The toothless Huul, his lips a swollen mass of pulpy flesh, stood glowering down at the Journeyman. Blood coursed down his chin, soaking his beard. The man held his dead comrade’s spear in one hand, the shaft upraised, the steel head pointed at the Journeyman’s heart.
Without thinking the Journeyman swung his free arm around in an overhand arc. The blade of his long knife, still clutched in his gloved fist, buried itself in the barbarian’s foot, pinning it to the ground. The man howled and dropped the spear, its tip bouncing harmlessly off the hard earth. The barbarian doubled over and clutched at his injured foot, all thought of skewering the Journeyman banished, at least for the moment.
The Huul, with whom the Journeyman still lay entangled, gasped. The massive frame jerked as his wits returned. Then, of a sudden, the man was atop him and reaching for his throat. The Journeyman batted the clutching hands away then drove his forehead up into the Huul’s face. His skull connected with the man’s nose and he heard the sound of cartilage snapping. Warm blood spattered the Journeyman’s cheeks and chin, its copper tang filling his nostrils. The barbarian fell backwards clutching his ruined nose.
Without wasting a backwards glance, heedless of the pain shooting through his arm and side, the Journeyman ran.
7. FLIGHT
Into the deepening twilight sprinted the Journeyman. He hurtled boulders half-buried in snow and fallen pines barely discernible in the gathering dark. He slid down icy slopes and scrambled up inclines thick with bracken. Branches tore at his cloak as he went, cutting into his thick clothing and gouging the flesh beneath. Time and again he barked his shins on hidden stones or was lashed by low hanging boughs. He paid these hurts no mind, focusing instead on placing as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible.
The remaining Huuls blundered after the Journeyman, heedless of the many pitfalls the darkened wilderness held. They roared as they came, cursing in their guttural dialect, spitting oaths into the night. The Journeyman directed his flight using the sound of their renewed pursuit, managing to stay a few dozen meters ahead.
Snow began to spill from the clouds that hung low overhead. It came in thick clumps that hissed through the branches of the surrounding pines. The Journeyman groped ahead, his progress slowed by the mounting curtain of white. The snow settled onto his cloak frosting his head and shoulders. His boots were caked, his every footfall laborious and strained. Still he stumbled onwards. Sliding down a steep incline he came to rest at the base of a rock strewn gully.
He had not realized how much of his lead the snow had consumed until the Huuls were again upon him. The Journeyman heard them an instant before they broke from the trees. Down the embankment he had traversed scant moments before the Huuls crashed, their headlong rush carrying them swiftly over the broken ground.
In the seconds before they struck the Journeyman found himself wishing he had not left his knife lodged in the foot of the toothless barbarian. The broken section of quarterstaff he still carried would work well enough as a spear, but was far inferior to his missing blade.
The first of the enraged Huuls, his progress akin to that of a charging bull, put all of his downhill momentum into a single mighty swing. The rough blade of his axe flashed dully as man and weapon careened towards their target. The Journeyman used this mad rush for his own purposes. Stepping to one side he drove upwards with the broken length of his staff. The splintered point caught the barbarian in the armpit, bypassing the barbarian’s leather tunic and tearing through flesh. He felt wood scrape along bone an instant before the shaft was wrenched from his hands.
The Huul, skewered through the arm and shoulder, staggered past the Journeyman smashing into the opposite embankment. He could hear loose rock give way under the man’s weight. As the wounded Huul doubled over in the snow the second man descended upon him.
The spear the toothless man had taken from his fallen companion flashed through the night air striking the Journeyman in his side. The blade bit through wool and leather, carving a deep gash just above his left hip. The force of the impact spun the Journeyman about, landing him on his hands and knees in the snow. Seconds later the howling barbarian bowled into him, knocking the Journeyman sideways.
Lashing out blindly the Journeyman struck at the level of his assailant’s groin. His fist connected with the man’s balls and the Huul toppled over, clutching himself.
Doggedly, the Journeyman extracted himself from beneath the writhing barbarian. He groped about in the snow, his numb fingers searching for a fist sized chunk of rock. At last he found one and, clutching it in both hands, brought it down on the back of the toothless Huul’s head. He did so again, and again, until he heard a dull, wet crack. Still he continued to hammer. When at last he let the stone drop from his numb fingers little remained of the man’s skull save pulp and shards of bone.
When the killing was done the Journeyman leaned back on his haunches. His hands and forearms were coated in frozen gore, his fingers stiffened into claws. He sat in the falling snow, his breathing ragged and heavy, the surge of adrenaline that had sustained him slowly beginning to fade. His cracked wrist and the wound in his side throbbed relentlessly. Before him lay the remains of the toothless Huul, snow already beginning to accumulate on the swiftly cooling body. A little ways off, barely discernible in the gloom, sat the one remaining Huul. Glaring daggers at the Journeyman, the barbarian knelt in the reddened snow. Slowly, agonizingly, the man pulled at the broken length of staff lodged in the flesh of his upper arm. The Journeyman could just barely see the tip of the wooden shaft that extended from the man’s shoulder. The remainder of the staff, encrusted with a frozen slick of blood, hung down along his side.
Locking eyes with the Journeyman the Huul sneered. “Coward,” he said, and again tugged at the broken staff.
The Journeyman laughed. The sound was surprisingly loud in the still of the forest.
“You do not stand and fight,” panted the Huul. “You hide in ruins and you flee when the battle does not go your way.” He gave another tug on the broken shaft and grimaced.
At this the Journeyman smiled ruefully. “True,” he said.
The Huul gave the shard of quarterstaff yet another tug and the Journeyman blanched. The sucking sound made by the Huul’s efforts caused his stomach to turn. “Tell me,” said the Journeyman recovering his composure, “why should I stand and accept my death when I have the power to prevent it? Because I would not submit to being murdered you resort to taunts and accusations of cowardice. I think, perhaps, your situation here is less than tenable. I think you know it is unlikely you will be able to kill me.”
Again the Huul growled, “Coward.” He jerked roughly on the shard and blood ran anew from the place where it still protruded from the barbarian’s underarm. Blood streamed steadily across the hand that clutched the shaft, but the Huul did not seem to notice. He simply stared fixedly at the Journeyman with dark, unblinking eyes. “I will kill you with this splinter you have shoved into me. I will drive it down your throat.”
“That is possible,” said the Journeyman, “but unlikely.”
The two men sat and glowered at one another. Overhead the snow continued to spill from the low ceiling of clouds. The Journeyman listened to it fall and took stock of his current plight: He was unarmed, exhausted, half-frozen, possessed of a broken wrist, and now bleeding from the wound in his side. The simple truth was that unless he again took flight, he would more than likely die here amongst the trees and the snow.
He could stand and fight, but the spear that had nearly skewered him was nowhere to be seen. The only other weapon available was the stone he had cast aside. It was possible that he might be able to slay the Huul, but at what cost? The price of winning the fight against this enraged bear of a man would more than likely be far too high. What was the point of another confrontation? Already he had wounded his assailant, and badly. There seemed little point in prolonging the engagement. He would run. If the Huul continued to follow then he did so at his ow
n peril.
The Journeyman nodded to his assailant. “I hope you die face down in the snow,” he said, then turned and again took his leave.
Darkness fell thick as crushed velvet and as cold as the space between the stars. As he made his way between towering pines the sounds made by the remaining Huul grew fainter, the curses less frequent. Even muffled by the snow, the Journeyman could tell the barbarian was beginning to fall behind. Even so, the tirelessness of the man was infuriating and not a little disconcerting. He wondered how the Huul could still be on his feet, wounded as he was.
To the Journeyman it was galling that he had been injured in the exchange with the Huuls. He had had to resort to flight in order to save his own life, something he was not accustomed to. Still, blundering about in the forest was better than dying under the blade of the seemingly indomitable barbarian’s axe.
The Journeyman trudged ahead as swiftly as he dared. Should the storm worsen he might be forced to go to ground. Doing so would cut his lead. If the Huul happened upon him huddled in a ball he would have little chance of surviving the encounter.
The passage of time seemed to vacillate, elongating and then contracting, as the Journeyman moved though the Stygian blackness. He staggered along with his hands outstretched, each step a journey in and of itself. New perils threatened each time he set his foot down. Half a dozen times he nearly plunged to his death over a cliff or down a ravine. Then, just when he thought he would wander forever in the frozen darkness, the sky suddenly lightened.
A spectral glow flooded the landscape stopping the Journeyman short. For a moment he was unsure what it was he beheld. Then it came to him; the moon. It had been almost full when last he had seen it. Though it had been shrouded for days the Wintruz Moon now shone through a break in the veil of clouds.
Glancing down the Journeyman caught his breath. He stood on the edge of a precipitous drop that, in a few more steps, would have claimed his life. He swallowed hard, his mouth and throat suddenly dry.
The Journeyman gazed out across the deep bowl of the mountain valley that spread out below him. Serene and untouched by the tracks of men or beasts, it lay silent and still, the snow awash in silvery light. The valley was walled on all sides by the fells, its basin sheltered by the steep slopes. Through the valley ran the serpentine path of a river, its progress marked by stands of bare trees. The frozen waterway reflected the glow of the moon, casting it back at the beleaguered Journeyman. It was a marvelous sight, this secluded valley, alone and winter silent.
He could not recall how he managed to clamber down the cliff from which he had nearly plummeted in the darkness. All the Journeyman could recall was stumbling over the flat expanse of the valley floor and splashing through the encrusted river. On the opposite bank, his sodden clothing now frozen stiff, he fell face first into the snow.
8. SANCTUARY
Soft flesh, warm and smooth, nestled against him. The pliant swell of a woman’s breasts pressed into his back and one firm arm curled around his shoulder. Rounded buttocks, flanked by sweetly curving hips, pressed against his groin while dark tresses tickled his nose and cheeks. The Journeyman blinked several times. If this was death, he thought, it wasn’t so bad. Then he moved.
Pain shot through his entire frame and he whimpered. His arms and legs felt as though they had been scorched and his muscles ached miserably. Thirst clawed at his throat and the wound in his side throbbed in time with the beat of his heart. Despite his initial reaction the Journeyman reckoned that he was most certainly not dead; the agony that shot through him was proof enough of that. The only mystery was why he was book-ended by two naked women.
“Do not move,” said the woman who was pressed against his front. She turned as she spoke, her warm flesh caressing him from chest to thighs. The Journeyman complied; it wasn’t difficult. The act of movement, even the slightest twitch, shot fire through him. He stayed as still as was humanly possible.
There was the rustle of blankets and a draft touched his skin. The Journeyman shivered and the woman still clinging to his back held him tighter. It was a pleasant sensation. “If you move you may split your stitches. If you do that I may not be able to stop the bleeding again.”
The Journeyman groaned out an affirmative.
The woman went on, “I will fetch you some water. You must drink. Cinder will help you to roll onto your back. Mind that you do so slowly.”
Another shifting of flesh, this time from behind him, and the Journeyman suddenly felt very cold. He shivered again and gooseflesh stood out on his limbs. Then gentle hands were prodding him and he rolled, slowly, painfully until he was lying supine. He inhaled shallowly, conscious not to draw too deep a breath lest he aggravate the wound in his side. The inhaled air smelled of wood smoke, of herbs, and of something cooking. They were pleasant scents, homey and familiar.
A hand touched his brow and the Journeyman’s eyes fluttered open. He was unable to focus, his vision blurry. He blinked several times more, but the figure before him remained little more than a vague, human-shaped blob. Then something touched his lips and cool wetness splashed into his mouth and down his throat. He coughed, caught his breath, then drank deeply and earnestly. The cup was drawn away, refilled, and placed at his lips a second time. The Journeyman drained it again, then lay back.
The warm body that now lay to his left remained in place, the female’s warmth radiating across his clammy skin. He shivered again and the woman moved closer. He could smell her now as well; her scent was delicate and oddly smoky. He closed his eyes and unconsciousness took him.
“If you insist on moving I will have Master Olis put you back out in the snow. Then your wound will freeze over again and I won’t have to deal with your blood soaking into the bedding.”
The Journeyman ceased turning beneath the pile of blankets and furs. He lay still, sucking shallow breaths. The woman patted him on the shoulder and he opened his eyes.
“I think today you should have some broth,” she said. The Journeyman blinked at her.
“Broth?” he croaked.
“Yes, broth. You slept through two days and a night. If you
do not eat something you will begin to wither away.”
“I do not think there is much danger of that.”
The woman laughed. “No, there isn’t, but you will not heal if
you do not eat. It is remarkable that you are even alive. If I were you I would not want to tempt Death any further.”
The Journeyman nodded and the woman said, “Good.”
She leaned over him, a wooden bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other. Now that he was able to focus his eyes the Journeyman could see that his nurse was a handsome woman, perhaps in her early forties. Her features were beginning to show the stress of age, but she retained much of the loveliness that must have graced her youth. She was heavyset, her figure well curved, her bosom ample. Her expression was serious, matronly. Even so her dark blue eyes showed a hint of gaiety. The Journeyman liked her, this stern, beautiful woman, and accepted the proffered broth without protest.
After a few spoonfuls the Journeyman said, “It was you, was it not? The one curled up next to me while I lay unconscious?”
“Yes,” said the woman, and proffered the spoon again.
The Journeyman accepted the utensil and its contents. “And the other?”
“Cinder,” said the woman.
“Is that a name?” asked the Journeyman.
“Yes, it is a name. It is her name. Cinder is a servant who labors here for Master Olis. I am in his employ as well. Open.”
The spoon came again and the Journeyman sipped.
“The two of you...you lay with me for two days and a night?”
The woman rolled her eyes. “Yes, we lay with you because it was the best way to keep you warm. Mater Olis did not like the prospect, but I insisted. He is a shrewd fellow, but untrusting and jealous. He did not like seeing his hired women slip naked into bed with a strange man. It made no difference to him that
you were almost dead.”
At this the Journeyman laughed, then groaned, his face contorting. He lay still while the throbbing in his side subsided. The woman, still leaning over him, shook her head.
“What did I say? Move too much and you will burst your stitches.”
“My apologies, Lady,” said the Journeyman.
The woman laughed. “I am no Lady. I am a servant just like Cinder. I may command a bit more respect than the other hired hands, but that is simply because I let the Master have off with me from time to time. For this he treats me with marginally more kindness then the rest of the folk in his employ. That, however, isn’t saying much.”
The Journeyman stifled another laugh. The woman raised her eyebrows. “Oh, that’s funny is it? You find my plight amusing? You are a sour fellow, Journeyman. Open.”
The Journeyman sipped. “Something tells me that you are no mere hired woman. You strike me as being particularly and intractably precocious.”
“Fancy words, traveler,” said the woman. “Now, hush up and finish this before it goes cold.”
The woman’s face remained stern but the Journeyman could see that under that well cultivated expression she suppressed a smile. The corners of his lips began to curl and he looked impishly up at her. The woman shook her head, trying even harder to keep the smile in check, and dipped the spoon into the bowl.
“As you say, Lady,” said the Journeyman with and accepted the steaming broth.
Yes, reaffirmed the Journeyman, he liked her; this hard-bitten woman who somehow managed to cling to her spirit and resolve despite the onerous life she had no doubt endured. It was plain to see from her garb, simple peasant fare, homespun and rough, that she was not a woman of means. Long hours spent in the sun had turned her skin a chestnut brown and her hands were rough and calloused. The Journeyman did not doubt that this woman made her living one season at a time, dependent on the weather, the yield of the harvest, and the good grace of the gods. Despite all this it seemed she remained redoubtable and stalwart.
Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim) Page 5
