To smile in the face of great tribulation—that was something to admire.
A short distance behind them he spotted the Kuree, hunched like a troll, peering through the shadows of the tents. Watching him. He pretended not to notice, cleared his throat, and moved on. Alviss always seemed to be intently watching, and he caught himself wondering if anything escaped the Kuree’s notice. The northerner unnerved him, though not half so much as the Zuti.
They would disperse shortly, back to their own camp. Every few days, though, they would come here, like this, behind the mess tents. If he could, he would slip them their extras and scamper back to his morning routines. Most days they went without, when he couldn’t get away or there were too many lurking eyes, but every bit helped.
He knew the dangers. They haunted his dreams, even kept him up at night. There he was, stripped to his skivvies in the winter chill, pasty body lathered in the licks of a cat’s ninetails. He would surely break, and he did every night he had the dream. Voren would say his prayers and rock himself back to sleep, and if he was lucky, the dream would not return. He knew the dangers. Yet he undertook them to make something of himself. It gave him a chance with Essa. Even more, it gave him a certain standing with the others—an indispensible role they could not hope to find in another. It endeared him to them. Such a boon was worth the price in fear.
He wasn’t stupid, though. Naturally, he was stealing the surplus from another man’s rounds. What they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them—and if it did, at least he wouldn’t be caught in the backlash. Not this time.
The mess tents were wide, white-flapped tents that were pinned open in the daylight, and staked down and guarded in the evening. A few soldiers loitered now. Thieves did not generally risk the daylight, though.
Hefting his own canvas bag from a table top, Voren dropped it at his feet and started to shovel bread and crackers into it. Nothing extravagant. Breakfast came with a repast of hearty soup as well, to give the men their spirits for the day. The first few days there had been samples of cheese for every man. That had since been cut back. The wagon trains held more, and one baggage train had already arrived, but these were set under guard, that the men would have stores for the march.
Soon, the nobles told them, soon enough they would have all they could ever eat. Effisian stores would be filled to bursting for winter.
The baker glanced back at the others, and frowned deeply. They were touching again. This time Rurik was holding her hand and whispering something in her ear. She giggled—giggled—and nipped at him.
Voren threw a piece of bread down into the bag as hard as he could, but it made no sound, merely thudding against the others already piled there. Focus on your work. It was a struggle, but he had to manage. This was his own fault after all.
Love was not something to be forced. He was a fool to think it could be. Look at his mother and father. Long courtship, easy marriage. Of course, the old man bit it young, catching one of any number of sicknesses sweeping through the masses. That couldn’t be helped. It was a sign of the times, not love.
Nasty thing—all haggard cries and fevered itching. The devil’s fire. It took him far and away from himself, crying out to people that weren’t there as his skin blistered and blackened. He and his mother did their best, but it wasn’t as though there was anything they could do. If people asked, he told them it was the winter fever, though. There was a certain quiet dignity in that. Many died from that. They didn’t need to know the true horror of his demise. Let them remember him for who he was, not how he went out.
Shoveling in another loaf of bread, he tried to focus. Death went nowhere. Love went everywhere. Love was something to be cherished, merely for the act itself. Breathe in. He had never known it before—or at least in a reciprocated manner—but he was sure of that. The best things took some work. He had not worked for it. Breathe out. How could he be angry with them if he had not even made his intentions known?
Rurik’s intentions were known. He made them plain. Voren danced about the childhood world of furtive glances and subtle words. A relationship—a real, vaunted romance—had to have action. As yet, the only action he had taken in the name of romance had been taken against another’s love, not for his own. Despicable, really.
What are you?
Like any good bread, it would take tender love and care. You had to handle it just so, knead it carefully, roll it back and forth a few times before you could get it right. A bit of warmth was necessary, but you couldn’t smother it. Do that and the bread would just come out hard, or burned. No good to anyone then. No hope of salvation. Had to start all over with a whole new bread. Unacceptable. He had spent far too long molding this one—in mind, at least—to rush things now. Tenderness and care. That was what his father always said.
And most importantly: always pick out the stowaways.
His attention darted back to the boy that held her hand as they left. The little lord. He had come so close in Verdan. In truth, he was sorry about that. Brought more trouble than it was worth. For all of them. It hadn’t been logical. Like they would take the boy and leave Essa alone. No, but that was beside the point. He was digressing, blaming again. Projecting. What he had done was wrong, above and beyond what it had done to him, personally.
Rurik was merely the competition. Not the enemy. He’s after her. He’ll ruin her. If you don’t do something he’ll—one couldn’t just run around offing the competition. It was unbecoming. Not thought out. What had Rurik done to him, personally? Nothing. A few glares. Telltale signs of jealousy. And well he should be jealous! But those were signs in his favor, not signs against Rurik’s personage. The little lordling, for all his faults—and there were many—had played fairly. Voren had thought to take things beyond the confines of the rules of courtship, and so he had been burned. Miserably. But it had also given him the opportunity to try again. He could not waste the opportunity. Not again.
His mind wheeled back to the vial in his pocket. Arasyl. He always kept it close, from the moment he had bought it. Couldn’t trust it elsewhere. In the haste of his departure, he had only been able to take a few vials with him. It would have been too risky to take the lot. All it would have taken was one bumbling buffoon looking to steal a jug of water and…
But he did not have to worry of that. No. Nor would he ever have to worry about being caught with these. The problem-solvers. His salvation. They could turn everything in a heartbeat. He could feel the desire welling in him already, stirred on by images of his nymph. Crawling toward him. Fingers inside his clothes and on his skin, hot breath on his neck, teeth grazing, lips parting. Moaning, pleading, kissing, loving. All of it would be his. Could be his.
…but it wouldn’t. Not like that. That was cheating. But he needed to cheat to win. There was no other way. He couldn’t compete. Not with him. They had months and months and Rurik looked like that and he looked like—it didn’t matter. He could do it. At the least, he would never know if he didn’t try. That had been the problem when they were young: fear. He was always afraid. Of his own feelings. Of theirs. Let it control him, and thus, confine him.
Had he been stronger then, he would not be the way he was now. He knew that. Willpower allowed him to overcome much, but staggered now. Seeds unplanted in youth could offer no shade in age. Likewise, weeds unhoed when young would grow to strangle when old. They strangled him still, if in more subtle ways than once they had.
Loading the last of the stale breads into the bag, he hitched up his leggings and walked with a straighter gait. If he didn’t try he would never know. He could lose her forever. He had to try. No matter his fear. Here, now, he would take their time and he would use it.
The Empire saw these lands as hope for some unforeseeable future. Perhaps they would be the same for him.
Dragging at the barrel, he started outside, hoping Irdlin was not about, so he might go as long as possible without having to actually carry the hefty thing. He was built for baking. Not for lifting.
Instead, he nearly collided with a giant.
He started apologizing before he realized who it actually was. As soon as he raised his eyes enough to catch sight of the long, knotted blond hair and copious furs, however, his throat grew as dry as a desert wind. It was a fact he had great desire to suppress, but little ability to control. Though Alviss had never been anything but kind, there was something about a man that could likely rip him in half with his bare hands that struck him as distinctly unappealing.
Never mind the stories his mother used to tell him about the days of Kuric primacy. Godless. Godless. Godless! Pillaging and raping, burning and killing. Some of that trait had to remain in the blood, somewhere. Why else would the nobles buy them up at a premium?
“Why-why goodman Alviss,” he stammered. “A pleasure. What brings you by? Something I might help with?”
Mentally, he kicked himself for rambling as such. But his tongue moved of its own accord, and with haste, driving him less-than-agilely forward as the barbarian watched and weathered without any hint of caring. Abruptly, he cut himself off, and hung his head a bit, feeling the blush. Nervousness had never been kind to him.
“A word,” was all Alviss offered, before motioning him to follow into the mass of tents.
“But I—the bags. I, I need to deliver the food among the camp. Perhaps later…”
Something in his eyes made the baker’s little heart jump a beat. “A moment,” Alviss said. Voren could but nod and follow in obedience. He only hoped Irdlin wouldn’t appear in the meanwhile. It would be the switch for sure.
Once they had moved somewhere a little less public, the imposing figure eased his way down onto a barrel with a gracious grunt and sighed contentedly. That peace seemed to dissipate somewhat as he adjusted back on the baker.
“Fine day,” the Kuree said.
Voren’s shoulders sank. This is it? He glanced back over his shoulder, keeping a wary eye on his bag. Too many could see the opportunity in such a vulnerable prize.
“You are dutiful. This is good. Do not worry. This will not long be.”
Folding his hands over his lap, the Kuree bent forward toward him. “You are helpful to us. I wish to say of this, my thanks.”
“Oh, certainly. Nothing, it’s nothing, though. Merely the thing to do. Doing right by your fellow man and friends and all that, you know?”
The Kuree stared back at him in such a way that made him shift uncomfortably.
“Indeed,” Alviss responded, in a tone that implied more. Voren wanted to squirm. The last time someone had looked at him like this, he had wound up here. “There is more, I think.”
“More? Whatever do you mean?”
“Essa.”
The word hung there a moment, with nothing attached, and Voren could see the man was gauging him for a reaction. To his own credit, he managed to suppress his own nature. Keep a straight face. It was not easy to do, however.
He knows. He knows oh god he knows how did he…
“They are good together, yes?”
He fidgeted. “Pardon? I—yes, I suppose so. They do seem sweet on one another. Are they—are they together as such?”
The savage smiled toothlessly. “Do you like her, or the notion?”
Yes! The voice inside him screamed. Yes! Would that he would scream it aloud. But he could not will the words. They caught in his throat, caught in the tangle of his own nervous carelessness. Yes! Three times to the heavens, three times to his soul, three times come and gone, never to be heard aloud. He could feel himself shrinking. All he had to do was say it, but to voice it would have been to lose the possibility. To lose the dream.
And he could not lose that.
Voren stifled a nervous laugh. “We are…friends, nothing more. That is all I seek. It wounds me you see more.”
Alviss leaned back on his seat, stroking one massive hand through his gnarled beard. It gave him a certain sage-like quality that struck Voren as absurd. He pictured the man in robes, amongst the monks of an abbey—this muscled giant, rising head and neck above pot-bellied men of bald heads and peaceable tones. Like putting a dress on a pig. You could dress it up all you wanted, but it still didn’t change what it was.
“They are son and daughter to me. Sun and moon. Already they go through much. Each.” He stared straight through the baker, as though spearing his very soul. “They need friends.”
The Kuree’s dirty hand reached out to him, and he felt himself weakly clasping it. “I am glad we spoke.” Voren heard it, but could only nod weakly. Smile weaker. Alviss shook him, and rose, making some comment about his old age. Voren wished him well. Then the barbarian turned, and trudged off toward the tents.
Crushed his heart and wandered off, like nothing had happened. Voren felt himself stumbling, and turned back toward the supply tent. Everything was spinning. He felt sick. Nauseas. Then he looked up, and found another man waiting for him.
It was Irdlin, standing beside the bag he had neglected. There was hellfire in the tiny man’s eyes.
Chapter 12
Sleep, for the little bear of Verdan, was a dreamless, shapeless mass, a groggy nothingness of half-formed thoughts and half-felt realities. There was nothing, yet she was restless in it. Sleep tossed her, reality turned her, and somewhere in between, the dull haze of agony embraced her through the void.
Waking came as cruelly. It came suddenly and blindingly, cutting through her heart as sure as any sword. She woke shivering, doused in the icy burn of a thousand tiny fires.
They struck her with water in the dead of winter. Already she could feel the ache as the chill seeped through her clothes and settled in her lungs. She might catch the winter fever. She had nearly died of it once before. Her rasping cries for air did not help at all, though she was powerless to deny them—these wild grasps at phantoms well beyond her, praying for the reason that comes with warmth and finding naught but the confusion of cold and pain and fear.
Roswitte did not recognize where they were immediately. Only the fact that she breathed, and that it was some man’s cruel gift that she did. The trek returned to her dissembled and hazy. A haggard-looking man with a thick, grizzly brown beard loomed over her, still clutching at the bucket whose contents he had doused her with. Others stood nearby, watching or whispering. None that stuck out. She panted, wheeled, thought she might faint again. It hurt to think, and worse to move.
Her mind was spinning as she came back into the world, but she managed to hold to reality by the skin beneath her nails.
A cave. They were in a cave. When she could see, she saw the rocks, as well as the licks of frost that covered them. A single tunnel bent slightly to the east, and ran out into daylight, though it provided no warmth. Wind whistled through the opening, as hard as any of the faces that gazed back at her reproachful stare. There was no snow yet among the rocks, though she attributed that as much to the campfire burning nearby as to anything nature had to give her.
The ranger craned her head to try and see behind her. A mistake. As soon as she tried, Roswitte felt the throbbing grow to a frightening tempo, and the world flickered like a candle blowing in the wind, threatening darkness once again. Then she was sagging down, held aloft above the rock floor.
Absently, she noted the hand withdrawing from her, as well as the searing pain that now locked her jaw. Had she fainted? The pain in her skull now seemed secondary to the throbbing in her jaw, but there was little she could do for either. She rolled her eyes, tasted her own coppery blood dribbling from her gums. There was a loose tooth that she tongued. It wiggled, but wouldn’t give. Pain thrummed through it as she toyed with it, but it was so small, so insignificant compared to the rest, it was almost a pleasurable relief.
The fact that she was not on the earth, but staring down at it, did not immediately strike her. It was only when Roswitte tried to move her hands and found herself unable to do so that the pieces began to connect. It was not a numbness, or a lack thereof. Her fingers wriggled. Rope lashed both wrists together a
nd bound her to what she presumed was the wall. The rope was thick, and tense. It had no give, and every effort at escape met only with a gnawing burn along her wrists.
Laughter lit explosions of remembrance through her. She saw the rise and fall of the club, tasted blood all over again. She winced, and sagged, and fought again, but the pain it brought nearly cost her the tenuous grip she held on reality once more. Swooning in her bonds, she tried to right herself, and calm, to piece together enough to make sense.
Unfortunately, the shrill baying of her bearded tormentor made the process all the more torturous to attempt. “Whoo-ee! Take a look at this one, lads.”
“Ugly as a mule’s ass she is. They dress their asses up in armor these days.”
“Strange creatures, these nobles.”
“Careful, she’s as like to bite your arm off.”
The bearded man wheezed through yellow teeth. “Don’t matter none. Look as ugly as she wants: honey pot’s all the same in the dark.”
“Well, worse comes to it, we’ve always wanted a dancing bear.”
The men howled with laughter, and the ringing in Roswitte’s head grew so loud she had to wince away from it. Again she struggled, but her bonds were unyielding. It did not take her long to rub her wrists raw, but it took longer for her to stop trying. All the while she could feel the men’s eyes on her, sizing her up, smiling at her misfortune.
Part of her wanted to cry out in anguish and heave back into the most bitter of slumbers, while another wanted only to lay into the cretins before her with blade and arrow, tooth and nail.
“Ya done, girly?”
She scowled up at the one that seemed their leader. The bushy beard seemed to compensate for his sparse skull. He grinned toothily back. There was no shame here.
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