by R. T. Kaelin
She bent over, grabbed the bag, and stood tall.
“Let’s see if you grabbed anything useful.”
As she started to work on the rope, Rhohn struggled to stand upright. Once he had, he was surprised to find that he could put weight on his right leg. It still hurt, but without the shaft in the muscle, the pain was bearable.
Testing his range of motion, he asked, “How did you know the arrow would come out?”
Struggling with the knot on the bag, she answered, “It spun in your leg. A barbed arrow usually catches on muscle or bone.”
Rhohn lifted his gaze to her.
“Usually? And what happens when it doesn’t?”
“A lot of screaming.”
She glanced up at him and gave a quick, teasing wink before setting back to working on the knotted bag.
Shaking his head, Rhohn moved to pick up his belt and buckled it around his waist. He was a muddy mess, covered in a soupy mixture of wet dirt and grass. With a sigh, he tried to wipe as much of the muck as he could from the blade before sheathing it. He would need to clean it properly as soon as possible before it lost its edge.
A soft, distracted curse from the girl drew his attention.
“This blasted knot is impossible!”
She was still working on the rope and not having much luck with it.
Rhohn scanned the horizon to the north and west. Still no movement. Glancing back to the girl, he asked, “Where’d you learn how to treat arrow wounds…” He trailed off, realizing that they had not exchanged names. “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”
The young woman glanced up from the knot.
“You first.”
Following Borderlands custom, Rhohn introduced himself and his heritage.
“I am Rhohn Lurus, son of Ezek and Nebedee Lurus, born of the village Dashti.”
He stared at the girl, expecting her to announce her legacy as well. Instead, the girl gave him a small smile and shook her head, amused.
“Truly, Mud Man? Tradition still holds sway over you out here?”
“Dust Man,” he corrected her.
Her smile widened and the dimples returned.
“Right now, you look more ‘Mud Man’ to me. Here, get this open—” she tossed the bag underhand to him “—and I’ll tell you my name.”
He caught the burlap sack one-handed, and studied the rope. The knots appeared as tight as the others had been so he slid his sword free of its sheath a few inches and ran the rope back and forth along its edge.
The girl stepped closer, watching him, and said, “As to where I learned to treat wounds, I was in Gobas up until the Sudashians attacked. There were plenty of injuries to practice on.”
Rhohn’s gaze shot up from the bag and fixed on the girl.
“There is fighting at Gobas?”
“No. There was fighting at Gobas. Not anymore. The Sudashians took it.”
Rhohn could not believe what he was hearing.
“Gobas has fallen?! When?”
“Three days back?” answered the woman. Her eyebrows drew together. “Or was it four?” She was quiet a moment before shrugging her shoulders. “Hells, I don’t know exactly.”
“But you are sure it fell?”
“Quite, Mud Man. I was there until the day before the battle when Lord Nizeman ordered the city evacuated. I was heading back to Demetus to find my family when Nimar’s family kidnapped me.”
“Lord Nizeman?” asked Rhohn. “Who’s Lord Nizeman?”
The woman gave a careless shrug.
“Some baron from near Gobas. He was in charge at the end.”
Rhohn was confused.
“Where was Duke Vanson?”
“That is a wondrous question, Mud Man. No one knew. Rumors said he and half the nobles disappeared the night the Sudashians showed up outside the walls.”
Rhohn’s eyes opened wide in stunned disbelief.
“He ran?”
“It would certainly seem so,” said the young woman. Glancing back to the horizon, she said, “Look, open the bag to see if it’s worth keeping so we can start riding. Then you can ask all the questions you wish and I’ll do my best to answer them.”
Even though a hundred questions burned inside him, Rhohn returned to slicing open the braided twine. She was right. They needed to be on the move.
When the rope finally fell away, he ripped open the bag and looked inside. The aroma of salted, spiced meat rushed to fill his nose, prompting a quick, hungry grumble from his stomach. Peering inside, he found a couple dozen dark strips of dried boar meat. The cloth lining of the burlap bag was coated with a waxy substance that had kept the inside dry.
He was about to report on their luck and findings when he saw a second, smaller drawstring pouch made of a light tan leather partially buried by the strips of meat. Curious, Rhohn reached inside to grab the fist-sized bag. Just before his fingers touched the leather, a sensation of intense, dark foreboding filled him. A crushing, bone-chilling wave of emptiness enveloped him, swallowing him and the world around him. All light was sucked from the sky, turning the plains blacker than a cloudy, one-moon night.
As quickly as the feeling overcame him, it vanished. He pulled his hand back a few inches and stared at the pouch warily.
“What’d you steal, Mud Man?”
Rhohn glanced up at the girl briefly before staring back to the pouch. He reached out with a single finger of his burned hand and prodded at the tan leather.
Nothing happened.
Gripping the pouch, he pulled it free of the meat-filled burlap sack. The leather was soft and supple with golden-thread braiding binding the two halves together. One side of the stitching was ripped at the top and bottom. A leather strip appeared to be missing, one that would allow the purse to be strapped to a belt.
“What is it?” asked the girl. There was a sudden hint of trepidation in her voice.
“A leather pouch,” murmured Rhohn. “A nice one, too. This belonged to a merchantman. Or noble.”
“What’s inside?”
“Let’s find out.”
Sticking the bag of dried meat under his arm, he undid the drawstring of the leather pouch and turned the small bag upside down, over his left hand. A smooth, black, oblong stone the size of his thumb fell into his palm. He was struck by how heavy the glossy rock was, considering its small size. It seemed heavier in his hand now, than it had been in the pouch. A moment later, he realized it was also incredibly cold.
The girl took a few hesitant steps forward, her gaze locked on the stone. The expression on her face was a mix between bewilderment and outright fear.
In a tiny voice, she said, “Put it away.”
Rhohn studied the girl. All of her confidence was gone.
“Why?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know. It’s…” She trailed off, eyes fixed on the obsidian stone. A moment later, she glared at Rhohn. “Do it, Mud Man! Put it away!”
He stared down at the smooth rock briefly before slipping it back into the pouch, noting for the first time that the interior was lined with golden-thread. Dropping the leather pouch into the bag of dried boar meat, he looked up to the girl and found her staring toward the horizon, back in the direction where the slavers’ camp lay.
A frown on her face, she said, “We really should go. If they aren’t coming after me, they’ll come after that.”
She was right. The pouch alone was worth quite a few gold ducats. He wondered how much the stone could fetch. He almost wished he had left the bag in the cart now.
The girl moved over to the horse, turned to look back at him, and said, “Time to go, Mud Man.” Her voice was strained. Clearly, something about the stone had shaken her.
Surveying the area, he retrieved everything that marked their passage. If the slavers did follow, he did not want to make their task easier. By the time he approached the horse, the girl’s dark mood had seemingly disappeared.
She looked up as he approached, s
miled wide, and said, “I think you should ride in front, Mud Man.”
Rhohn cocked his only eyebrow.
“You seem confident you are coming with me.”
“I helped you with your leg.”
“And I helped you with the slavers.”
“How about this?” asked the woman. “If the slavers come back, you deal with them. And if wound-rot sets in on your leg, I deal with that. And I’ll tell you all about Gobas if you wish.”
Rhohn eyed the young woman, considering her offer.
“You still owe me your name.”
“Tiliah,” said the girl, flashing her wide, dimpled smile at him. “Oh—I am sorry, Mud Man. You prefer tradition, don’t you?” Facing him, she performed a deep, deliberate bow and said in an overly formal tone, “I am Tiliah Alsher, daughter of Joshmuel and Debrah Alsher, of the village Drysa. My pleasure is to meet you in peace today.”
“Not one for customs, are you?”
“Customs are for peacetime, Mud Man. They’re a waste of time now.”
Rhohn nodded, fully agreeing with her point. Tiliah was wiser than her years suggested.
Looking at the horse, she asked, “Will you need help up, Mud Man? Or do you think you can manage on your own?”
Rhohn’s eyes narrowed. Without a word, he handed the collected items to Tiliah, placed both hands on the horse’s back, bounced on his left leg, and launched himself up, swinging his wounded right leg over the rear of the beast before sitting upright. His calf only hurt a little from the effort.
Looking down to her, he asked, “Will you need help up, Tiliah?”
Tiliah eyed him and smiled.
“I can manage on my own, thank you.”
She handed him the bag and other items before walking a dozen paces behind the horse. Hiking her dress to her thighs, she sprinted forward, placed both hands on the mare’s rear, and vaulted up, landing behind him. Rhohn was impressed yet again. He had inadvertently gained a companion, but at least she was proving a strong and capable soul.
After taking one last look at the northwestern horizon, Rhohn kicked the sides of the horse firmly, sending the beast into a quick trot eastward to chase the tail end of the storm. Tiliah slipped her arms around him to hold on. After a dozen strides, he turned his head halfway around and said, “Gobas. What happened?”
After a long, drawn-out pause, the young woman spoke, her voice hollow and empty.
“The gates of the Nine Hells opened, Mud Man.”
Rhohn let out a long, sad sigh.
“Tell me everything.”
Chapter 14: Past
Moving through the tomble village, Broedi felt like an ebonwood tree amongst a field of oak saplings. Most of Tinfiddle’s stone houses were a single story, meaning the straw roof peaks and their stone chimneys were but a foot taller than Broedi. From the field carts, the tools resting on walls, the stacks of cut wood for stoves, the buckets and barrels, sacks of feed, everything in Tinfiddle was tomble-sized. Even the beasts of burden were smaller than was typical.
As Hanno led them into the town, they passed three tombles guiding a number of miniature oxen down the street toward a burnt-orange barn. The beasts’ shoulders only came up to Broedi’s waist yet they still topped the tombles who were driving them to the barn. He supposed the tombles purposely bred them smaller.
As they walked through the tidy, orderly town, Hanno pointed out the more notable locations in Tinfiddle. They passed smithies, tanners, cloth-spinners and other trade shops common to most any duchy town. A three-story building was the Elder’s House, where official town business was conducted.
The trio crossed the town green, an open lawn kept manicured by a small herd of belled sheep wandering the grass, munching as they went. Three tall poles stood upright in the middle of the green, spaced thirty paces apart in a straight line. As they walked past, Broedi noted Nundle staring at the poles curiously and wondered why they held the tomble’s attention.
Hanno made sure to identify a number of small taverns along their route, ensuring that Nundle paid close attention to the location of the Joyful Bear and the reportedly ‘legendary spiced turnips.’ Nundle grinned wide, eyeing the inn and its sky-blue sign painted with a caricature of a grinning, white bear.
The residents of Tinfiddle were equal parts friendly and curious. Most everyone offered a polite ‘Pleasant afternoon to you’ or ‘Good days ahead’ as they passed while stealing quick, furtive looks afterwards. Broedi returned each greeting he received without paying much attention to them. His mind was focused elsewhere, worried about confronting Tobias. He hoped his old friend would listen.
“Here comes Custodian Belor,” said Hanno, pointing down the street.
Broedi glanced ahead to see an older, plumper tomble approaching them, his head absent even a single hair. He wore a brown coat pulled over a brass-buttoned, black vest and white, wide-collared shirt. His pants hung loose, brushing the tops of his leather shoes. The outfit was a few steps above the simple, practical garb most of the tombles wore in Tinfiddle.
Hanno said, “He likes to meet every stranger that visits.” With a grin, he added, “And you two qualify as strange.”
“At least that’s the same,” said Nundle. After a questioning look from Broedi, he added, “The custodian heads the town council at the Elder House.” He paused, glanced at Hanno, and added guardedly, “At least in Deepwell, he did.”
Hanno nodded.
“Here as well, Nundle.”
“Hold a moment, Hanno!” called Custodian Belor, hand upraised. “I’d like a word with them.”
Hanno slowed to a stop in the middle of the dirt path, forcing Nundle and Broedi to halt behind him. They stood in an intersection of three streets where the main road they had been following split. While they waited for the custodian to approach, Broedi absentmindedly ran his eyes over the stone buildings that lined all three streets.
His gaze fell on the house directly in front of them, a single-story stone building with four round cross-hatched windows. Pale yellow straw, bound with reddish-brown cord, made up the roof and looked like it should be replaced in the next season or two. The faint whiff of mold Broedi caught drifting from the straw confirmed it.
As he eyed the house, something inside of him twitched, Thonda’s gift, the ‘sixth sense’ many animals exhibited.
He studied the building, wondering what had triggered the sensation. As he stared, a dark shadow passed from one of the rounded windows, disappearing from view. Someone was inside. Someone who did not want to be seen.
Broedi sighed and looked away quickly. He would need to be very careful how he played this.
Custodian Belor reached them, stopped, and examined them both for a moment. His eyes lingered on Nundle’s chestnut horse, prompting a short shake of his head. With a polite smile, he said, “Welcome to Tinfiddle, strangers. I apologize for the rude greeting at the bridge.” The tomble had a particularly wide and squashed nose, as if an invisible hand were pushing it into his face.
“Do not trouble yourself,” replied Broedi graciously. “Your response is understandable.”
He kept his eyes focused on the custodian before him, but he listened intently in the direction of the house. He could hear quiet breathing inside. Someone was trying to hide.
“Ah! Good, then,” answered Custodian Belor, shifting his gaze to Nundle. “You are a long way from home, aren’t you, friend?”
“Quite far, sir,” replied Nundle respectfully.
Custodian Belor hooked his thumbs into two small pockets in his vest, holding his coat back to the sides as a result, and asked, “You two are here to see Toby, are you?”
Something in the custodian’s tone made Thonda’s gift twitch again. Keeping his tone even, Broedi replied, “We were in the area, and thought we might stop by and say hello.”
Custodian Belor remained quiet, studying Broedi, the smile that was frozen on his face appearing a bit wooden. After a moment, he said, “Hanno, you can go. I will handle t
hings from here.”
Hanno nodded and said, “Yes, sir.” He gave a friendly nod to Broedi and said to Nundle, “Should you wish to share stories, I’ll be at the Joyful Bear later. I’ll be sure they have your turnips ready for you.”
Nundle smiled wide.
“That would be wondrous, Hanno. I look forward to it.”
Throughout the exchange, Broedi eyed the custodian carefully. The tomble was hiding something.
Hanno wished the pair good memories, turned, and headed down the street, glancing over his shoulder a few times as they retreated, visibly curious.
“Well, strangers,” announced Custodian Belor. “I am sorry to say that you just missed Toby. I happened to pass him on his way in from the fields and he mentioned he was headed down the road to Rindleview for eveningmeal. He has a weakness for the rabbit and radish stew they serve at one of the inns there.”
Broedi crossed his arms and set his feet.
“That is fine. We will wait for him to return.”
A soft, muted curse emanated from inside the house.
Custodian Belor’s smile remained unchanged.
“Well, if you’d like, I can show you to a place you might get something to eat while you wait. Perhaps we could go to the Joyful Bear now? I will take you there personally.” He took a few steps forward and put his arm around Nundle’s shoulder, while shooting a nervous look at Nundle’s horse. Guiding Nundle around to face the direction they had come, Custodian Belor said, “I would ask you to share your story with me, friend. Peldi told me you were from the Boroughs? Truly?”
Custodian Belor, Nundle, and the horse had made it a dozen tomble-paces down the road before the town’s leader paused to turn and stare back at Broedi. He knew the village leader expected him to follow. He did not.
The custodian waved his hand, beckoning to Broedi.
“Come, large friend, I will buy you a cider—or three for one so large. It is the end of last year’s batch—one of the best we’ve had in years!”
Nundle’s eyes grew wide in anticipation. Looking to Broedi, he said, “Cider, Broedi! They have cider!”
A number of the town residents hovered nearby, trying to appear as if they were busy doing something when Broedi suspected that they were just being nosey. The custodian’s gaze nervously bounced between the gathering crowd, the two strangers, and the house Broedi was confident Tobias was hiding within.
