by Angus Wells
“I suspect,” he said gently, “that we shall all benefit from sleep. Do you stand guard, that I may sleep easy?”
“I will.” said Davyd, and took up a musket.
Arcole said, “Well done,” and went to bathe.
The river ran chilly and the sand he used to scrub his body was abrasive, but to be once more clean was pure joy, augmented by victory. Although that, he reminded himself as he ground sand into his hair, was not yet full-won. He was confident no Militiamen would come after them, but the demons were a different prospect—he had no idea whether the creatures would leave them go or mount a pursuit. He knew—or at least guessed—they came out of the wilderness: therefore, the wilderness might well hold more. Perhaps they fled one band only to reach another, and the wilderness itself might well prove hostile.
Nor did the territory claimed by Evander offer refuge. Not all the homesteaders had come in to Grostheim, and those still occupying their holdings—were they not slain by the demons—would hardly welcome three branded exiles. The map would guide them, show them where the holdings lay so that they might go cautious and unseen, but true liberty must inevitably lie in the very jaws of danger—in the wilderness itself.
No, he told himself, we have not won yet. One victory, perhaps—to escape Grostheim—but surely more battles ahead. Perhaps with demons, perhaps with the wild creatures of the forests, perhaps with the elements themselves. And then they must make some kind of life in the wilderness: survival would be no easy thing.
But, he told himself as the enormity of their venture loomed huge in his mind, threatening to douse his optimism, we did escape. We fought off demons, and we have weapons, snares Flysse knows how to use; and Davyd’s dreams. His spirits rose again as he thought of that. Davyd’s dreaming had shown them the time was come, had warned of the attack; and Davyd had spoken of dreams that suggested the wilderness could be a friendly place. So they must rely on that strange ability to ward them and guide them, and go on. After all, they had no other way to go save onward.
Cheered, Arcole sank his discarded clothing in the shallows and dressed, then returned to the beach.
He sent Davyd off to bathe and settled himself on the sun-warmed sand. Flysse came to sit beside him.
“There’s danger still, no?” she asked quietly.
He took her hand and said, “We knew that when we planned this venture. That was why I had intended to leave you behind. Save,” he added quickly as he saw her stiffen, the pain that flashed in her blue eyes, “I wonder if I truly could have done that. And now? Whatever we face ahead, I am glad I face it with you.”
Flysse smiled and bent to kiss him. He put his arms around her and drew her down: it had been so long since they lay together. Their caresses grew more ardent, and then Flysse pulled back.
“Remember Davyd,” she said reluctantly. “He’ll return soon, and he was embarrassed enough when I stood in my underthings.”
“I thought you looked charming,” Arcole murmured. And sighed: “But, yes, I’d not upset him.”
Flysse stroked his hair. “Perhaps tonight,” she whispered. “Surely soon; but now, do you sleep?”
Arcole offered no argument, but stretched out, closing his eyes as he murmured, “Tell Davyd he’s on watch, eh? He’ll like that.”
Flysse nodded and continued to gently stroke his hair as his breathing slowed and became sonorous. The furrows that had etched his brow faded as he relaxed, and his lips parted in a slow smile. She thought how much she loved this man, and put aside contemplation of the perils ahead. Whatever they might be, she and Arcole, and Davyd, would be together. She refused to believe they could fail now.
“He sleeps?” Davyd came up softly, his stolen boots silent on the sand. When Flysse nodded, he stooped to take a cord and pull back his hair. He said, “I’ll take the watch.”
“He asked you do that,” Flysse said.
She smiled as Davyd nodded gravely, thinking that he grew apace; that with his sword and pistol, his knife and his musket, he looked like some youthful frontiersman. Then she thought of his dreams and wondered if he, more than any of them, had a truer inkling of what lay ahead. Almost, she asked him, but decided not. He was intent on his duty now, and the memory of his face when he had spoken of his dreams lingered. She had sooner not remind him of those nightmares.
Davyd cradled his musket and strode to the farther end of the beach. He hoped no demons came paddling up the river: he knew how to load the gun—could repair it, given tools—but he had never in his life fired a musket. It was tempting to try it out, but that would wake Arcole and frighten Flysse—and perhaps give warning of their presence—so he only raised the weapon to his shoulder and sighted down the barrel, carefully cocking and lowering the hammer. Then he stopped, angry with himself: he was behaving like a child, as if the musket were a toy, but he was no longer a child and the musket a real and dangerous weapon. He blushed and glanced back to where Flysse lay with Arcole, hoping she had not witnessed his infantile game.
Then blushed anew as memory of her in her underthings kindled. She was Arcole’s wife, and he should not entertain such thoughts as lurked on the heels of the memory. Arcole was his friend—his savior—and Flysse was wed: decent folk did not think of their friend’s wives in such a fashion. He scowled and climbed the bank, high enough he might peer out across the grasslands.
It was, to him, a strange sight; for an instant almost as disturbing as the open sea had been. He was not accustomed to open places, and this spread wide and clear as any ocean. He thought the grass like water, the stands of timber like islands. The horizon shimmered in the rising heat—summer, he thought, could not be far off. Evander seemed a lifetime distant, even Grostheim now, for they could never return. He wondered if the city stood, or if the demons had prevailed. If so, then ’sieur Gahame was surely dead, Laurens and Godfry with him. He could not decide if he was sorry. He thought that at least no Inquisitor would ever find him here, and turned his eyes to the west.
The forest edge was no more than a dark blur, shifting like distant smoke in the haze. He had no idea how long it should take them to reach that … refuge? He was not sure. There was that element in his dreams that had suggested safety, but also threat. He closed his eyes and for a moment endeavored to conjure up the horror of his recent dreams. It was entirely gone, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps tonight—or whenever he slept—he would dream again and prove his usefulness. He had, after all, warned of the demons’ attack, and he was the one who had secured the clothes they wore and the weapons they carried. Without his skills Arcole would still lie caged. In fact, he decided, they owed him their lives: pride rose. Then guilt. Had Arcole not befriended him, he would be in Grostheim now. Perhaps his skull would decorate some demon’s trophy pole; and did he live, it should be as an indentured exile, all his life. No, whatever he had done for Arcole, Arcole had done as much and more for him. These were not things for tallies, such columns of loss and profit as ’sieur Gahame totted, but matters of comrade ship, of shared purpose. It was as if they were a family—he and Flysse and Arcole. He only wished he could forget how Flysse had looked.
Arcole woke around noon. Flysse lay asleep beside him and Davyd prowled the beach like some soldier eager for battle. He yawned and rose, his aches somewhat abated now, and went to the river, splashing his face.
“What now?” Davyd asked.
“We’d best be gone.” Arcole looked east, down the Restitution. “All well, there’ll be no pursuit. But even so …”
Davyd nodded. “How far to the forest?”
“Some days, at least.” Arcole flexed his hands. They were not soft, but neither was he accustomed to rowing a dinghy for so long. “Can you handle an oar?”
“I don’t know,” Davyd answered. “I’ve never tried.”
“There’s a skill to it.” Arcole looked at his palms and winced. Then chuckled. “Something else I must teach you, eh?”
“Now?” Davyd asked.
“Perha
ps not yet.” Arcole shook his head, and saw disappointment cloud the young face, prompting him to add, “You’ve had no sleep as yet. God, you must be exhausted.”
“I can stay awake,” Davyd promised.
“And you would, I’ve no doubt.” Arcole set a hand on his shoulder. “But I’d sooner you slept. Do you dream, you can warn us or guide us to safety. That’s your duty for now, eh?”
Davyd accepted and they gathered up their gear, stowing it in the dinghy. They filled the canteens and Arcole was about to launch the boat, but Flysse bade him wait, tugging her shirt loose. The tails were long, and she cut strips that she bound about his hands.
“Thank you.” He bowed elegantly, and bussed her cheek. “Now, westward ho, eh?”
They pushed the little craft into the river and took their places—Arcole at the oars, Davyd at the prow, Flysse in the stern. The tide had turned and they were not yet so far from Deliverance Bay that they escaped its influence: Arcole must work hard to keep them headed upstream. Sleep had restored him somewhat, but soon enough he felt his back and shoulders protest anew at the unfamiliar effort, and must endeavor to ignore the ache that grew and spread until it seemed all his body throbbed. He gritted his teeth and continued rowing.
Davyd closed his eyes—he did, indeed, feel weary—but he was far too excited to sleep. What if demons lay ahead? Arcole faced backward and would not see them, and Flysse might miss them: Davyd felt he had a duty to remain awake, watchful. He settled his musket across his knees and adjusted the unfamiliar length of the smallsword across the bench, scanning the river ahead.
The Restitution remained empty of other traffic, though as they moved steadily westward they saw indications of landward habitation. The signs were not encouraging. There was a burned-out building close to the water: perhaps once a stopping place for barges, it was now only a collection of charred timber. Later, where the banks flattened, they saw a farm in the distance—like the first structure, now razed. Farm animals watched them go by—cattle and pigs, chickens, some horses. Milchcows lowed mournfully, protesting their swollen udders.
“I could milk those,” Flysse said.
“And I could shoot one,” Arcole returned. “Or a hog. Perhaps tonight.”
“Why not now?” Flysse asked.
“I’d sooner put more distance between us and Grostheim,” he replied. “And find some sheltered spot to spend the night.”
“What if there are no animals?”
“I’ve the map, remember.” Arcole grinned. “The farms are marked and we can scout them, halt each night near a holding and hunt our dinner.”
Davyd said nothing, but the thought of roasted meat set his stomach to grumbling. He wished he had been able to steal food of some kind. Escape, he decided, would be far more flavorsome on a full belly.
As the sun approached the faraway forests, the Restitution swept in a leisurely bend to the north and woodland came down to the river on the flanks of a little knoll. Grass spread wide around the timbered hillock, and they could see cattle grazing. Arcole checked the map and saw a farm marked: the Danby holding, destroyed by demons. He elected to make camp for the night. He was, anyway, not sure he could row any longer.
They beached the dinghy and warily scouted their surroundings. The wood was small, and concealed—as best they could tell, none being expert in these matters—anything hostile. There was ample dry wood for a fire, and the sky held no threat of rain. Arcole unwrapped his hands. The palms were tender, but not so bad he could not shoot. He took a musket, announcing his intention of finding them beef for their dinner.
“It should not be difficult,” he said. “Do you wait here?”
“The both of us?” Flysse asked.
“Yes,” Arcole replied. “I’ll not be long.”
Flysse smiled mischievously and asked, “And when you’ve shot our dinner, what then?”
“Why,” he said, “we eat it, of course.”
“Roasted whole?” she asked with deliberate innocence. “Or shall you cut us tender steaks?”
Arcole frowned, forced to realize his mistake.
Flysse laughed and said, “You’ve no idea how to butcher meat, eh?” And when he shook his head: “I’ve seen it done. I’ll show you how.”
“What about me?” asked Davyd. He felt none too happy at the prospect of being left alone.
“Best you guard our camp,” Arcole said. “Do you see anything, fire a shot and we’ll return. We’ll not be far away.”
Davyd nodded dubiously. Arcole said, “I doubt I shall need more than one shot to kill a cow, so—do we find anything amiss, you’ll hear two shots, fired close.”
Davyd ducked his head again. Flysse took a canteen and went with Arcole.
“Is it such thirsty work?” Arcole asked.
“No.” Flysse shook her head. “But you’ll need this. Wait and see.”
They walked out onto the grass. Dusk was not far off, and the light of the descending sun shone clear and brilliant over the plain. Flights of birds winged overhead, homeward bound, and crickets buzzed loud in the warm air. Shadowy in the distance, Arcole thought he made out the shape of the destroyed farm. He supposed that if demons lingered, they would make fires—if demons had need of fires—but he could see no smoke. He hoped there were none; elected to take the risk: fresh meat would be a boon.
The cattle stood grazing or chewing the cud, watching the approaching couple with curious, placid eyes. They showed no sign of fear and, almost, Arcole felt guilty as he raised his musket and sighted on a piebald cow.
She grunted as the shot struck, and fell down on her forelegs. It seemed she bowed to inescapable fate. Then she toppled onto her side, kicked awhile, and lay still.
Arcole motioned Flysse down as he reloaded the musket, waiting. Save for the nervous lowing of the other cattle, he heard nothing, nor did anything move on the plain, save for a flock of small, startled birds that burst into flight at the detonation. In a while he rose and went forward.
“Wait,” Flysse said. “Best take off your shirt.”
Arcole frowned but did as he was bade.
Flysse smiled and said, “You’ve never seen your dinner prepared.” And when he shook his head, “It’s bloody work.”
“I’d sooner eat in a civilized dining room,” Arcole sighed, then drew his knife. “Tell me what to do, eh?”
He set to work, following her instructions even as he frowned his distaste of the bloody task. His arms were soon painted with red, splashes decorating his chest, but inexpert though his carving was, in time long steaks lay on the grass, and a haunch.
Flysse uncorked the canteen that he might sluice off the gore. Arcole studied the remains of the cow, thinking that enough was left to feed them for a week. “Is that all we take?” he asked.
“Save we stay here to smoke it,” she advised him. “We’ve easily enough for a day or two, and more would only spoil. Are there loose herds all along the way, we can find more.”
He bowed to her superior wisdom, aware that she knew far more about such matters than he. Were Flysse not there, he would have simply hacked at the carcass, taking whatever he could cut. He could hunt—handle a musket—but in this area Flysse was the expert. We make a fine couple, he thought, and told her so.
“We’ve all our different skills, I think.” She handed him his shirt. “Now, how do we carry this meat back without we get all bloody?”
The steaks they skewered on the musket’s ramrod; Arcole shouldered the leg, and they returned to the beach.
Davyd had gathered wood, piling it where the bulk of the dinghy would conceal the glow from the river. “I thought it better to wait until dark before lighting it,” he said. “So the smoke won’t show.”
“Well done.” Arcole applauded. “You learn fast.”
Davyd grinned, and they settled in companionable silence to await nightfall.
It seemed wise to set a watch, and in light of his hard work that day, Flysse and Davyd insisted Arcole take the first t
urn, that he might then sleep the remainder of the night. He offered little argument, and it was agreed Flysse take the middle watch and Davyd the last. Unspoken went the thought that Davyd might dream of what lay ahead.
It was a wide and starry night, as if the heavens celebrated their first day of freedom, and Arcole sat watching the river slide silvery and empty by. He heard the calling of owls in the little wood, and bats swooped about his head. His belly was full, and for all he knew they faced hardship in the days to come, he felt content. Were he only able to lie with Flysse, he thought he should be entirely happy.
He turned as he heard a muffled cry, seeing Davyd twist about on his canvas bed, throwing up an arm as if in defense. Almost, he went to the lad, but then held back. Did Davyd dream of their future, it should be better to leave him lie, better they have warning. He cradled his musket and sought to block out the faint sounds.
When Flysse came to relieve him, she said, “Davyd dreams.”
He said, “I know,” and pulled her down beside him. “As do I, save mine are all of you.”
She said, “Arcole …” and then lost her ability to speak under the pressure of his lips. It was hard—very hard—to resist, but she was a modest woman, and Davyd lay nearby—might wake and see them. So she took her hands from his neck and set them against his chest and pushed him back.
“Not here,” she gasped. “Not where Davyd …”
Arcole sighed and lowered his head in acceptance. “God, Flysse, but this is not easy.” His voice was throaty with desire.
“No,” she murmured. “I know; nor for me. But …”
“But I understand,” he whispered, and touched his mouth to her cheek. Then took her hand and grinned. “It shall spur me on. I shall row as no man has ever rowed before, that we reach the forests and …” He was not quite sure what should happen then. He extemporized: “I shall build us a cabin, and Davyd another—a decent distance off!—and we shall have privacy to …”
