by Kalliver, AJ
‘Passing Through’
(A 12,000 word Novelette)
By AJ Kalliver
Kindle Edition 1.0
Copyright © 2012 by AJ Kalliver
http://www.ajkalliver.com/
Cover design by Wicked Book Designs
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Other stories by AJ Kalliver
Only Echoes Remain
What Warriors do
Dedication
I believe that the best way to learn is from example. This is as true for storytelling as it is for anything else. I’ve read a lot of novels (and I mean a lot) but the very first book I read that was legitimately sci-fi or fantasy was one I bought when I was twelve years old: ‘The White Dragon’.
Some of you will of course know that this isn’t the first book of that particular series, but I didn’t realize that at the time. Nope, all I knew was that this one had the coolest-looking cover of any on the shelf, so that’s the one I bought. And even though I had to try and figure out what was going on without having read the first two books, I still loved it (which is perhaps a good indication of how well-written those books are). I ended up reading all three, then rereading them, then rereading them again.
Those books are largely responsible for my love of reading, and I owe a huge debt to the one who created them: Anne McCaffrey.
Thank you, Lady, for those stories and for all the others as well.
You are missed.
“Passing Through”
By
AJ Kalliver
If she had seen him only a minute sooner, it would have gone very differently. A few breaths’ warning, another fifty paces of distance, and her bow could have been uncased and strung, with a black-fletched arrow sent winging to bury itself in the stranger’s throat. Instead of reaching her, he would have gone tumbling back down the steep path, perhaps even all the way down the hillside to the old road itself.
If only. As it was, she barely had time to throw her half-mended armor aside, lunge to her feet and snatch up her sword before the man stepped into her camp. Not that she was so careless, as a general rule, or often given to daydreaming instead of watching her surroundings. It was just that, well….
It had been raining steadily all day, only ending in late afternoon, which meant that the forest remained thoroughly sodden as the sun began to set, unseen, behind the mist-shrouded hills. Lyra had not ventured from her camp at all, choosing instead to mend her gear and prepare for the journey that the following day would bring. Splitting her attention, with one eye on the heap of leather and iron in her lap, and the other attempting to watch the trail below, was difficult to say the least. Added to that, the constant plop-splot-plat of tardy raindrops falling from barren branches to the rotted leaf carpet of the forest floor tended to mask any other sounds until they were quite near.
All of those excuses were good and fine, of course, aside from the fact that she’d let a stranger come within a dozen paces before she even noticed him. Now, as he reached the top of the path that led to her sheltered clearing, he halted suddenly as he found her waiting there.
“Apologies, m’lady,” he said, spreading his hands wide to show them empty. “I weren’t trying to sneak up on you, I was only lookin' for a safe spot t'spend the night.”
She did not offer an immediate reply. Instead she scrutinized him carefully while considering his words.
A handspan shorter than her own height, he was nevertheless wide-shouldered and well-built. While he bore neither shield nor bow, a heavy-looking shortsword hung from his left hip, balanced by a long dagger on his right. His dark leather armor looked worn, yet serviceable, and a small pack was slung across his back. A few moments more, spent scanning him with senses other than simple sight, showed neither spells nor enchanted items anywhere about his person.
Lyra sighed.
“It’s understandable, not wanting to sleep upon the road where anyone might stumble across you,” She allowed reluctantly. “Still, I would rather not share my camp with strangers.” She gestured towards the trail below, using the hand which held her blade to make sure he’d seen the weapon. “One can’t be too careful; there are brigands abroad in these hills.”
He nodded, eyes flicking briefly to her sword.
“Aye, there’s been rumors t'that effect.” He smiled then, a bit too slyly for her tastes. “A good idea, then, for the both of us t'stay close together 'til we’re out of these here nasty woods, eh? For protection.”
This did not please Lyra at all, yet there was little to be done for it. Remote as this place was, it remained an oft-traveled path from the lowlands of the South to the realms of the Mountain Lords, some fifty leagues to the northwest. Not the safest route, by any means, only the shortest. Travelers upon these trails tended to be individuals seeking great haste, or a measure of secrecy, or both. This man had a dangerous look about him, enough so that she was unwilling to risk a confrontation by trying to force him to leave.
Besides, even if he departed now, it might be only to find a place on the trail ahead to lay an ambush. Here, at least, she could keep her eye upon him. Derofehr, tethered a short distance away, ceased her cropping of the sparse green grass that grew there and gave an uneasy whicker. Lyra nodded in complete agreement with the animal.
“As you say, then.” She gestured again with her sword, this time to the far side of the tiny clearing that perched, shelf-like, on the side of the wooded slope. “Just stay clear of my horse, and myself. Neither of us are in a trusting mood of late.”
He grinned, bobbed his head, and moved to the indicated spot, slipping the pack from his shoulder. As he delved inside for supplies, he glanced about him curiously.
“You’ve been here for a bit, haven’t you?”
It was plain enough to experienced eyes that she had, so Lyra did not bother with a reply. Resuming her seat against the tree, she lay the sword against her thigh and took up the armor again. There was a spot along the left side, just below the arm, where a blade had found the gap between two of the iron plates and cut the leather clean through. She’d scrubbed away the crusted blood already, before the man arrived. Now she took up a heavy needle and used a length of woven gut to stitch shut the gaping hole. Twilight did not last long beneath the gloomy trees of this place, forcing her to work hastily. There was time enough to finish while there was still enough light to see, if only just. As she worked, Lyra felt his gaze upon her, though she took care not to acknowledge his stare.
She knew well enough what he saw: A moderately tall woman, slender yet strong-looking. Her face was rather pale for someone who spent so much time outdoors, with taut cheeks and a smooth brow. Those features were at odds with the silver streaks that threaded through her long hair; a sleek mane that was otherwise as glossy and black as polished jet. Lyra knew herself to be comely enough, some even called her beautiful, though that was not what this stranger was seeing as he looked at her. She had the distinct, disquieting feeling that he was searching for weakness, looking for any advantage he might find. He proved as much a few moments later, when she set the now-mended armor aside, and winced slightly as a jab of pain went through her.
“Have you been hurt?” His tone was far from threatening; it was even friendly. When she glanced up, however, Lyra thought she saw a trace of eagerness in his face. He hid it quickly, putting on a blank expression. “I’ve a bit of skill with herbs, and tending wounds, if you wish—“
“No!” Her curt reply prompted a hurt look from the man, about which she cared not at all. She rose to her feet, spending some effort to
make the movement seem graceful and easy. “I was wounded in battle, some days ago.” A half-truth, that, which was more than a total stranger really deserved of her. “A small wound,” she added, in case he had gotten any ideas from that one wince of hers, and this time there was no subterfuge at all. She was far from crippled, and more than a match for one swordsman.
Or rather, for any one swordsman likely to be found in this remote, godsforsaken stretch of woods on the fringes of the world.
Lyra went then to tend to Derofehr. The mare was not without wounds of her own, and the dark-haired woman inspected them closely in the gathering darkness. The two cuts were healing well, though the larger would leave an ugly scar. The arrow wound to her shoulder was more troubling; despite Lyra’s best efforts, it was still somewhat swollen, and she feared the mare might not be recovered enough to resume their journey. Not that they had any choice; only a few handfuls of grain remained in the saddlebags at her feet, and even if they had unlimited supplies it would be unwise to remain in these hills any longer. The man across the clearing was ample proof of that.
“Here, here now; easy.” She stroked her hand along the velvet-soft muzzle, using her body to keep the large head turned aside as she spread salve across the place where the arrow had struck. Although it had been a glancing blow, the narrow-tipped dart had been of the sort made to pierce armor, and it had penetrated all too deeply into the muscle there. When she had finished, she stood for a moment, taking comfort in the warm, solid presence. When Derofehr gave a long, questioning sigh, and nudged her gently, Lyra poured out half the remaining grain. The mare needed water, too, and damned if she was going to leave the dark man alone with all the gear while she hiked over the hill to where the nearest spring-fed brook flowed. Instead, she retrieved her own water bottle from amongst her things, noting as she did so that he had spread his blanket a shade too close to her own.
“No fire for us tonight, I’m thinkin’?” he asked, and she shook her head in reply.
“Not unless you want every vagabond and deserter in these hills to come wandering in during the night.”
That prompted a sharp look from him.
“Deserter?”
Lyra ignored him, instead returning to the mare’s side, and pouring water into her cupped palm so that she could drink.
“This is just to tide you till morning,” she murmured into the horse’s ear. “It’s the road for us, tomorrow, and soon we will be done with these cold woods and back down to wide, sunny meadows again.” A last pat, and then she knelt beside the saddlebags, and carefully withdrew a small, hide-wrapped parcel. Carrying it beneath one arm, Lyra returned to where her bedroll lay.
The man was already sprawled upon his own blanket, with his pack beneath his head for a pillow. By this time the darkness beneath the trees was near total, yet she could still discern his eyes following her as she set the bundle alongside her own bed of pine boughs, which she’d gathered days before.
“You’ve not given me your name, traveler,” she said, glancing back at him from where she stood. He gave a careless shrug.
“I’ve not heard yours, neither, m’lady.” She only waited, her gaze steady upon him, until he relented. “Beyen. My name is Beyen.”
It might or might not have truly been his name; she cared little either way. Likewise, she could have lied in return, if she had thought it mattered. She did not.
“I am Lyra,” she stated, absently, her mind already busy with the intricacies of what was about to do. Mundane eyes would have seen only a woman, walking slowly in a circle which held within it her rude bed of pine boughs and blankets. Someone born with a bit of magical talent would have seen the faintly-glowing sphere of energy which she called into being, which grew brighter as she paced the circle three times ‘round. A true magician, one skilled in magic as well as blessed with raw ability, would have seen… more. Any spell could be dismantled, and not just by the one who had created it. Lyra, though, had lived a long time, and knew more than a few tricks. As she stepped into the center and turned slowly in place, her long fingers moved as if twisting and knotting cords visible only to herself. Complex patterns of force came into being, spaced around the perimeter of the simpler spell. A careless or hurried attempt to break her sphere would result in a nasty surprise for the one attempting it. Neither the barrier she wove nor the traps within it were foolproof, of course; nothing ever was. Even so, unless this Beyen was far more than he seemed, or had mighty allies at his disposal, she deemed it likely that she could sleep without waking to a slit throat.
Derofehr, war-trained and properly wary of strangers, could take care of herself.
The warding complete, Lyra sat, pulling off her boots and setting them atop the bundle, which clinked slightly as it shifted. A glance at the man lying a few short paces away showed that he was still staring in her direction, though even her eyes could discern little more than vague shapes now that full night had fallen.
Further discussion, or threats, or warnings, seemed unnecessary, so she contented herself with pulling the woolen blanket over her and shifting her body until she was comfortable. When she closed her eyes she found familiar images of bloody ruin awaiting her; blazing flames and cruel, glittering steel. Screams and sobs and visions of butchery that even now made her breath catch in her throat. With difficulty, she pushed it all aside. Not away; she doubted she would ever be rid of the things she had seen, and heard, and done, but it was possible to gain a bit of distance from it. Enough at least, finally, to sleep.
* * * * *
Once, in the dark hours before dawn, she was awakened from her uneasy slumber by a crackle, and a subdued flash. When she opened her eyes a fraction, she beheld Beyen sitting in an awkward crouch just outside her circle, cradling a hand against his chest and muttering curses. There was a trace of ozone in the air, and she smiled faintly as she touched the tightly-wrapped bundle next to her head. It was still there, so she closed her eyes and slept once more.
When dawn came it was masked by the same gray clouds that seemed to perpetually shroud this inhospitable land. No sun warmed Lyra as she stirred, though enough of the cheerless light filtered through the trees to show her surroundings as she dismantled the warding circle. Her uninvited guest lay still beneath his blanket, his soft snores nearly lost among the morning birdcalls from overhead. With a sigh, she pulled on her boots, hung her sword from her belt, and began gathering fallen branches from the edge of the clearing. She took care to keep him always within her sight, and when she began setting the wood upon a bare patch of earth he finally began to stir.
“Good morning,” she ventured, feeling somewhat more cheery now that the night had passed and she remained unmurdered. “If you’ll fetch water for us,” here she nodded at the small pot that sat near to him. “Then we shall have tea, and a hot meal to see us on our way.”
Beyen sat up, not without a surly look and some scratching beneath his shirt.
“Now you’d venture a fire?” He asked, knuckling one eye as he peered at her. “It would ha’ been more welcome last night, when the chill was deepest.”
Lyra was occupied breaking the dry branches into shorter lengths, and stacking them together to her satisfaction.
“This morning the light will not show us to the hills all around, and we’ll be gone within the hour regardless.” His reply was to grunt, and stand, and take the pot off in search of a stream. When he’d vanished over the crest of the hill, she rubbed her hands together briskly to warm them a bit. It was still cold; her breath fogged the air before her, and she longed to be truly warm before climbing into the saddle for a long day’s ride. With an ease born equally of great strength and long, long practice, she cleared her mind and called up her magic.
It was a tiny spell, this one; hardly worthy of the name though it did serve well enough. From the outstretched fingers of her hand flowed a single, crackling arc of blue-white energy. Barely a hand’s breadth long, and with much snapping and leaping about, it played across the wood
she’d set. Long moments passed, with the bit of tame lightning hissing and sparking, before flames arose and she let the cantrip lapse. The effort involved in channeling such minor forces was negligible, and tired her not at all. She held her hands close to the welcome warmth as the small fire took hold. Across the clearing, Derofehr snorted and stomped a hoof upon the frost-covered ground, causing Lyra to smile just a little.
“Lazy of me, I know,” she said aloud to the mare. “What else is magic, though, if not a way for vile and lazy folk to accomplish what others manage by hard work?” She sighed then, and stared into the flames before her. “And there can be no denying that I am, by any measure, quite vile. Though the lazy part I would perhaps argue.”
The horse, predictably, did not answer. After spending so much of her life alone in places like this one, it often amused the woman to speak so, as if the beast could understand. This morning, however, the jest fell flat. Doing her best to shake off the abrupt darkening of her mood, Lyra busied herself with what supplies were left within her saddlebags.
When Beyen returned she was already preparing a simple meal of cakes and bacon, the last of what she had. He handed her the pot without comment, and she set it at the edge of the flames to heat. He took his turn warming his hands, and she resumed her seat across from him; well out of reach should he try a quick lunge, and with her sword at her knee. There were, after all, brigands abroad in these hills.
Despite that, the morning was quiet, and she found herself in somewhat better humor. Likewise, his singed hand seemed to have taught the man caution. So it was that she chose to relax her guard just slightly, found her brush, and began working at the tangles that sleep had wrought in her hair.
“Where are you bound?” she ventured, when the silence had grown too long. “You are on foot, and not provisioned for a long journey.”
