by John Marco
“My lady, I have been taking care of myself since I was a boy. You don’t have to worry about me, or where I’m going.”
“But the child . . . she’s so young.”
Lorn laughed, though he wasn’t amused. “Why is it that every woman thinks every man incapable of caring for a child? I can look after my brother’s daughter,” he said, continuing the pretext he had perpetuated since meeting Hella. “But if you must know, we travel west from here, to Koth.”
“Koth?” The woman grew alarmed. “There’s nothing in Koth for anyone, especially a child. I know how to care for children. I raised two girls myself.” Her alarm became a thin grayness. “They’re gone now.” Looking at Lorn hopefully she added, “I can take care of this child if you’ll let me. Why should a man be burdened with an infant in such bad times? Go and make your way to Koth if you must. And when you return the child will be here, safe and waiting for you.”
Lorn pitied the woman. Though her offer was generous, it was impossible. He had never thought of Poppy as a burden, not even when carrying her through the Bleak Territories. She was the only thing precious to him now, and the only link he had to his dead Rinka.
“You are kind,” he told Hella, “but the girl is family. Her father—my brother—is in Koth,” he lied. “He wants to see his daughter again.”
The argument was futile; Hella knew she couldn’t win. She drifted toward the open door. “I understand,” she said. “It was nice having her here. Thank you for bringing her.”
Hella left before Lorn could reply, and he found that he was too stunned and too tired to reply after all. As the woman closed the door, Lorn looked over at his daughter, asleep in the wooden cradle. Hella had given her a blanket. It wasn’t new but it was carefully laid over the infant’s shoulders, the way it had been laid over Bella’s own daughters, no doubt. For a moment, he wondered at the wisdom of bringing Poppy to Koth. His plan was dangerous, and risky for the child. But he had come so far and lost so much already. He couldn’t stay in Andola, no matter how safe they felt. Koth was the key. Koth was the capital. Koth was the diamond Jazana Carr wanted for her crown.
“I am King of Norvor,” he whispered. “I must press on.”
What else was he if not king? Besides his daughter, his kingship was the only thing keeping him alive.
Too tired to go to his bed, Lorn leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Sleep came quickly, and with it came a dream of a vast library on a hill, and a last chance at victory.
Just as he’d promised Hella, Lorn left Andola the next day with Poppy, leaving behind the comfortable inn and heading west toward Koth on the horse he had purchased with the last of his money. They had food and milk for the trip and that was good, but Lorn cursed himself for not taking more gold and silver with him, though he admitted to himself that even in Carlion he’d had very little gold. It had all been spent months and years earlier, fending off a woman whose coffers knew no limits. As he cantered along the road, it occurred to him that he was comfortable in his poverty; he had simply gotten used to it. Then he remembered something his wife Rinka had said to them in one of those moments of despair.
No man is poor who has family.
That was all Lorn had now, just his daughter, bouncing merrily in a leather backpack sort of thing Hella had given him for the ride. When he had first heard his wife’s platitude, Lorn had laughed. His amusement had hurt Rinka. He remembered her wounded face now and sighed. Over his shoulder he spoke to his daughter.
“It is a shame you never saw her, Poppy. She was beautiful, just like you’ll be when you grow up. Just like the sun and the stars.”
There were no stars yet, though the sun was starting to sink beyond the horizon. Because they had rested frequently during the day, Lorn decided to go on a bit further before camping for the night. They were only a day or so from Koth now, but they had passed very few travelers on the road, and that concerned him. The war between the Liirian factions had slowed commerce to a crawl, but he had hoped to see at least one friendly face to offer help should they need it. Still, Lorn kept on, heartened by the fact that their long trek was nearing an end, and by the time another hour had passed the sun was almost completely gone behind the tree line. It was then that he saw the stranger.
It was just a glimpse, but it was enough to unnerve him. Being king of such a fragile throne had made Lorn paranoid, and he was always in the habit of looking behind him from time to time, tossing a casual glance over his shoulder to make certain no one was following. Because they were on a particularly straight parcel of road, he gave in to his habit and peered down the way they had come. To his great surprise he saw a figure on a horse outlined in the waning light. He wore a hat, a cape, and Lorn couldn’t tell what else. Not wanting to look suspicious, he turned his attention back to the road, but only for a moment. When he looked back again the figure was gone. Lorn stared, puzzling over its disappearance. It wasn’t customary to follow without introducing oneself, especially on a road so empty. But night was falling quickly and Lorn thought it might just have been the darkness obscuring the man.
“Hello? Rider, come ahead. Show yourself.”
There was no answer. When Lorn stopped his horse there was no sound, either. Suddenly it seemed very dark.
“Do not think I am afraid of you,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing. He was unused to the tactics of highwaymen. Did they follow and watch before they robbed? Deciding they should go on before bedding down, Lorn ordered his horse forward again and rode deeper into the darkness, carefully trotting along the road by the light of a growing moon. They didn’t have to go far, Lorn told himself. Just far enough to make him feel comfortable again. Finally, when it grew too dark to continue, Lorn stopped his horse. He listened intently before dismounting, then, satisfied they were safe, got down and spotted a place for them to camp. Thick trees and bushes lined the side of the road. It took time for Lorn’s eyes to adjust and locate anything like a clearing. Lorn led his horse off the side of the road into the only space he could find, barely more than a patch of grass. He tied his mount to one of the trees. Then, eager for a fire, he slung Poppy from his back and set her down away from the horse. The girl squirmed in her leather harness, her back against a tree, kicking to get free.
“Easy,” said Lorn. “I’ll have you out of there as soon as I get a fire going.”
At once he set to making the fire, taking all he needed from his saddle packs. His little spade came first. Scraping its sharp edge along the ground, he dug a small hole and cleared it away. He then surrounded the hole with rocks to protect against flying sparks, and when he’d done that he searched for kindling. All these things he had done dozens of times since leaving Carlion and he was careful about it now, following his method with precision. It took him longer in the dark, but soon he had the kindling arranged, mostly twigs and dried leaves, and when that was set he gathered a pile of bigger sticks to keep the flames alive. Dry sticks were best of course, but locating these in the dark was a challenge so he took what he could find. All the while Poppy remained in her restrictive sack, occasionally pitching over to crawl closer to him. Somehow, she knew instinctively where her father was, and that pleased Lorn immensely. Poppy seemed to have senses beyond his own. Lorn picked her up and straightened her against the tree once again.
“I know you’re hungry,” he told her. “So am I. Soon we’ll have a warm fire and we’ll eat.”
The spark for the fire came from the flint he’d had the foresight to pack for himself, and soon he had a fragile flame brewing. He nurtured it, blowing on it gently, allowing it to spread through the twigs and dried leaves. It was work that needed patience, a virtue the king had never possessed in abundance. Driven by hunger, he blew too hard and extinguished the flames.
“Damn it!”
His voice carried with amazing clarity through the forest. He lifted his head, cursing his stupidity. Thankfully, only the normal sounds of the forest replied to his shout. He set to work again, more care
fully this time, and in a few minutes had a satisfactory fire. Any highwayman that wanted to find him could simply look for their light, so he kept it contained to the small hole he had dug.
Next came food. Hella the innkeeper had kindly given them milk, and he began by feeding Poppy from a waterskin filled with the stuff. The infant was grateful for the food, but even more grateful to be free of her constrictive harness. As Lorn leaned against a tree near the fire, Poppy nestled comfortably in his arms, sucking from the waterskin with an expression of pure contentment. Lorn’s empty stomach rumbled at the thought of food. He was patient with his daughter, though, and took his time feeding her.
Night fell quietly. The crackling of the fire put them both at ease. Lorn soon forgot about the caped figure and turned his thoughts toward Koth. He was eager to see the city, though he knew it was ruined now.
“A shame,” he whispered.
The mad King Akeela had made Koth envied and feared, stretching its influence across boundaries and endless miles. While Norvor wallowed in civil war, Liiria and its capital had grown strong and fat. But that, too, had ended and it saddened Lorn. Why did the world have to fall into chaos, he wondered? Why did the old order change?
“Because men are ambitious,” he told himself. He chuckled darkly. “Women, too.”
Poppy continued drinking, ignoring her father. Lorn looked at her and smiled. He had been profoundly lonely since leaving Carlion, unable to speak to anyone for fear of divulging his identity. He missed Uralak and the others back home, and knowing they were dead—and that he had abandoned them—haunted him.
“Indeed I am King Lorn the Wicked,” he said. “But my cause is just.”
When his daughter had finished her meal she remained nestled in his lap. For some reason, Lorn had lost his own appetite and didn’t bother disturbing her. Instead he let her sleep and occupied himself by staring into the fire. Occasionally he moved to throw another stick or strip of bark into the flames, but mostly he was still, lost in his own lonely musings. Exhausted, he soon fell into a fitful sleep against the tree.
As always, Lorn dreamed while he slept. They were troubling, guilt-ridden dreams, so realistic he could not distinguish them from the waking world. Nor could he hear the footfalls of those approaching his camp. He did not open his eyes until the blade was at his throat.
His eyes snapped open, staring straight into a wild face. A mouth of broken teeth smiled at him menacingly. The tip of a sword poked at his windpipe. Startled, he moved back and bumped his head into the forgotten tree. Thankfully, Poppy was still in his lap.
“Wake up now,” said the man with the sword. “Be a good fellow and no one gets hurt. Especially not the little one, hmm?”
“What is this?” growled Lorn. He held Poppy close, but he couldn’t move to his feet. There were two of them; he saw the other one now by his horse, rummaging through his saddlebags. “God-cursed brigands!”
The man with the sword pushed lightly on the pommel, pushing the point a little harder against Lorn’s throat. Even at that length Lorn could smell the stink on him. Both men were bearded and covered in filth, their clothes ragged. “Be nice to us,” warned the sword-bearer, “or be a dead man.”
Tempted to spit, Lorn said, “You’d kill the child too, then. Is that what you are? Baby killers?”
The insult stung the man. “We’re not murderers unless you make us murderers. So keep your mouth shut.”
“If you rob me I’ll be dead just the same,” said Lorn. He knew he needed time, enough to think of a plan. “If it’s food you want I’ve got some to share. But if you’re looking for gold I’m as poor as any man.”
“You’ve got good boots and a good coat. That’s enough to be starting with.” The sword slackened a bit as the man inspected Lorn. He was young, despite his broken teeth, but he wasn’t the man Lorn had seen earlier. As the other thief picked through the saddlebags, an awful thought seized Lorn. He had only one lump of gold in the world now—his ring of kingship. In his saddlebags.
The man with the sword looked over his shoulder. Calling to his companion, he asked, “Well?”
Lorn slipped his hand to his belt. He felt the round hilt of his dagger and pulled it free.
“Nothing,” replied the other. “Just food.”
“Take it.” The first man looked back at Lorn. “You’d better have something more than meat, old man . . .”
“You’re Norvan,” said Lorn. “I can tell—your speech. Why are you in Liiria?”
“What’s in Norvor to keep us, eh?” The man glared at Lorn. “And why so many questions? If you don’t shut that mouth of yours that little brat will be without a grandfather.”
“Grandfather? I’m her father, you dolt!”
“Stay down!” hissed the brigand. His rapid breathing told Lorn he was afraid. A dangerous man to be sure, but vulnerable. He was losing time, though, and needed the blade away from his throat. If they found the ring . . .
“Hey now, what’s this?”
The other thief stepped away from the horse, toward his friend by the fire. He held an object up to the dancing light.
“What?” barked the first man, still not lowering his sword.
“It’s a ring.” The older thief stepped closer, his eyes leaping with joy. “With jewels!”
Finally, the first man lowered his sword. “Let me see that.” He took two steps away from Lorn, who quickly placed Poppy on the ground beside him. Blood and anger surged through his veins, waiting to propel him forward.
Not yet, he told himself. Wait . . .
The man with the sword took the ring from his companion and studied it. “Looks valuable,” he mused. His eyes darted toward Lorn. “Where’d you get this?”
“It’s a family thing,” said Lorn. His crest was clearly imprinted on the precious metal.
The first man studied the ring some more. “This a ruby?”
His companion pointed at the bauble. “Nolas, that’s the House of Lorn. This is a royal ring.” He looked at Lorn suspiciously. “You steal this off a royal?”
Lorn nodded. “Yes,” he whispered. “Right before I slit his throat.”
He sprang like a lion out of the bush, barreling forward with his outstretched dagger. The man with the sword—Nolas—leaped back. Lorn screamed, falling upon him and knocking his sword aside, sending it tumbling from his grasp. So too went the ring, spinning through the darkness. The second man was drawing his sword. Lorn kicked at Nolas, catching him in the groin, then turned to the new swordsman . . .
. . . and saw to his shock another figure leaping through the shadows. A dark cape billowed, a silver blade flashed in the firelight. Lorn dropped back, startled. The figure careened against Nolas’ comrade, blasting him into the trees. Lorn glanced around in confusion. Already Nolas was back on his feet. Worse, he had his sword again. Doubled over, his face curdled in pain.
“Bastard! Now you die!”
Had he forgotten Poppy? Lorn didn’t know. In the swimming darkness all was chaos. Nolas’ sword swept forward, forcing Lorn back. The dagger in his hand seemed woefully small. Quickly he retreated, drawing the brigand toward him, away from the baby. He could barely see her in the trees, crawling around blindly. Behind him rang clashing metal.
“Come and get me!” Lorn taunted.
“I know you!” roared Nolas. “I know you!”
Lorn became as a man possessed. He forgot the men behind him, forgot the advantage of his own foe. He flew at Nolas, carving the air with his dagger, hissing and kicking as he pressed the thief toward the trees. The shocked Nolas raised a clumsy defense, unable to match the older man’s speed. Lorn spun into him, twirling and smashing a backhand into his face. The blow took Nolas off his feet. Lorn pounced, tearing the sword from the brigand’s hand and tossing it aside. With all his weight he pressed down on Nolas. This time, it was his blade at a throat.
“You know who I am?” he seethed. With his free hand he pinched the man’s cheeks like a vice. “Well? Answer me!�
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Instead, Nolas screamed for help. But no help came. Lorn realized suddenly that no noise was behind him, either. That melee was over. Over his shoulder he could see the man with the cape standing unhappily over his fallen foe. Nolas’ comrade lay dead in the clearing. The caped man turned toward Lorn.
“Let him up,” he ordered.
Lorn was stunned. “What?”
“They’re thieves, not murderers. One’s dead already. You don’t have to kill that one, too.”
But of course Lorn knew he had to kill the man. Left alive, he was dangerous. To the great, quaking shock of Nolas, Lorn pushed the long blade of his dagger through the highwayman’s throat. The scream that followed was more like a gurgle. Lorn covered Nolas’ mouth to stifle it.
“Fate above!” the stranger cried. A disgusted look crossed his face. “Why?”
Lorn didn’t answer. He waited for Nolas to die, which took longer than expected, wiping his bloody dagger on the grass. Then he rose and put his dagger back in his belt, heading for Poppy. As he did he searched the ground for his ring. To his astonishment he saw it near the fire, its ruby twinkling in the orange light. The stranger in the cape didn’t move. Lorn stooped for his ring, put it in his pocket without a word, then went and lifted Poppy off the grass. When he realized she was unhurt, a great relief washed over him. Finally, Lorn answered the stranger’s query.
“Why? Because they meant to kill me, that’s why. Because they attacked me and my daughter. What kind of fool would ask such a question?”
“A fool that saved your life,” replied the man. Now that he was closer, Lorn could see him clearly. His cape had military trim to it, old, threadbare, and definitely Liirian. With his feathered hat knocked aside, Lorn got a long look at his clean-shaven face. Despite his weathered skin, he had a youthful quality. He was older than Nolas but not by much, with fair hair and a sharp, jutting chin. Not bothering to pick up his hat, he stood staring at Lorn.
