No Name for the Free

by Devin Harbison

  He puts his hand on my shoulder afterwards, comforting me some more, and, then, I am quick enough to gather everything before the tent I stand in gets torn down with me inside of it. Once more, I am thankful, and this happens for something that I was previously bothered by. When I awoke in Em's tent last night, my body and clothes seemed to have been washed, considering I did not smell at all like fish, salt, or seaweed, so that works well this morning when I only have to push my hair back into place with one brush of my hand. And, beyond that, I do not have much else. At my feet, all that I find is three objects, the bed roll, my sword deep in its sheath, and the flower Em gave me the first time I awoke in her bed.

  Starting with the easiest first, I grab my sword and put the strap of the sheath over my shoulder and head so that it is held at an angle against my back as heavy as it is. I then look at the flower briefly, so flustered about what to do with it that I quickly turn my attention to the bed roll. Down on a knee, I figure the best way to move it is to roll the whole, long, piece of fabric up, and, when I do, I find strings underneath of it that allow me to tie the whole thing together. All that then leaves is the flower.

  I had looked over it so quickly before that, somehow, I did not notice the sack lying beside it, or at least what I believe is a sack at first. Scooting over to it in the dirt, while still on my knees, I see that the shape the sack takes is forced, rather than how it was laid, and that it is actually a waterskin. I'm not sure where exactly it came from, but I'm sure Abraham left it for me for a reason. Once I pick it up and see how filled it is, it is obvious enough that the reason was specifically so that I could have something to drink, as full as the pouch is, but, after I have lifted it to my face, twisted off the cap, and poured most of the contents into my mouth, I'm much happier slipping the stem of the flower inside with the hope that what water is left will keep it alive for some time.

  The waterskin has a strap too that makes it fit to hang off of my person, much like my sword, and have the top facing up so that the flower does not slip out, and, as soon as I'm sure that is the case, I step out of the tent far faster than I should. Immediately, an arm blocks my path at the same time I hear a voice directed at me, right next to me.

  "Took you long enough."

  My attention is then drawn to this man, whoever he is, when he takes the bed roll from under my arm and signals for some other men to rip the tent down behind me, and, when I look around after, I find that my tent is one of the few left standing. In the place of all the rest, the men stand spread out and around carts and simple open carriages, all tied up to horses I had yet to see around the camp. Boxes, undone tents, and so much else fills every one, and, faster than I can find anyone I recognize, one cart after the other starts heading out, up the grass in the direction opposite of the way we went to find the giant. Like heading up the coast instead of down, all of the men seem ready, besides myself, and I soon hear yelling, signaling help.

  "Boy!"

  From behind, Yemi notices me standing around, unsure if I was visibly showing my confusion, but his arrival is enough for my worry to end. He is quick to ask a question.

  "Where were you last night?"

  And, once more, I am confused. Yemi's tone shows no hint of drunkenness, nor did the way he swayed over to me, but my only assumption why he would ask that is because he got so drunk he blacked out when he got back to his tent, or maybe he has a problem with alcohol and forgetfulness. But, rather than answer his question in earnest. I brush it off and move to greater problems.

  "I was sleeping. Now, what should we be doing? Everyone else seems to have a job."

  Nodding, he has now at least heard my confusion, and that is enough for him to help.

  "Just follow me and keep your sword at the ready. Any man or creature would be a fool to attack a caravan so large, but you can never be too careful."

  With those words spoken, Yemi then signals for me to follow once another cart starts to pass us by. Though it rolls along, he puts his foot on a small platform after we reach the back of it, and, after he has positioned himself inside of the cart where there is room for him to stand, he reaches out his hand and helps me in, where I finally relax and just go with the motions that everyone else makes. No doubt, the rest of the men know what they are doing, and for me to attempt to help might just slow them down, as new as I am. So, while others walk along and carry what does not fit in the carts, Yemi and I stand taller than everyone else, almost as tall as the tree branches we pass under and the few we have to duck under after our cart has reached the forest and slowed to the pace that the rest of the caravan takes, meandering along.

  Rather than watch for oddities around us that might indicate anything dangerous, my mind focuses on the weight we have added to the cart with our bodies, among so many boxes, as a few men ahead pull on the reins of the two horses as they walk alongside the animals, rather than ride on top of or behind in the cart with us. My thoughts then shift from that, after I see many other men ahead doing the same as us, to thoughts of the beach and sea we move beside. Based on the map I had seen in Gorm's tent a few nights ago, I think we are heading north, and, for some reason, my first thought is that we are heading in the direction of the mountains I once called home. Though, I am provided little time to think about that when I hear Yemi to my side doing what he did the other night, using one of his swords to open up a crate.

  I already see one crate without a top, and assume that he has brought the wolves in this cart, and that the rest of the cart is filled with his belongings and those of the men he shares a tent with, so I do not worry that he is shoving a sharp blade into a box with live animals again. Instead, when he takes the top off of the crate he was fiddling with and takes a peek inside, I give him a kind reminder once I see the rest of the alcohol that must be his.

  "If you get drunk, do you think you'd be able to stand up in the back of this cart still, look out for any trouble, or even fight it properly if it came?"

  Without a word, Yemi lets out a sigh and puts the top back on the box, lest the bottles stay in his sight, and I alone move up the cart, slowly, to the box with the wolves. Standing over it, I look down to see what I think is five or six of them, hard to tell when they cuddle and blend so well, just along for the ride, and I also notice how Yemi has been taking care of them in such a short time. Beneath them, clean dirt and grass are spread out so that they do not have to lie against the harshness of the wood, and, as clean as it is, I can guess Yemi has cleaned out their crate already, if that is the best way to describe it. Scraps of meat and tall bowls of water sit against one side too, and are more than enough to keep them going. Yet, something about my hand, gripping the side of the crate, is enough for Yemi to step over to where I stand and lift my arm. His words explain his thoughts.

  "Fjord, what have you done with your glove?"

  The hand he then grabs is my left, and, in that moment, I cannot even remember which hand the glove I did have was on. But, I am quick to explain where it has gone, before he rips my arm off.

  "I lost it in the fight."

  He laughs, and questions such a simple explanation.

  "At what point, boy? How long were you on that beast without your glove? And how did it come free from your hand? Is your palm the size of a child?"

  His questions seem critical and concerned, but I am sure they are very little of either, especially the critical, as his laughs continue while I force a chuckle too just to avoid having to answer, since I guess he missed the part where I swung around the front of it, or was too busy trying to save his own skin. Thankfully, that topic requires no further discussion once he starts to provide a solution.

  "You never know when you may need it again, so here is what you will do."

  After those words leave his mouth, he grabs my arm once more and drags me to the back of the cart, where he finishes his thoughts.

  "I'll stay here. You move to the front of the line and look for another cart with a strange man. You will know it's him when yo
u see him. Short. Balding, but pure as white on the sides of his head. He has a funny eye too. Hard to miss. Go."

  Faster than my mind can put together an image of whatever the man looks like, Yemi finishes scratching his scalp to imitate where the man I must find is missing hair, and almost throws me out of the cart. Were I to have slowed down or fought back, his boot may have just met my ass, but my own boots kick up dirt instead as I try to catch my balance, and be on my way. The carts move well enough that I have to jog past them at a decent pace, even though they seem to have moved as slow as snails before, and, with time, the carts slow while it becomes harder for me to keep my pace.

  At an incline, the carts can only go so fast, and I have to put more pressure into my soles to make my way up the hill too, so much so that my legs do start to ache no matter how many hills I have climbed in my young life, all spent round real hills, the mountains at the sea I called home. This draws my focus away from the carts enough that, even though I still cannot see the front of our caravan, I worry I may have passed the man I am supposed to be looking for, or at least that is the case until I see someone that is a good foot or two shorter than the rest of the men struggling to keep several boxes from tumbling out the back of a cart, all on his own.

  I would not call the man a dwarf, just too short to do much good, and one of the boxes he tries to hold busts my lip as I come up right behind his cart and catch most of the weight with my face. Gentle words then follow.

  "Oh, please do tell me you are okay, friend."

  With the wood up against my mouth, it is hard to say much, but the sound and the sight of the crate moving back up into the cart should help, just as I hear his feet shuffling to get out of the way. A head then pops over the top of the same crate, with more kind words.

  "Well, thank you for the help, I guess. You are that new boy, are you not? Do you speak? It is odd for someone to stay so quiet after getting hit by so much weight."

  The head of the man, whose voice sounds so light and quiet compared to the bigger men around, matches the description Yemi gave me. Balding, white hair growing around his ears like an unkempt bush, and a piece of glass over one eye, what Yemi must think is funny, make up everything noticeable about this man beyond his height that I can no longer take in because of where he stands, and, rather than stay quiet and give the impression that I am mute or dumb enough that I cannot put together words, I answer his question simply.

  "I believe I can speak, but you tell me."

  My tone is edged with anger from the pain my lip still feels, but, as many of the others do around here, I take something that may sound rude and add a small laugh to indicate all is well, and that what I say is nothing but a jest. Noted, the eccentric man hops atop the same crate I have been standing behind as the road ahead starts to level out, and he makes further note of who I am as he speaks.

  "You are Fjord! Your actions are on everyone's minds since you've become a little famous around here so quick. How did my glove fare for you yesterday? Do tell."

  The shirt of this man, whose name I still have not been told, bears many buttons, more buttons than his torso can show before the shirt, covered in dirt and sweat, goes past his waist, and, as I think about making my way up into his cart and wave off his attempts to help me up kindly, I take a moment to observe the men around us. The commotion we are making is sure to have drawn their attention, and the comment he made about me being famous leaves me fearing their eyes on me, judging.

  But, instead, I am offered courteous gestures whenever I meet another man's eyes. Nods, raised swords, a simple smile, all tell that I am not being judged and that the feelings shared during the celebration last night were not just a result of all the alcohol being passed around. I could guess that I have earned not only admiration, but acceptance and respect that all the men seem to share, no matter how they look, or what they wear, or how god-awful some of them smell. So, as comforted as that makes me feel, I take the moment to sit and answer what my new friend asks.

  "It helped me make sure no one else died, at least."

  I take it that this man is responsible for making the gloves, as unique as they are, and I finally get a name when another question comes.

  "Good! Forgive me for not saying so earlier, but my name is Newt. Where is your glove now?"

  Because the ground has leveled out as I said before, I finally put my foot onto the step at the back of the cart, and then pull myself inside to avoid any further issues and to let my legs rest briefly, only to put my hands out in front of me, on the crate he sits upon, as I speak.

  "Lost at sea, probably. It got caught on the beast, and I had no choice but to let go of it, if I didn't want it to throw me with the rope or floss its teeth with that and my bones."

  Some worry fills Newt's eyes and cheeks, or maybe he is just confused, but another of his questions follows soon after.

  "Did it malfunction when it got caught? Or was the fault your own?"

  Thinking about how exactly it happened again, I give him the best answer I can.

  "My own, but I could blame it on the giant's hard flesh too, I guess."

  Smiling now since he seems happy that the glove at least worked how it was supposed to, he offers a few more words as he comes off of the top of the crate, and puts his fingers under the lid.

  "Well, my friend. We must get you another, then."

  With the way he pries on the lid with just his fingers, I fear he is going to rip his dirty nails from the flesh they sit under and on, but I guess that is somewhat better than fearing a drunk Yemi slicing up a poor, helpless animal. And, when he does get it open, he holds the lid in both hands and smiles in a manner that says 'take your pick'. Most of the gloves look similar, if not the exact same, but I still settle on one where the brown leather looks finer than the rest and the box attached to it is far larger than my last one. I assume that means the rope it carries is longer than the one I had before, yet I focus more on the fit of the glove than that as I slip it onto my left hand and hold it before my face. Happy with the way it looks, I nod, and Newt takes that as a sign to put the top back onto the wooden box.

  And, just as I get curious once more about how the internal mechanisms of the grapple work, ready to ask the man that I'm certain knows more about them than anyone else, the horses that pull this cart stop suddenly and start again, much faster than before, jerking both of us off of our feet. Newt falls backwards, further into the cart, and I fall backwards too, out of the cart and few feet down into the dirt where I hit my head so hard all I can put together is sounds for a few minutes. Far more than just the horses of Newt's cart seem upset, and it sounds as if several sets of hooves and the wheels of a couple of carts pass over me before the blurriness fades from my eyes and a pair of hands lift me off of the ground between shouts, curses, and the sound of swords coming free from leather.

  Just feeling lucky that my skull was not crushed by a hoof or my arm broken by the weight of all the stuff we carry in our carts, I have no time to gather myself or to pull my sword free like the other men around me do, so, when I see the first of the creatures fly past me, I watch in silence, fearing for my life, as an axe bigger than my chest splits the beast in two, and covers whoever holds it and I in blue blood. Despite his size, it is the sound of the man's voice as he commands us all that makes me realize who has already saved my life twice in just a few, short moments.

  "STAND AND FIGHT! Do not try to calm the horses!"

  Gorm cuts another of the creatures into separate pieces as he screams, and many of the other men around do too, giving me enough time to pull my sword free, but, because I do not bear the strength that he does, my oversized blade moves through the air slower than is needed to keep me unharmed, leaving hot blood on my cheek as I manage to only cut one of the wings clean off of one of the beasts that now swarm us. Fearing how many more there are and the plucking of my eyes, I lift my sword high enough to cover my face, use my right hand to hold the blade, and bash at any that flies by. One I catch
at the neck, making short work of it. Another I hit in the chest, hearing the snapping of small bones as it falls to the ground before me and gets caught under my boot, and, soon enough, all the men go quiet when the bushes and trees around us are no longer filled with shadows and squawks.

  Still so confused by what has happened, I spend the next few moments ignoring the other men around me who are checking on each other, and check on the remains of the creatures at our feet instead. Many of them are in pieces and split open in ways that leave the guts and other innards untucked, so it is difficult to get a grasp on how they look, until I come across the one I cut the wing off of before. Still gasping for air, the creature lays on its side where I imagine it fell after it lost a wing. Why it has not moved after, I do not know, but I can assume it is because the beast is close to death, traumatized, or even just unbalanced by losing half of what keeps it upright.

  A strange mix of feathers and scales, the animal seems almost like a lizard with bird wings, and most of its body is the same color of the blood that spills and pools around it, mixed with tinges of green like rot or grass stains. All of them, including the one I stand over, are about the same size, where their wings stick out a foot or two from their bodies, so I can imagine that it takes less than a handful of these beasts to overwhelm one man, when hundreds seem to have just flown by. That assumption is made without having been able to see what could have been above the treeline, but, thankfully, their intention did not appear to be any attempts to harm us.

  So, as I take my blade and put the one beneath me out of its misery, I find some comfort in hoping that the creatures just happened to be passing by, when they crossed our paths. Maybe they would not even have touched us had we just stayed low and waited, but I don't think it would be safe to run with that assumption when the other men looked as confused by the situation as I. Some sort of fate destined that two types of beasts cross paths as we have with them, and, not knowing either group's intention, death was sure to happen. Thankfully, all of the losses are their own, and no one but myself seems hurt, which Gorm is kind enough to remind me of.