by Jon Sprunk
Now that he was awake, he began to remember. He had crawled from his camp, hurting and bleeding, through the snow. He didn’t know how long he’d endured, fighting off unconsciousness. Finally, he reached something resembling a road. He seemed to recall a small face peering down at him, or maybe he’d been dreaming. The next thing he knew, he was here. His gear lay in the straw a few feet away, his knives in their sheaths beside the long bundles of his sword and bow, and his satchel.
A noise rustled off to his side. Caim rolled over and gasped at a sudden spasm in his leg. He drew a knife and spun around with the blade extended. A small boy stood in the doorway. Caim let out a slow breath and lowered the weapon. The kid watched him for a moment with large brown eyes and then ran off. Good move. He’s probably off to fetch his brothers.
Caim gathered his clothes and was in the process of easing them over his wounded body when footsteps approached. He managed to pull up his pants and buckle on his suete knives before the door opened. A big man filled the doorway. He wore a simple smock and breeches of rough homespun wool. His work boots were worn and spattered with mud. He took off a wide-brimmed hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his other arm.
“You mend quick,” the man said. “Didn’t expect you’d be up and walking for a couple days yet.”
Caim pulled on his shirt. “Is this your barn?”
The man nodded.
“Thank you for letting me stay.” Caim lifted his bandaged arm. “And for this. I must have looked in pretty bad shape.”
“I’ve seen plenty worse. The sheep are always getting into something or other.”
Sheep. Right.
Talking made Caim realize how thirsty he was. “Could I have something to drink? Some wat-?”
The man bellowed over his shoulder. “Tarn, fetch him a cup from the barrel.”
Lifting the satchel jarred Caim’s lower back. Breathing slow through his nose, he slid the strap over his shoulder along with the bundles. The walls tilted a little as he took the first couple steps, but righted themselves before he reached the doorway. Stepping out into the daylight, Caim shaded his eyes. The sky was a flawless sapphire blue. The barn was situated a score of paces off a snowy road. There was also a small farmhouse and an animal coop. He didn’t see any sheep, but the smells of livestock were pungent.
The little boy ran up, a sloshing clay cup in his hand. Caim accepted it and drained it all at once. The ice-cold water tasted better than wine. Caim thanked him and returned the cup.
“More?” the boy asked.
Caim was tempted, but wanted to get moving before he wore out his welcome. Already the boy’s father was eyeing him a little too close for his comfort. Next would come questions, most of which he didn’t want to answer. These seemed like nice folk. The best thing he could do was leave them alone.
Caim reached inside his satchel. “I’ve got money. For your trouble.”
The man looked down at the coins in Caim’s hand, and then shook his head. With a smack of his lips, he said, “Wasn’t no trouble. But it’d be best if you moved on, now that you’re well.”
Caim nodded and put the money away. As he turned toward the road, the door of the house opened, and a woman appeared. It was hard to guess her age, younger than him maybe, but not by much. She brought over a bundle about the size of a bread loaf and handed it to him. Still warm, it smelled divine. With a nod and a glance at the boy standing behind his father, Caim departed.
It wasn’t until he was down the road that Caim realized the herdsman had been afraid. Not just anxious, but deep down afraid. He understood. The world was a rough place, especially out here in the hinterlands. And strangers with swords meant trouble.
The trail was bumpy compared to the smooth, straight roads of the south, and every impediment was magnified by his condition. Rocky protrusions and patches of ice lurking under the snow made for treacherous footing. He settled into a stiff, shambling gait that didn’t hurt too much. He wasn’t going to win any foot races, but it was better than crawling.
It took his leg about a mile to loosen up to the point where he could take a real stride, but he kept it slow, not wanting to aggravate his injuries. His back was sore already, and his arm throbbed a little. If he’d been in Othir, he would have holed up somewhere comfortable-Madam Sanya’s came to mind-and convalesced. He was daydreaming about a soft feather bed when the humming returned. It wasn’t painful, more irritating than anything, but it bothered him not to know what was causing it. He was feeling his head for bumps when Kit popped up beside him.
“Morning, sunshine. You look awful. Feeling any better?”
He squinted at her through the dazzling sunlight. Kit was wearing a teal dress with a scandalous hemline. She skimmed along through the air, her bare toes not quite touching the snow.
Caim tugged at the sleeve of his injured arm. “I’ll live. Where have you been lurking?”
Kit bent down to study his injured leg, and in the process her skirt lifted another couple of inches. He looked away.
“Scouting, like you always tell me to do.”
“No need to put yourself out. I mean, there’s no need to feel guilty.”
She popped up to her full height, fists resting on her hips. “So this is my fault?”
He flicked his bloodied ear. “Not at all. I mean, you could have warned me that a man-eating bear was about to-”
“Whose bright idea was it to dump the body of a poor, defenseless deer right next to his camp where any old creature could smell it?”
“I wouldn’t have,” he said, “if I’d known you were sleeping on the job.”
“Sleeping! As I remember, you wanted to be alone. Anyway, you survived. So stop complaining.”
Caim stepped into a rut and clenched his teeth as a stabbing pain shot up his leg and through his lower back. He stopped in place, and Kit’s expression transformed in an instant. She rushed closer to his side, and electric tingles ran up his thigh.
“Are you all right? Can I do anything?”
He waited until the pain subsided to a tolerable throb. Then he took a step. When he didn’t fall down, he started off again. Nice and slow. Kit kept pace with him, chattering like a doting mother. It was almost sweet, for about a minute.
“It’s okay, Kit. Take a step back, will you?”
“Fine. Don’t accept my help.”
“I’m all right. Really. Tell me what you found up ahead.”
Kit floated past his head. “That’s what I was going to tell you. There’s a house a little way up the road.”
A sinking sensation pulled Caim’s stomach. He had avoided habitations for most of his journey, only stopping when he needed to resupply or when the desire for news from Othir overrode his instinct for self-preservation.
“Well, more like a bunkhouse, actually,” she said. “But it’s better than sleeping in a snowbank.”
“Is it safe?”
Kit brushed her fingers through his hair. “Safe enough for a big, strong man like you.”
Caim ducked his head away. This wasn’t like Kit. Sure, sometimes she was flirty and crazy, but she’d never been so demonstrative.
She drifted back a few paces. “You’re acting strange. Did that bear rattle your brains loose?”
He quickened his pace, though it caused him pain. He kept expecting Kit to pop up in front of him. After a minute or so, he stopped and looked back. She was gone. He considered saying something, knowing she would hear him wherever she had gone, but he just kept walking.
He climbed low hills and passed stands of scrub. The air was still and crisp, thick with the promise of more snow to come. The trees along the road thinned after a few hundred yards and gave way to a vast prairie. The table-flat Gilvan Steppes stretched from horizon to horizon under the limitless blue sky. He vaguely remembered crossing this land as a child; these plains had seemed like an ocean of nothingness to a boy of eight. As he looked out across the distance, he wondered if he was making a mistake.
What choice do I have? Keep living without knowing?
The trail broadened under his feet until it verged on becoming a true road. Low sod roofs sprouted on the prairie, farmhouses by their looks. A quarter of a candlemark later, he came to a dirt lane flanked by thick hedges. Three young boys stood along the road, kicking at snowbanks. They wore crude rag shoes and coarse jackets that came down below their knees but failed to hide their dirty shins. One of the boys caught sight of Caim and shouted to his fellows, who all turned to watch him. Caim pulled his hood down and continued on his way. His chest constricted as old fears returned, brought on by long periods of solitude. He didn’t spot the slanted roof ahead on the road until he was almost upon it.
This was obviously the bunkhouse Kit had seen. It sat alongside the road. A split-rail fence enclosed a yard and two small outbuildings behind the main house. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from the single brick chimney. Caim adjusted the strap of his satchel and checked his knives.
There was no gate in front, so he followed the uneven path of stones up to the main house and pushed open the weather-beaten door. The dim interior swallowed the daylight as he stepped across the threshold. The smoky air stung Caim’s eyes. The front room took up most of the ground floor. Its walls were bare timber joined with wattle. Two scarred wooden pillars supported the low roof. There were no windows, and no bar either, just a doorway covered by a sheet of dingy canvas leading to a back room, possibly the kitchen. Two long trestle tables occupied much of the floor. Five men sat around the first, smoking from clay pipes and drinking. By their simple clothing and muddy boots, he took them for farmers or ranch hands.
Three men occupied the second table. Two could have been brothers. Both were large and rawboned, though one had long blond hair, and the other black as pitch. The man sitting across from them was a head shorter. A sharp chin protruded from the confines of his hood, which he kept pulled down. All three wore buckskin instead of wool and carried weapons of a sort. Boar spears leaned against the table beside the larger men; their companion had something hidden under his cloak, maybe a sword or a truncheon. The two larger men looked up with dark, sunken eyes as Caim entered, and just as quick went back to their business.
The canvas sheet was shoved aside, and a man emerged from the back. By the wooden mugs in his hands, he was the proprietor. He had a sagging chin and a dark port-wine stain down the side of his neck. His eyes were deep-set with many folds underneath, but in their depths lay a kernel of toughness, the same as his customers, as though they were all chipped from the same quarry.
When he’d served the drinks, the owner regarded Caim with a sour expression. Caim stood as straight as he could manage and tried not to advertise his injuries. His face itched all of a sudden, but he kept his hands by his sides.
“You the innkeep?” Caim asked.
The man wiped his hands on his shirt, which was covered in grease spots. He glanced at Caim’s torn ear and said, “What do you want?”
“A hot meal and a room for the night if there’s one to be had.”
“We’ve no boarding.” The owner waved a hand at a seat at the end of the table nearest the meager fireplace. “But I’ll bring you something to eat.”
Caim crossed the room and leaned his bundles against the wall. The heat from the fireplace lapped against his back as he sat down. He closed his eyes, imagining the warmth creeping into the marrow of his bones. By his best reckoning, he was roughly twenty leagues north of the Nimean border. If he had succeeded in following a northerly track, and if his injuries allowed him to maintain the pace, that would put him in Liovard, Eregoth’s largest town, in a few days.
The three men sitting together seemed to be arguing, but Caim couldn’t hear their words. Then the larger two stood up. Taking up the spears, they went out the door and left the smaller man alone with a trio of cups. Caim leaned back and closed his eyes, minding his own business. The last thing he wanted was trouble.
The sound of shoes scraping over the floorboards dragged his eyelids open. A woman had come out of the back room to bring him a flattened bread plate covered with brown stew and a wooden mug. She didn’t meet his eyes, but that didn’t surprise him; he knew he looked bad, and probably smelled worse. When she started to turn away, he cleared his throat. She hesitated, but gave no other indication she’d heard.
“I’m heading to Liovard. Can you tell me how far it is?”
The woman shrugged. She was about the same age as the innkeeper, with the same tired features of someone who had been driven hard on the wheel of life.
“Orso!” she yelled over her shoulder. “How far to the city?”
The innkeeper looked over from the table of farmers with a scowl. “Two. Maybe three days on foot.”
Caim nodded to the woman. “I’m trying to find a place.” He dredged the name from the dreams of his earliest years. He wasn’t even sure it was right. “Morrowglen.”
“Soja!”
The innkeeper beckoned her, and the woman shuffled away. Her employer, or husband perhaps, cast an ill look at Caim.
“We’ve no boarding!” he grumbled before following the woman into the back.
Caim settled in his chair, and winced as his sore back rubbed against the slats. The other guests had paused again to watch him. He returned their gazes until, one by one, they went back to their cups. The cloaked man never looked up.
Caim stared at the steaming pile of runt potatoes and carrots on his plate. The heat at his back, so delicious just minutes ago, was oppressive now. He took a sip from the cup and almost spat it out. Pieces of millet floated in the bitter beer. He started to put it down, but then took another slug.
The sound of hoofbeats outside almost caused him to spit it out. On the road, horses meant rich people or soldiers, and either way it spelled trouble. Caim placed his hands on the tabletop. There was only one way out unless the back room had an exit. The other patrons cast glances around at the sounds from outside, but otherwise stayed as they were when the door slammed open. Caim eased his chair back out of the light of the fireplace.
A group of men in damp leather armor and steel caps entered and stamped the snow from their boots. Five in number. No uniforms, but they wore enough hardware to make sure everyone knew they meant business. Then a sixth entered, wearing a steel cuirass over a mail byrnie; his riding boots were muddy from the road.
Soldiers. Just what I don’t need.
Everyone in the room bent farther over their drinks at the sight of the new arrivals. All conversation stopped. The crackle of the fire popped loud in the sudden silence. As the soldiers took seats at the table, pushing the farmers down to make room, the innkeeper hurried through the curtain with fistfuls of foaming mugs. He nodded as he set them down, but by the downward curve of his mouth he was anything but glad to see his new guests.
“Good day, my lords.”
One of the soldiers, the largest, tossed a couple coins on the table. “We need something to eat. And fodder for our mounts. See to it.”
The owner bowed as he collected the money, and then departed back through the curtain. There was a ruckus in the back, accompanied by the sound of breaking clay, and the soldiers laughed to each other. Their captain sat with his back to the wall and minded his cup. He looked younger than the rest. Even without his armor or the expensive cavalry sword with its wire-wrapped hilt at his side, Caim would have guessed him to be the leader. He held himself a little apart from the others and had more of a care for his appearance. Likely he was some minor lord’s fourth son, reduced to serving in the army for self-advancement.
While the soldiers drank and spoke among themselves, the cloaked man at Caim’s table stood up and headed toward the door. It looked like he might make it without incident until one of the soldiers called out.
“Ho there!”
The caller stood up, as did one of his brother soldiers, while the rest watched on. The officer did not stir, but he looked up over the rim of his mug. The cloaked man kept walking.
Big mistake.
The soldiers on their feet moved to intercept him, and the others were rising now, too. The farmers bent over their table as if minding their own business, except for one. Older than the rest, he was downright ancient, with a full white beard that hung down to his navel. Of them all, only he dared to raise his head and watch.
One of the soldiers grabbed the cloaked man’s arm and yanked him to a halt. “Where you off to?”
The other trooper snatched back the hood to reveal a youthful face with a hawkish nose, topped by a mop of unruly black hair. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen or eighteen. The soldiers grinned at each other.
“What’s this?” the first asked. “He looks a little young to be out wandering without his mother.”
The cloaked youth looked away, but said nothing. By this time, the big soldier had come over. Still holding his mug, he grabbed the boy by the hair and forced his head back.
“You with the army, boy?”
The first soldier poked the youth in the kidney. “Speak up, boy. We’re talking to you.”
The big soldier threw back the boy’s cloak and whistled as he reached down. He drew out a sword and held it up. It was a northern short sword called a spatha, with a straight blade and a narrow guard. This one had a bronze hilt and a dull steel blade that showed the dents of a blacksmith’s hammer.
“You better be explaining yourself,” the big soldier said.
The officer came over. “What have you got, Sergeant?”
The sergeant dropped the sword to the floor where it rattled with a hollow clang. “A deserter is my guess.”
“Is that true? Are you a deserter from His Grace’s army?”
“Leave him be!” the oldster sitting at the table yelled. “He ain’t harming nobody.”
The officer gestured, and the other three soldiers hauled the farmers to their feet and shoved them against the wall. The old man protested, and was cuffed across the mouth, which only made him curse them more roundly.
