Journeyman in Gray (Saga of the Weltheim)

by Linus de Beville

  Silke did not respond.

  Together they returned to regarding the water as it lapped gently against the bank. It appeared black, even in the holocaust glow from the burning city. At last Silke said with a shrug, “We can risk drowning and then freezing or we can stay here to be discovered. Which would you prefer?”

  The Journeyman thought for a moment then said with a shrug, “The river it is, then.”

  Getting to his feet he extended one long-fingered hand. Silke took it. Together they began to wend their way amongst the heaps of discarded humanity.

  Jutting into the river like broken teeth stood those few piers and causeways that had not been set alight. Silke and the Journeyman slipped beneath these constructs, ducking in and around their pylons. Below the piers the drifting smoke and the smell of ash weren’t as strong. The lapping of the river and damp of the wood created pockets of calm. They lingered in these dark places, the water wetting their boots. When they emerged they moved swiftly, bending low, trying to keep the line of their backs below the sloping riverbank. Once Silke stumbled and went to her hands and knees in the sand. The Journeyman turned about, reaching for her. She slapped his hand aside. He proffered it again and she took it. He raised her to her feet and again they made their way towards the river gate.

  At last Silke breathed out a single word: “Stop.”

  The Journeyman pulled up just short of the last of the piers. Ahead of him was the darkness and relative safety of the pylons. Yet again he extended his hand to the paramour. She shook her head and pointed downwards.

  The Journeyman turned his head to the side in puzzlement. “It’s a dead man,” he said.

  “It’s a dead man in a rain slicker,” said Silke.

  “Ah,” said the Journeyman.

  They knelt in unison, working at the clasps that held the slicker in place. When it was loose they pulled and tugged at the garment, sliding it from the corpse by increments. When at last it was free the Journeyman bundled the slicker into a ball and made for the pylons. Silke followed, nearly colliding with him in the dark.

  “He must have been a dock worker,” said the Journeyman.

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Silke. “What matters is that this will keep our clothes dry.”

  The Journeyman nodded his ascent. “Almost there.”

  “Almost,” replied Silke. “Then we swim.”

  Hands held before them the pair made their way through the darkness below the pier. When they reached its far side the Journeyman stepped from the shadows, then quickly threw himself back again. Silke let out a small gasp as he collided with her.

  From off to the right, moving along the river bank, could be heard the tromp of booted feet. The telltale clank and rattle of weapons and armor accompanied the footfalls. Both Silke and the Journeyman held their breath, listening as the cadre of soldiers moved past. They stayed were they were, waiting until the sounds faded into the roar of the fires.

  For a long while neither moved. At last the Journeyman let out his breath and turned to Silke. In the dimness beneath the pier he could just barely make out her face and the matted piles of red hair that had escaped from the hood of her cloak. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flush. He nodded. The paramour swallowed, her throat making an audible click.

  Silently they disrobed, bundling their clothing into tight balls. When they stood naked and shivering the Journeyman tucked their raiment into the slicker, buckled it shut, and then lashed it together with his belt. The length of tooled leather he wrapped back upon itself forming a shoulder strap for the improvised pack. Slinging the bundle over one shoulder he turned to Silke.

  The red-haired woman stood half hunched over, her knees together, her hands clasped before her breasts. The Journeyman put one hand on her shoulder guiding her out into the open.

  The moment they were out from under the pier Silke and the Journeyman sprinted for the river gate. As they ran their bare feet squelched in the wet sand and they could hear the rush of blood in their ears. Heedless of whether they had been seen the pair closed with the edge of the stockade, then splashed into the frigid waters.

  Fed by late winter runoff, the Vyrnon’s temperature hovered just above freezing. Silke gasped as the black water splashed about her shins. The Journeyman gritted his teeth as knives of cold jabbed at his feet. Immediately his joints began to ache and his testicles pulled up against his groin. A few more steps and he was waist deep, his lower body going mercifully numb.

  There was a rattle of metal as Silke yanked at the grating below the river gate; her white arms and shoulders straining with the effort, she pulled at the forged steel. It would not give.

  “It won’t budge and it’s too close to the bank to go around,” she hissed.

  Sliding past her the Journeyman ran his hand down the grating until he found the spot where the metal met with the bank. He scraped at the mud, scooping it away in great handfuls. His heart sank. Silke was right; there were only a few centimeters between the edge of the gate and its stone housing. Even with the mud scraped away there was no hope of squeezing through.

  “Other side,” said the Journeyman through chattering teeth. Silke acknowledged him with a nod and together they sank to their shoulders in the river.

  Pulling themselves hand over hand they moved along the surface of the grate. The river pushed at them as they went, trying to dislodge their numb fingers and send them floating back towards the city center. They clung desperately to the metal lattice, their fingers pruned and white as coffin worms. When they reached the far bank both huddled together in a shallow eddy, their bodies pressed together, sharing their meager warmth.

  Casting his eyes up and down the lattice and the river gate the Journeyman searched for a way through. He found it a few moments later; a space just below the massive hinge where the metal and wood met. The hastily constructed gate had been made of newly felled trees, the timbers uncured before being riveted together. When they had inevitably warped the misshapen wood had impeded the workings of the hinge. The offending section had been cut away, creating a space just large enough to admit a child.

  “Go,” rasped the Journeyman. He was unable to say more.

  Silke pulled herself from the river and crept towards the gap. Upon reaching the narrow aperture she ran her hands over its rough edges, pulling away several long slivers of wood. She tossed these to the side then slid her left arm through, pressing her breasts to her chest with her right. The paramour’s head went through next, followed by her torso. The Journeyman watched as she moved her hips from side to side, trying to wriggle free. Her small feet kicked as she tipped forward, losing her balance. Wood scraped along her thighs as she slid through, landing with a thump and a splash on the other side.

  Her face appeared a second later, followed by one muddy hand. “The pack,” she said.

  The Journeyman hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to trust her. Knowing he had no choice he shoved the bundle through. It was several seconds before her face re-appeared. When it did the Journeyman’s heart skipped a beat and he breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Now you,” said Silke, extending her other hand. He took it and wedged himself into the narrow space.

  The rough timbers tore at his shoulders, his ribs, his hips, his thighs. He felt blood run freely from several deep abrasions. The cold numbed the pain, but the sensation of his flesh being scraped and gouged made the Journeyman want to cry out. He stifled the urge, forcing himself to work his way slowly through the narrow opening. When at last he was on the other side, lying on his back in the mud, Silke leaned over him. He let out a groan.

  “No time to rest,” said the paramour, tugging at his arm.

  Aching and abraded the Journeyman rose and crawled to the river’s edge. He washed away what blood he could, then accepted his tunic and trousers from Silke’s outstretched hand. Together they dressed in silence.

  From his vantage atop a low rise the Journeyman could just see the outer curtain of the city. The stockade was a d
ark, jagged line below the hideous glow of hundreds of fires. The inferno lit the bellies of the ash clouds that hung over Lyvys. Even amongst the trees where he crouched the flickering light made shadows dance and jitter.

  A small sound from his left drew the Journeyman’s attention. He turned. Silke, her head bowed, stood wiping at her cheeks with the back of one wrist. Gently, he placed his hand on her shoulder. The paramour pushed it away.

  Getting slowly to her feet, the paramour drew the hood of her cloak down over her eyes. She then turned and slipped into the forest. Throwing the burning remains of Lyvys one last glance, the Journeyman followed.

  26. LOATHING

  The rain fell in great hissing waves, obscuring the trees and the escarpments that loomed overhead. Cascading across the precipitous slopes and rocky outcroppings it spawned a thousand tiny rivers that ran frothing between the roots of the pines, firs, and oaks. The Journeyman watched through a break in the verdure as the newly minted streams scored the fells, washing away any trace of his and Silke’s backtrail. He marveled at the fury of the storm, the sheer volume of runoff.

  Though he was drenched, his cloak hanging limply over his head and shoulders, the Journeyman was glad to at last be free of the haze that had hung between the trees for days. Thanks to the rain, the fires that had raged through the trade city of Lyvys would at last have been quashed.

  Even when the great columns of smoke had faded into the distance the forest had still smelled of char. Silke and the Journeyman had been compelled to walk with their cloaks over their mouth and nose, their eyes stinging. Within the city limits the air would have been un-breathable, choked with ash and cinders. The Journeyman did not envy those unfortunates that had been caught behind its walls. Thane had done his work thoroughly, laying waste to the largest settlement in the Erstewald in a single night. Now all he need do is hunt down the stragglers. The Journeyman had no doubt as to what would become of the men and women who had survived the conflagration. By now they would be hanging from the trees that ringed the city, their eyes picked by crows.

  The Hegemony had sent a clear and resounding message: Lyvys and the Erstewald belonged to the Imperium. They would do with it as they pleased.

  “Stop.” Silke’s voice was pained, almost pleading. The Journeyman stood looking over his shoulder as the paramour scrambled the rest of the way up the slope. Beneath her feet rocks and mud fell away, tumbling with a clatter down the hillside. She dropped to her hands and knees a few paces from where he stood.

  “We must keep moving!” he yelled over the roar of the storm. Silke shook her head, her hood and the sodden strands of her flame-bright hair flapping against her cheeks.

  Taking a step towards her he bent low and leaned in close. “We must press on.”

  She looked up at him, her features strained. Rain streaked her face, running in thin rivulets over her pale skin. She blinked the water from her eyes then lowered her head.

  “We must ”

  “No,” said Silke through clenched teeth.

  The Journeyman took another step towards her, but the paramour did not move. Tentatively, he extended one gloved hand. She slapped it away, then again lowered her head. Her hands bit into the waterlogged earth and loam, digging small, dark furrows. When she again raised her head he could see even through the rain that she was weeping.

  “No more,” said Silke. “No more running, no more climbing, no more swimming.” Her voice was barely audible over the hiss and crash of the storm.

  Again the Journeyman extended his hand and again she slapped it away.

  “My legs won’t move,” rasped Silke.

  “They will.”

  “No.”

  “They will.”

  The Journeyman extended his hand a third time. After a moment’s pause Silke took it and he drew her towards him. She slipped in the mud, her legs gone seemingly boneless. He steadied her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Overhead the wind made the tops of the trees sway and drove the rain sideways. It lashed the two figures that stood alone in the failing light, plastering their clothing to their arms, legs, backs, and sides.

  The Journeyman could see Silke’s teeth chattering, could feel her shaking in his grasp. He held her close and she pressed against him, curling in on herself. “This is because of you,” she said through lips that had gone blue. “It is all because of you.”

  He made to push her away but Silke buried her face in his chest. A few racking sobs shook her thin frame. He felt her nails dig into his skin even through the thick wool of his tunic.

  “What would you have me do,” he said. “Shall I turn back time, refuse Thane’s offer? I cannot. What’s done is done.”

  “Were that I’d never met you,” said Silke gathering his tunic into her small fists.

  “But you have. I took Thane’s money and his fraudulent message. You, in turn, took it from me and your man tried for my life. We played at a dangerous game; we toyed with the fate of whole armies, whole cities. We are reaping what we have sown.”

  “After that night I thought I would never have to look at you again,” hissed Silke. “The Huul should have killed you!”

  “And yet I plague you still.”

  “And yet you plague me still.”

  Silke tightened her grip on his tunic. The Journeyman could feel her hands shaking, the fingers barely able to keep their grip. “Why did you come back,” he asked. “Why did you answer Drysden’s summons?”

  Silke clenched her teeth, her lips drawing back. “I wanted to see you punished. I wanted to see you hanged for your crimes.”

  “My crimes?” snorted the Journeyman. “And what of yours?”

  Renewing her grip on his tunic with sudden fierceness the paramour pressed her lips to his. The Journeyman’s words died in his throat as she pressed violently against him. When she withdrew he could taste blood on his lips.

  The two stood and regarded one another while about them the rain continued to cackle and seethe. In the twilight their faces were white shapes that stared out from the darkened recesses of their hoods. The Journeyman could still feel Silke shaking but whether from rage or something else entirely he could not tell. He paused for the briefest of instants to consider what it might be then pulled her to him. He covered her lips with a kiss of his own and she sank into him. In the next instant she withdrew her face and shoved him away. The Journeyman’s heel struck a stone and he went over backwards.

  Silke was on him in an instant, her fists striking his chest, his chin, the side of his face. He felt more blood at the corner of his mouth. He caught her next blow and she hit him in the side. He winced as her knuckles connected with the wound Torr had given him after their encounter in the snowbound forest.

  With a cry the Journeyman surged upwards. He grabbed Silke by the waist, lifting her as he rose. Together they stumbled forward, their momentum carrying them three faltering steps into the twisted trunk of a pine. Silke gasped as her back struck the rough bark. She raked her nails across the Journeyman’s cheek then down his neck to his collar. Hooking her fingers around the course fabric she pulled his face forwards.

  “Were that I’d never met you.”

  Again she kissed him, her tongue darting between his lips.

  The Journeyman staggered, but Silke held him close. She lifted his tunic and grasped the hem of his trousers, plunging ice cold fingers down to his groin. He shuddered as she found the hard length of him. Then he was pushing against her, his hands seeking her breasts, his lips and teeth at the side of her neck. They grappled with one another’s clothing, peeling away the wet cloth. When they stood naked to the elements, bare flesh against bare flesh, he could feel the heat pouring off her, drawing him in. The Journeyman lifted the paramour a second time and she closed her legs around him.

  “Were that I’d never ”

  Silke cried out as the Journeyman pressed her against the rough bark of the tree. She raised her hands over her head, clawing at an overhanging branch, propping herself up. Steam
rose from their backs and shoulders as they grappled. Within moments Silke had begun to buck and writhe, crying out in short, sharp gasps. She held him fiercely close, her ankles locked around his back. He felt her breasts against his chest, the silken wetness of her around him. She clung desperately to him as if he were a bit of driftwood in a storm-tossed sea. He, in turn, let her need draw him in, holding him in a tentative equilibrium where neither storm, nor war, nor the intrigues of statecraft could touch them. An eternity passed as the skies emptied themselves over the fells and the two white shapes that struggled together beneath the wind-whipped branches of the pine. Then, unable to check himself, the Journeyman cried out and poured himself into her. They shuddered in unison, Silke’s fingernails raking down his scarred back, and collapsed against the trunk of the pine.

  A moment later the Journeyman stepped back, the sudden surge of passion draining away, washed down into the gullies and ravines along with the runoff. Water ran from his brow creating a curtain through which he could just make out the white limbs of the woman before him. She bent stiffly to the pile of wet clothing at her feet. Slowly she began to tug it back into place. He watched her, watched goose-flesh rise on her arms and legs.

  As he stood shaking in the wet and the cold an image flitted unbidden across his mind’s eye. It was of Silke the night they had met in Ghul. She was standing in a halo of lamplight and smiling down at him. A length of fur was wrapped around her shoulders, her backside was bare. He had smiled up at her, there in near darkness, and she had returned his smile. Then she had gone, out the door and down the hall. Everything since had been violence and bloodshed. To his surprise, the memory made his chest ache.

  Raising his gaze, the Journeyman scanned the surrounding forest, blinking against the rain.

  Silke had just managed to pull her trousers up over her hips when she again slid to her hands and knees in the mud. She stifled a sob and raised one hand to her face.

  Wrapping one arm around her shoulders he lifted her to her feet. Silke stiffened at the renewed contact. She tried to push him away, but he held her tight.