replied happily. “I almost did not recognize your voice! It is deeper, and you are taller.”

  The boy said nothing, but instead went to the edge of the bed, wrapped his arms around his friend’s neck, and squeezed as hard as he could. Dulnear reached up and embraced Son, and the two began to weep together.

  Through his tears, the boy declared, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Me too,” Dulnear sniffled. “And I wish that I had good news for you, but I am afraid I failed at my purpose for leaving you in the first place.”

  Son stood straight and wiped his tears on his coat sleeve. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  The man from the north felt a weight on his chest. He hated giving a bad report to his friend after being reunited. He took a deep breath. “I meant to make restitution, to end the cycle of revenge,” he explained. “They took my right hand, a humiliation worse than death to my people. My debt to Tromdel’s family should be considered paid, but Tromdel’s brother still wants to kill me.”

  Son sat on the edge of the bed, his forehead wrinkled with concern for the circumstance his mentor and friend found himself in. “If he finds you, and you defeat him, will others come for you?” he asked.

  Dulnear thought for a moment, then answered, “I suppose not. There is no glory in slaying a one-handed man, and too much shame in being defeated by one. Thorndel cares not for honor or glory, only for taking the lives of those who bruise his fragile pride.”

  A look of relief grew on Son’s face as he said, “Then all you have to do is defeat him and it’s over.”

  The man had no desire to squelch the boy’s hopes, but his own faith was at its lowest. “Son, I am not the warrior you knew before,” he said. “I am afraid that I am no match for Thorndel left-handed. I am not even sure I could beat Maren.”

  The boy sat silent for a moment. He then swallowed and began, “We’ll find a way together. I’ve already had to say goodbye to you once, and I don’t want to do it again.”

  The man from the north found little encouragement in his friend’s words. As far as he was concerned, he died in Tuas-arum when Shenndel took his hand. He didn’t want to let the boy down, but he was certain he’d be leaving him again, for his own protection. “I suppose time will tell,” he murmured.

  Son replied, “Dulnear, you once told me that evil men prevail when good people choose to avoid conflict. We have to believe that—” and he was cut off by another voice at the bedroom door.

  “How are you feeling?” Faymia asked.

  The broken man looked up at her. He was taken aback by her lovely appearance. She had bathed, and her clothes had been washed and mended. Her raven hair had been braided along her temples, and her eyes looked bright and full of life. For a brief moment his discouragement lifted and his heart beat stronger. He asked, “Faymia, how did you get me here?”

  “I purchased a mule and he carried you. He’s strong, and stubborn, like you!” she explained. “He was a great help, but it wasn’t easy getting him through the dead forest north of here.”

  “The dead forest? Why did you travel through the forest?” he asked.

  “I discovered that I was sharing the road with a slaver caravan,” she said. “I’ll tell you all about it when you’re feeling better.”

  “I look forward to hearing every detail,” Dulnear said. “I take it you have met Son and Maren then.”

  “Oh yes,” Faymia smiled. She looked at Son. “He is quite the impressive young man. He’s been working very hard on something in the barn, and when he’s here in the house, he keeps a close eye on you. We have to remind him to eat and sleep when he needs to.”

  Son blushed. “And when I’m in the barn, I have Maren watching you in here.”

  “I noticed,” the man from the north said. “She n
early frightened me to death when I awoke.”

  Son laughed. “It takes some getting used to. She has taken to waking me that way every morning.”

  “Speaking of Maren, she braided my hair,” the woman added. “What do you think?”

  “It is lovely,” Dulnear grinned.

  Son, looking slightly embarrassed, stood up. “I’ll let Aesef know that you’re awake,” he said. “I’m sure he’d like to come and see you.” He then smiled at the two and jaunted off down the hall.

  “Your friends really love you,” Faymia observed as she took Son’s place at the edge of the bed.

  The woman’s smile gave the man from the north strength. “And I them,” he answered. “Thank you for getting me here. I am incredibly impressed, for I know it must not have been an easy task. What has become of this donkey that carried me?”

  “I believe Maren has adopted the poor fellow,” she answered. “She calls him Earl, and sits on him reading her books while he wanders around eating whatever he can find.”

  The man chuckled in amusement, recalling his experiences with the girl before returning to the north. “Well, I am glad she has made a friend,” he joked as he rested his heavy head back onto the pillow.

  Faymia’s expression changed, as if a burden had been placed upon her shoulders. “Dulnear,” she began. “Do you think that Thorndel will track us here to the farm?”

  The small amount of strength Dulnear felt quickly faded. He answered somberly, “I do not know, but I cannot put my friends at risk. I have to assume that he is coming, and act upon that.”

  “But you have to fully recover. You are in no condition to travel,” his friend advised.

  Dulnear drew a deep breath. “All right, I shall stay a little while longer,” he said. “But then I have to say goodbye again. You may join me if you wish, or you can stay. I want only to keep Tromdel’s brother as far away from the children as possible.”

  Faymia examined her friend’s face. It had always been the face of one who had endured, grown, and pondered much. It was one of sadness, and strength, caring and cunning. But today there was something different about it. It had a vacant quality. She finally answered, “I want to be with you, Dulnear. It would probably be the best way to avoid being found by Tcharron anyway.”

  The man from the north reached for the woman’s hand, held it gently, and closed his eyes. Still in pain, and weak, he felt his surroundings begin to fade as he drifted back into a woozy sleep.

  It was late in the afternoon, and the light coming through Dulnear’s window was growing dim. Down the hall was the dining room, and he woke to the sound of the children chatting and setting the table. He remembered the meals he’d shared with them before and missed those times. Unfortunately, in the condition he was in, he felt more like hiding in his room than joining them for dinner. Just then, he heard heavy footsteps approach his door, and then it slowly swung open. A short, round, gray-haired old man stood there. It was Aesef.

  “Hello there, Dulnear,” the man said cheerily through his long white beard.

  The man from the north was grateful that his friend never seemed worried or ruffled. His consistently pleasant disposition was a comfort to him. “Aesef,” he welcomed. “Come in. It is good to see you!”

  “You’re looking much better,” the old farmer said as he pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. “You had me quite concerned when you arrived.”

  “Thank you. And thank you again for your hospitality,” Dulnear replied.

  “It’s my pleasure,” his friend said. “You and the children, and the lady Faymia, are always welcome here.”

  The man thought for a moment and asked, “I’m curious; why did you bring the children here?”

  Aesef smiled warmly and answered slowly, “Because, when you’re suffering, going through crisis, or encountering great loss, having family at your side has a way of easing the burden.”

  “I appreciate that,” he answered. “Their faces are like medicine to me.”

  “They are good for me too. Now, how is that wound?” the kindly farmer asked as he gently placed his hand on the northerner’s right arm.

  Dulnear sat up, leaned his back against the headboard of the bed, and slowly held out his arm to be examined. Aesef carefully removed the bandage, revealing a badly scarred stump where a powerful hand once had been. The infection had cleared up, and what remained was skin that looked much like pink and red melted wax from the end of his arm to almost halfway to his elbow. It was the first time the man from the north had really taken a good look at the wound. As he rotated his forearm in front of his eyes, his heart sank even deeper as the reality of losing his hand was laid naked.

  “I would say that it’s healing nicely,” the farmer mentioned as he opened a small jar, and lightly applied a fresh layer of snail ointment to the burn. “The searing could have been done in a far less clumsy fashion, but it probably saved your life.”

  Dulnear sneered, “It is a northern bad joke meant to keep me alive after taking away my life.”

  “Take away your life?” Aesef asked as he put new bandages over the burn. “Are you not more than a hand?”

  “I am a warrior,” he answered. “I cannot wield a sword without my right hand. I cannot defend those I care for. The children need a warrior. Faymia needs a warrior. I was regarded as one of the greatest in the north, and now I cannot even defend myself!”

  “Yes, you are a warrior,” his friend agreed. He then tilted his head and asked, “But what else are you?”

  “I do not understand your question,” Dulnear admitted.

  “I mean that, surely, when the Great Father created you, he had more in mind for you than simply swinging a sword,” the farmer explained.

  “The Great Father has abandoned me,” the man from the north huffed. “I wanted to do what was virtuous, what was right. I was willing to lay down my life for my friends, and now I am the laughingstock of Tuas-arum!”

  “I understand,” Aesef assured. “But you can’t expect things to go as you hope simply because you do what’s right. For an act to truly be selfless, it’s required of us to lay down our expectations.”

  Dulnear sat silently for a moment. He knew his friend was right, but the pain and feelings of abandonment weighed heavily upon his shoulders. “The most difficult part,” he began, “was the silence.”

  “What do you mean?” his friend asked.

  “I prayed for comfort, and received none,” he said. “I asked for wisdom, and the Great Father kept his mouth shut. I begged for anything that would prove to me that he was the least bit concerned, and heard only the coldest silence in return.”

  “I’m very sorry you experienced that,” Aesef consoled. “But I do not believe that the Great Father is ever silent unless he has a purpose for his silence.” He then paused for a moment and added, “I have to disagree with you though. The Great Father did answer your prayers, with much love and generosity.”

  Dulnear couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. He just looked at his friend with an expression that was part confusion and part offense. “You must be making a joke,” he accused.

  “Did he not send you a companion for your journey?” the old man asked. “Was she not a comfort, and a friend? Did she not rescue you when you were too sick to carry on? If ever there was an answer to your prayers, it was the gift of your friend Faymia. She was just as much an answer to your prayers as you were an answer to hers.”

  A small fracture began to form in Dulnear’s wall of doubt. However, he found it very difficult to see worth in himself without the ability to hold a sword. His lip quivered as he asked, “But why did he allow me to lose my hand?”

  Taking a deep breath, Aesef answered, “I don’t know. But I know that there is a boy, and a little girl, that love you just as much without it. And I know that you are so much more than just a warrior.”

  “If not a warrior, then what am I?” he asked.

  “To me, a friend,” the farmer answered. “To
Maren, a shield; to Son, a father; and to Faymia, one who sees her as she truly is. Warrior doesn’t even come close to describing who you are, Dulnear. You are a miracle and a champion, and you wouldn’t cease being a miracle and a champion if you lost your entire arm.”

  Dulnear’s eyes swelled with tears as the man’s words sank deep into his broken heart. “Thank you,” he said as he wiped his cheek.

  “You are not abandoned,” his friend added. “You just haven’t been able to see through the heaviness.”

  Just then, a beautiful sound could be heard from down the hall. The children and Faymia were singing a tune while Phel accompanied them on a stringed instrument. The man from the north closed his eyes and listened. As he did, more tears found their way down his face, and he contemplated the words of his friend. The crack in his wall of doubt grew bigger, and he asked, “Can I join you in the dining room tonight?”

  “Of course,” Aesef answered. “You are always welcome at my table.”

  Dulnear put on a robe that Aesef had placed in his room days ago, and he followed the farmer down the hall. When he sat at the table, his friends gathered around him, placed their hands on his shoulders, and lovingly prayed for the man who was a miracle to them. As they did, he felt the love of the Great Father pour through the opening in his wall of doubt, and he felt hope.

  Days later, Dulnear and Son took a walk together. It felt refreshing for the man to be outside and stretch his legs. As they strolled across Aesef’s fields of wheat and barley, they recalled their adventures together, and were even able to laugh at some of them. It was good medicine for his heart to see the boy smile and talk as if no time had passed since they were last together.

  When they approached the ravine where Dulnear slew Tromdel and Son had almost died, they stopped at the edge and looked out over the blackened, twisted trees. It was quiet, and a gentle breeze stirred up the scent of wet earth and wild grass. “I see that life is returning to the scorched wood,” the boy observed, breaking the silence.