Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  A ripple stirred the lake’s surface, followed by another. A feminine head broke the water, moonlight glowing on wet sable hair. Large eyes opened in a carved marble face, their colorless irises reflecting Theragus’ silver glow. Sylphlike verging on fragile, the woman rose until she stood atop the water. Ripples spread from her toes as she crept toward him. Streaming water clung to her skin, sheer as silk and leaving nothing to his fevered imagination.

  Her tongue swept across lips that were black against her pallor as she beckoned to him with hypnotic, liquid grace. Footprints glistened on the soil as she stepped onto the shore, and her forefinger reached out to brush along the instep of his foot.

  Heart crashing in his chest and his breath ragged, Tristan woke with a jolt that threatened to topple him from the willow’s cradling branches. The violence of his awakening startled a doe with the last dappling of a fawn’s coat. Hooves drummed through the misty dawn as the animal bolted away.

  “Just a dream,” he said with an amused snort. He closed his eyes and took several steadying breaths. Once his racing heart calmed, he swung down from the tree and slung his rucksack over his shoulders. A queer sensation, leftover from the dream, prickled the fine hairs on his nape as he resettled the drape of his cloak. He froze as his eyes swept the ground where the doe had been mere moments before, seeing not cloven-hooved tracks but those of tiny, bare feet.

  Tristan swept his arm through the willow’s branches and headed eastward as quickly as his sore feet could manage.

  Chapter 16

  “I’m lost,” Tristan muttered as he squatted over a hole dug into the ground, his britches around his ankles. Cold sweat prickled his hairline as his gut growled like an angry badger, and he pressed a balled fist to his abdomen to ease stabbing cramps. He ignored what his body was doing as best he could. “Sixteen days. I should have been there by now.”

  He kicked dirt over the foulness in the hole as he laced his britches and glowered at the forest. Sixteen days should have been ample time to reach Akemaar or stumble across the River Ossifor. How hard could it be to find a river? All I had to do was travel easterly. I should’ve walked right into it.

  He was not sure he had managed to keep his direction on his trek through the woods. The storm that had caught him after leaving Dorishad had indeed stalled, soaking the land in drizzling rain that obscured the sky for a fortnight. The clouds diffused sunlight to such a degree that he could not tell east from west.

  The land further complicated matters. Each day found him climbing steeper hills, slipping and sliding down rain-slicked slopes, or wandering narrow canyons and ravines as the air grew cooler. Aspen and birch leaves loaned brilliance to the forest with smatterings of vibrant color. Autumn was on its way, and earlier than expected. He passed fewer oaks, their broad canopies and stout trunks replaced by dense stands of slender pines with lush ferns growing thick around his knees. Even if the rain stopped and the sky cleared, he suspected he would not have the vaguest idea of where he was. He was unable to see more than a hundred yards in any direction.

  Worse than being lost, wet, and tired was his dwindling supply of food. The bread was long gone, eaten first for fear that it would grow moldy and inedible. The ham, salted and smoked as it was, was suspect; he wondered if it was the reason for having to stop and hurriedly drop his britches when his belly cramped. He seldom dipped into the preserves, as he wanted to make them last as long as possible. The cheese had moldered, but it was a kind that was better for it.

  Whenever he found wild berries, he picked the bushes clean. Blackberry, huckleberry, and raspberry, the fruits were all smaller and sweeter than those grown in Dorishad. He discovered a wild grove of apple trees, but most of the fruit had fallen and rotted – and the few small apples he picked were fermenting on the stem. Dougan once explained why wild fruit was sweeter than cultivated fruit; he tried remembering the veteran’s reasoning, but the agricultural lesson was dull and he had not paid attention.

  He could not escape his growing hunger no matter how he tried to distract himself, and found fewer wild fruits he could eat as the food in his bag disappeared. He camped beside another lake on the seventeenth night, the surface a leaden mirror beneath a misty sky. Fish periodically snapped insects from the water’s surface, and he cursed himself for not thinking to take twine and hooks as part of his stolen gear.

  Not that he could have started a fire; the wood was too wet. Huddled in his cloak with the hood pulled low over his face, Tristan wanted to remove his cold, clammy clothes and put on something cleaner, drier, and warmer. The spare clothes stuffed in the rucksack’s bottom were musty but remained dry. He resisted changing; there was no way to clean what he wore, and he had no intention of allowing them to mildew in the bottom of the sack.

  Snorting to clear his sinuses – which, somehow, were both stuffed and runny – he tried to find a bright spot in the misery. “At least nobody has caught up with me yet.”

  He sometimes wondered if anyone was looking for him. The thought of being found, fed, and taken home held genuine appeal. Now that he had run off some of his irritation with Anthoun and Dougan, he would have welcomed their shouting – if he could have a bowl of Karilen’s stew while they did so. More than once he had considered abandoning his adventure, but suspected finding his way home would be as difficult as reaching Akemaar was proving to be. Even if he figured out where he was, he did not have enough food to return to Dorishad.

  Barring his arrival at Akemaar, he needed to find some hermit in the depths of the woods from whom he could beg food and a night’s shelter.

  Searing pain shot through his bowels, forcing him to stop and unlace his britches. He pulled his cloak forward to avoid fouling it as he squatted beside a tree. “Wouldn’t that be fitting? My first adventure, and I die of dysentery.”

  BY THE TWENTIETH DAY, Tristan was dehydrated and feverish, and his food was gone. He reasoned that the lattermost condition might be good, as his belly no longer vomited or passed through anything he consumed. Any doubts about being lost were gone. Unless the maps were grossly inaccurate, he ought to have reached the River Ossifor by now despite his frequent need to rest.

  He conceded the possibility that he might have become confused about his direction of travel and that he was walking in circles. Without a clear view of the sky, he could not be sure which direction he faced. More than once, treacherous terrain and rushing water had forced him to diverge from his chosen path. It was possible, too, that he had followed the banks of the small lakes he found too far to maintain his northeasterly course.

  Too wet and miserable to focus on anything other than putting one foot in front of the other, he no longer paid attention to his surroundings. Eating all the food had lightened the rucksack, but the water soaked into the wool shell and fleece lining of his cloak made up for that weight. Dense ferns slapped his legs and tangled his ankles, and their fronds hid uneven ground. He scratched himself raw through his linen shirt, uncertain whether his raw skin was from chafing wet cloth and leather or the result of fleas and lice. Given the prickly, squirmy sensations in his short beard, he would not have been surprised if he transported colonies of both vermin.

  Blistered feet protesting, he slogged onward. He felt like laying down and dying, but an inborn stubbornness refused to allow that until he fell and could no longer rise. Though the air grew warmer around midday, it was a negligible difference; his breath formed thin, faint clouds in front of his face before fading into the ever-present drizzle.

  Distracting himself from his misery by thinking of Jayna was exchanging one torment for another; he was feverish enough to make waking daydreams appear all too real. He saw her as though she stood in front of him – the sparkle in her golden-brown eyes and the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, the way her laughter revealed a slightly turned front tooth. Pine-rich air resembled the scent he had come to recognize as her own.

  “What was it Dougan said? ‘Only two things cause a man to take all wit and sensibility a
nd leave them in the middens, and that’s love and vengeance.’” Well, he was right. I love her, and I’ve gone and left all wit and sensibility behind.”

  He ought to have told Jayna how he felt. Much as he feared her rejection because of his orphan status, he knew better. If she turned down his declaration it would be because of who, not what, he was. It irritated, though, when he recalled how she made eyes at the knights. He was still young enough that his sense of self-worth crumpled when comparing himself to those young men.

  The irony of possibly dying to prove himself – to himself and everyone else – did not escape him.

  GLOAMING ON THE TWENTY-third day found Tristan climbing a craggy ridge’s steep but smooth slope. Rocky cliffs thrust skyward through the close-grown pines, their red-brown faces darkened by the persistent rains. His optimism had returned when his fever had broken overnight. Though his hunger and a persistent weakness remained, he had set out from the muddy hollow where he had slept as soon as dawn brightened the sky.

  The absence of his fever restored a measure of clear thinking. After studying Anthoun’s maps, he knew ranges of rugged hills comprised the geography to Dorishad’s east and north. As he had been climbing in altitude since leaving the hamlet, he could orient himself reasonably well. He knew, too, that the River Ossifor cut through foothills as it descended out of Anahar. It stood to reason that he could reorient himself and, possibly, see the river from an elevated position if he climbed to the hill range's summit.

  From there, his arrival at Akemaar was a matter of eventuality.

  I may have gotten myself turned south or southeast, though. The hill country depicted on Anthoun’s maps did not run strictly north and south; in fact, several separate ranges crumpled the land between Dorishad and the river which formed the western border of Shreth and the Hegemony of Ravvos. If that were the case, he would eventually be able to orient himself when he overlooked the Ashana Sea from atop towering cliffs.

  Now that his guts had settled and he had reassured himself about his direction, his most immediate concern was hunger. He doled out his preserves and scrounged what berries he could find, but it had been eight days since he had last eaten anything significant. From Anthoun’s lessons, he knew people could go about three weeks without food before their bodies failed them. Intent on not being seen lest Dorishad’s hunters track him, he now hoped to find a hermitage or hamlet where he might purchase food.

  His plan’s flawed wisdom became evident as he realized he was well and truly lost. No one knew where he had gone, and he did not want to die without someone at least knowing where he had been. Once he reached Akemaar, he would send a letter to Dorishad assuring Karilen – and through her Anthoun and Dougan – that he was safe and well. Despite his current misery, he was uncertain about divulging his intended destination. Dougan would drag him home by the ear if he caught up with him.

  Tristan debated whether he should send Jayna a separate letter explaining himself and perhaps suggest that she join him at some point. He decided against doing so. Now that his morbid thoughts of dying lost in the woods had passed, his doubts about expressing his feelings returned. A better plan was to establish himself somewhere before sending a letter baring his heart. He wanted to be in a position to move on with his life if she rejected him.

  Until he reached Akemaar, though, all plans were as tangible as smoke on the wind.

  Tristan skidded to a stop when he realized it had been more than a phrase dredged from memory. A gray haze drifted through the gloomy forest, unlike the drizzling veil which had wrapped him for more than a fortnight. There was wood smoke on the breeze, but he was uncertain if he imagined it.

  He exhaled, and the shifting air dragged his steaming breath drifted to his left. His feet turned upwind as he oriented himself toward what he hoped was a campfire or cottage with a warm hearth. The smoke grew stronger with each step, laced with a hint of roasting meat.

  Ferns rattled as his stride lengthened. The failing light made his eyes ache but revealed a warm glow through a maze of pines. A few more moments and the fire came into view, built in a small clearing sheltered from the rain by tangled pine boughs.

  Backlit by flames stood a lean but well-muscled man close to Tristan’s height. Unbound hair framed an unsmiling and angular face, the rich brown of both hair and unkempt beard peppered with gray. Green and gold-flecked brown eyes stared from beneath a furrowed brow, reflecting the colors in the well-made leathers and woolens the man wore beneath a fur-trimmed cloak.

  The youth skidded to a stop as the man lifted his right arm, the hand protected within the basket hilt of a heavy broadsword. Firelight gleamed along the blade’s length, darkening the shadows in the sword’s fuller. The guarded stance and the weapon’s unwavering length warned Tristan that any unwelcome movement could get him killed.

  His throat constricted, and he cleared it with a cough as he eased his cowl to his shoulders. A hulking shape dropped from above before he could speak, crashing into his back and driving his face into wet loam before he could open his mouth to speak.

  Chapter 17

  Pine needles scraped Tristan’s cheek. He struggled to get a knee under himself and leverage himself upright as rocks, broken pinecones, and needles dug into his palms. Numbness radiated through his body as a knee dug into his back and pinned him to the ground. A forearm, hard as an iron bar, crossed his shoulders at the base of his neck, sending ribbons of pain running down his spine.

  Hot breath reeking of garlic and onion flowed across his cheek, stirring the loose strands of auburn hair escaping the edge of his cap and ruffling the short bristles of his beard. The youth slit his eye open and strained to see the face beside his ear.

  A thick, wiry black beard covered a broad brown face beneath a wide nose. Bushy eyebrows crossed a jutting brow. Long, greasy black hair fell in waves around the man’s high cheekbones, the ragged ends sheared off below a square jaw. Hot drool tickled his ear as his attacker’s lips pulled back. Long, sharp canines descended from the man’s upper gums, matched by slightly shorter ones in the lower.

  The animalistic growl resonating through his attacker’s chest triggered a primal fear in the youth. He thrashed against the dirt with a desperate need to flee but froze as the growl became a snarl. Convinced he was about to be eaten by a monster his mind could not comprehend, his bladder released with a spread of wet heat.

  “Enough, Groush,” a voice said, tinged with amusement. “He’s just a boy. A runaway is my guess, and a sickly looking one at that. I doubt he’s any danger to us. Let him up.”

  The snarl broke off as the weight on Tristan’s back lifted, easing the pressure crushing the air from his lungs. He flipped over and scuttled backward on his elbows, opening space between himself and the man named Groush. There was no doubt the strange figure was male. Bare-chested and clad in loose britches and thick boots, coarse charcoal hair covered the man’s chestnut-brown torso. He had never seen anyone with such heavy musculature; the man’s shoulders were half again as broad as his own, supporting arms as thick as Tristan’s thigh.

  Groush narrowed his black eyes and snarled when he noticed the young man staring. The parted lips removed any doubt about the sharp, pronounced canines in the upper gums and a smaller pair in the lower. The wildness of the sound drove Tristan back further, scrambling until his shoulders slammed into the trunk of a tree.

  “Enough. I think you’ve scared the boy sufficiently.”

  Groush’s curled lip relaxed as he moved toward the fire with surprising grace for such a heavy frame. His eyes gleamed as he crouched beside the fire, sliding a sidelong to stare at Tristan as he snuffled the food sizzling on a spit.

  A gloved fist grabbed a handful of Tristan’s clothes and hauled him upright, then pushed his back hard against the tree. The other man’s lean face moved close to his. “What manner of idiot runs through a gloaming forest and into a stranger’s camp? I might have killed you if you looked to be a threat. Who in all hells are you?”

&nb
sp; Tristan bristled, but he was forced to admit he was no threat to anything other than a bowl of soup in his present condition. “No one.”

  “Everyone is someone. Who are you? You’re no woodsman’s son. A runaway apprentice, perhaps? A bonded servant escaping indenture?”

  “Neither, sir. I’m a traveler, heading eastward.”

  The stranger twisted his hand in Tristan’s clothing and bounced him against the tree. “Don’t lie to me, boy. There is nothing east of here worth traveling to without a damned good reason.”

  “I’m trying to reach Akemaar.”

  “Then you’ve gone three days too far south, I’m afraid.” The stranger wrinkled his nose at the stench of urine rising from Tristan’s clothes and released his hold on the youth. “You came out of the west. There are a handful of places in that direction from which you could have come. Two, in truth, though I doubt you came from the larger of those.”

  “How do you know I’m not a woodsman’s son?”

  The stranger sheathed his sword and draped his wrist over the pommel with unconscious ease. “Your clothes are too well made, for one thing. Your boots are all wrong for going through the forest, too. The soles are too thin, the uppers are too soft, and black leather is a terrible choice.”

  Tristan tried to ignore the dampness running down his leg as he stepped away from the tree. He rolled his shoulders to adjust the fall of his cloak and resettle the empty flatness of his rucksack against his back. A muscle where Groush’s knee had dug into his spine twinged, and he winced at the ache. “I work a shop in Dresden Township. I wanted to see more of the world, so I left.”