by H. A. Harvey
“If it rains, we lose the trail entirely and any hope of finding Karen along with it.” Rowan grumbled, unable to argue against the logic of making camp.
Nian and Rowan gathered armfuls of sticks as they made their way to the campsite while Kolel was kind enough to point out those they overlooked. As the last light of day drained from the sky, the small glow of their fire lit the hillside ledge. Kolel saw to his horse, and returned with bundles under each arm. In his right, the Sattal carried a linen sack bulging with some manner of round objects within. The other was wrapped around a waxen leather scroll case. The Sattal tossed the sack to Nian and sat at the fire as he worked at opening the stubborn tube.
“What is this?” Nian asked as he removed a round, translucent sphere whose dark red surface was soft and flexed to the touch.
“They are called dewdrops. A secretion of a bug they keep along the Gold Coast and Tarnigne Badlands, about the size of a chicken. The locals creatively call them dewlings.” Kolel informed them as he grunted and pulled the cap free from the scroll case. “One orb will keep a man hale and hearty for a day. They make decent trail food. They don’t spoil, at least I never heard of one going bad, and I’ve had those the better part of a year.”
Rowan drew a dewdrop from the bag and sniffed at it tentatively, wrinkling his nose. “I think they’ve finally turned on you. They smell like a rug hung between a still and a tannery.”
Nian sniffed his and laughed through a cough, “An old rug.”
“Oh, the smell’s not so great, but it does seem to double as an insect repellent, oddly enough. I dare say the flavor is a stretch better.” As if in evidence of his statement, Kolel plucked one from the bag and popped it into his mouth, biting down on the orb, which gave a small popping sound. Reluctantly, Nian followed suit, biting into the squishy sphere. Once his teeth pierced the leathery surface of the dewdrop, a runny fluid spurted out, filling his mouth. Rowan watched his friend apprehensively as Nian’s eyes widened.
“Et tashes rike hummy!” He exclaimed, his mouth looking like he had just had a tooth pulled or bitten his tongue.
Rowan arced an eyebrow. “Eh?”
Nian swallowed the sticky fluid with some difficulty, “Honey. It tastes like honey.”
“Not far off,” Kolel agreed, “A bit of a meaty core to the flavor but I suppose it’s not too surprising, as it comes from a similar, if quite a bit larger, creature.”
Rowan was finally convinced and popped his into his mouth and, perhaps not to be outdone by his friend, was quick to try to speak past the mouthful of sticky fluid. “Ow kam shumfin shmall sho foul bud tesh sho gud?”
Kolel shrugged, “The same way your simian companion there appears so cumbersome but is, in fact, quite lithe and agile I suppose. Creation is an eccentric genius, she loves to disguise things and hide surprises.”
“Can I have another one?” Nian eyed the bag greedily.
“I suppose it could do you good. You are still healing and we are traveling quite a bit more than you are used to. Take care not to make a habit of eating too many though, my friend. I am told that more than one a day will make you quite fat rather quickly.”
“She?” Rowan queried after swallowing his odd meal.
“Why not? Not so very apt, I suppose. After all, is a stone a man or a woman?” The Sattal drew a bundle of small scrolls from his tube, continuing to speak as he flipped through each leaf of parchment. “But I tend to think of Creation as like a woman; a strange combination of beauty and ferocity that you could examine your entire life and never fully understand, but not have wasted a moment of time in the trying. Also, She never loses an argument . Ah, here we are.”
After sifting through the scrolls, he extracted one and replaced the others half-inserted into their casing. Unfurling the small scroll on a stone lit by the campfire, he revealed it to be a map of some sort, scrawled in charcoal upon a piece of fine parchment. Kolel cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the two boys who were still puzzling over the woman analogy.
“You make maps?” Nian asked, obviously impressed.
“Well, I’m hardly a cartographer, more of a hobby really, but with quite a practical business reason behind it. You can hardly return home to provide new trade routes in far off lands without some sort of bearing to provide the caravaneers, and buying a map in every new region is damned expensive. And, of course, not every region where I go has a map readily available. More to the point, I think I can help pinpoint where our quarry is headed.”
“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Rowan demanded. “We could have saved the full day I spent tracking them!”
“Well, we didn’t have all the information we do now. And, as I said earlier, it helps the mind come to a solution when you are still for a bit. Anyway, we’re here, on the patch of blank to the right edge of the map, that’s Wheelward. I always like to keep Spireward to the top of the map, a little sense of propriety. You see, the sages of Palo’haat denote the ruined spire as the center of the world, so in all their ma. . .” Kolel trailed off as he caught the irritated glares from both boys. “And you are clearly not interested in what is a rather interesting tangent. As I was saying, we’re somewhere in here. I just came from Frosthold, Spireward here. The Njords and Dracis up there wouldn’t tolerate slavers, likely to kill them on sight in point of fact.”
“Slavers?” Nian cut in, “What makes you think the kidnappers were slavers?”
Kolel sighed at the interruption, “Nian, my boy. I am a merchant, and while neither I nor my company would ever have any truck with slavers, it is imperative to any traveler, merchant or otherwise, to be intimately familiar with where they can be found, how they operate, and most importantly, how to avoid them. Kidnappers would have grabbed a single wealthy individual. Only slavers would slow themselves down with so much live mortal cargo. May I continue?”
Rowan and Nian nodded.
“So they aren’t from Frosthold, nor Caer Dunan. Dwarves do their own work and see no value in slaves. They’re nothing if not reliable in their habits. So Spireward neighbors are out. Gateward, where it seemed we were heading, there is the Avan Empire, where the god emperor has forbidden slavery for. . .however many thousand years the golden conqueror has been around. There is also a road along the frontier tributaries, like Tyre, that leads to the Gold Coast. I had thought they might be bound for there, until we turned back Gateward. We’ve been headed steadily Clockward, so they aren’t headed to the coast, where we’d lose them on the sea to any number of ports, but they’d need to cross the entire kingdom of Tyre to reach it anyway, so that wouldn’t make much sense at any length. That leaves the mountains of Baeden.”
“Baeden!” Both boys exclaimed almost at once.
“Kolel, the kingdom of Baeden has been a sworn enemy of Tyre for. . .well forever.” Nian stated matter-of-factly.
“What he means is that there are wars back and forth every few decades. That border is always under guard.” Rowan chimed in.
Kolel nodded, “Well that would explain the missing piece to me then. Why take a wagon through the forest where it will most assuredly slow you down? I’m guessing the clear borders are well guarded, but that wood is at best patrolled, and likely becomes a bit lax after things have been quiet long enough. Likely an army would still be spotted handily enough, but a small band of raiders could get through alright.”
“Wait a minute,” Rowan piped up, “You’re right about the wood. The soldiers don’t like going too deep in there or lingering too long, so they tend to keep to paths they know. But how does a merchant know so much about how armies work?”
“I don’t.” Kolel replied flatly, “But, my friend, you would be mistaken to assume that slavers are the only traders that have ever had to out-fox a blockade. At any rate, you do them undue credit, friend Nian, to call Baeden a kingdom. It is at best a collection of city states, each keeping its own laws and ruled by different barons
, who loosely identify with each other because of regional similarity and a few shared traditions. Most of these baronies at least turn a blind eye toward slavers, if not outright condoning the trade as a central pillar of their economy. Baeden is certainly where they are going. They will likely offload the sickly and injured at the first available market and then press on to the barony of Kadisvale. If Baeden has a trade capitol, it is there.”
Rowan stood and started strapping Tombo’s harness onto the hampan. “Good, now we don’t need the light, we can make it through the wood much faster than a party with prisoners and a wagon. We’ll get ahead of them and. . .”
“And do nothing of the kind.” Kolel cut him off, tugging the harness off the now thoroughly confused Tombo, who decided going back to sleep was his best reaction, “You are a skilled hunter, Rowan my friend. Of that I have no doubt, but I would wager you have never killed a mortal. Nian is still healing and from a bout with just one slaver. I’m a fair hand with a blade, but ten to one are odds for a legendary soldier, not a travelling merchant with a few fencing lessons and duels under his belt.”
Nian hopped up next to Rowan in a show of support, “We have Kadia on our side.”
“Who is the Maiden of Hope, not brash young men with suicidal ambition.” Kolel cautioned, “You have already received her personal intervention and guidance, which is a thousand times what most of her devout worshipers receive. I doubt she will lend more direct aid than she already has, and remember you have not yet even learned the cost of her first boon. Do not be so quick to expect another. There is a danger to amassing too great a debt to anyone with great power.”
“Then what do we do?” Rowan retorted, “We have to stop them from reaching Baeden. Sitting here and getting fat eating bugdrops isn’t going to get Karen rescued.”
“Dewdrops.” Kolel corrected with a sigh, “You said there were patrols in the wood. This means there will be a fortress nearby, yes? And likely a lord in command of such a place would be keen to catch and punish a group of slavers that slipped through his grasp once.”
Rowan thought a moment and nodded, “Deepwood Fort, I forget the earl’s name but I’ve traded furs there from time to time. It’s not far into the wood at all, half a day Clockgate from here. There are a good number of soldiers there. The earl’s and added forces of the king’s men to protect the border. Well over thirty. I think perhaps a hundred or so in all.”
“Very well,” Kolel nodded, “Then we will get a few hours’ rest and set out before dawn for Deepwood. If we make decent time, we should still be overtaking the slavers.”
“We can keep going tonight and be there before Phoenix flight.” Rowan countered. “I have travelled through the night before.”
“Yes, just last night and the night before in fact, if I recall correctly. Nian here was beaten half to death two days ago, and my horse is likely to miss a step in this rocky ground during the night. We can break camp before first light, but travel now is foolish talk. I will keep watch for most of the night, you boys rest.”
Nian and Rowan both looked eager to argue, but fatigue and the logic of their feline companion won out. Rowan sulked over to where Tombo was sleeping and sat back against the great beast’s shaggy side, arms crossed over his chest. Nian decided to try a second dewdrop after all, and by the time he managed to swallow the sticky mass, his friend was fast asleep.
“Tell me more about the dewlings,” Nian turned back to the fire and Kolel, “Could we raise them up here?”
Kolel nodded, “I think so, they don’t like the cold, but can survive just about anywhere from what I’m told, short of the icy plains of Nilheim. If you built them a decent shelter for the winter months, there wouldn’t be much issue I’d imagine. I had a clutch of the critters shipped back to Ilien where I imagine they shall do rather well. I’m told that the trick to wrangling the creatures is to get the male. They have a weakness for small birds, which they have a bit of a time catching or sneaking up upon, but seem to delight in as a food supply. So, getting the male a sparrow every week or so keeps him around, and the male corrals his mates close to where he can get birds. The females are the ones with dewdrops, and a good male can often keep reign on as many as thirty females. . .”
Kolel went on about the ‘fascinating’ facts he had learned about the dewlings. It wasn’t long before Nian nodded off into a heavy slumber. The Sattal eased the boy back against the stored animal tack and draped his riding cape over him before returning to the fire. There, he kicked free a charred stick from the fire and sat drawing in details along the edges of his map as he idly chatted with his horse. . .who also was lulled into sleep rather quickly, though Kolel hardly seemed to take notice.
. . .
A rough bump shook Karen awake. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed at the back of her head and she groggily reached up to find a patch of clotted blood matting her hair together. She felt as though the world were shifting about her and thought she might vomit. She lay for a few moments, collecting herself, before she realized she was moving, not the world. She was laying on a wagon bed, and could see the ground roll by through the spaces between the flooring planks. Slowly, she forced her head up off the floor of the wagon as much as she dared and looked about.
She lay at the front of the wagon bed and a wall of wood separated her from the driver’s seat. All around the wagon, iron bars rose from the high, solid wooden sides and a heavy oak roof shaded the bed. Looking around, others were in the wagon with her, most she knew from Longmyst, or at least recognized from the party. Near her feet a girl, perhaps sixteen, sat with her back to Karen, cradling a man’s head in her lap. She wore the torn remnants of a pretty cotton dress, most of the skirt having been torn away apparently to form bandages she saw here and there about the wagon. The girl turned when she noted Karen moving, her calm, pretty face and doe-brown hair and eyes were rather fetching, but a sadness rested behind her kind eyes that stung Karen. When their eyes met, the girl smiled at her with a soft, comforting warmth that almost forced Karen to return the gesture.
“You’re awake. I was worried for a while, but your breathing was smooth enough.” The girl must have seen the confusion on Karen’s face, and reached over to squeeze her hand, “Bridgette, miss, from Four Waters. I came up to help serve for your wedding.”
“I remember now. . .you and your sister, Sarai.” Karen saw the sadness in Bridgette’s face deepen before she turned back to her patient. Karen pulled herself up to sit next to the girl, perhaps more quickly than she should have. She draped an arm around Bridgette’s shoulders as much to steady herself as to comfort the girl.
“Sarai hid a knife. When they weren’t looking she stabbed one and they. . .” Bridgette trailed off, turning to busy herself with her patient’s bandages.
Looking down at the man, Karen stifled a gasp. Most of his face and head was wrapped in pieces of dress, matted though with blood. What was open to the air was blackened with deep, angry bruises. It wasn’t until her eyes drifted to his blood-stained clothes that Karen recognized the silk dress shirt and pants from the party.
“Oh gods, David!” Karen exclaimed suddenly, forgetting her own throbbing head to shift next to him and take his hand.
“Keep quiet in there you skirts! Or when we stop you’ll be singing a real pretty tune!” A man’s rough voice came from the driver’s seat. Some men riding along the wooded path next to the cart laughed and leered greedily at the women in the cart.
“Please, miss. They’re deadly serious.” Bridgette whispered. “Your husband came out after the rest. . .he was carrying an old man. When he saw them carrying you off. . .he rushed them. He put up a real fight, but there were too many. They kept hitting him more than they needed to.”
“Oh, David.” Karen whispered admonishingly, “You noble idiot.”
“My mother’s a midwife in Four Waters,” Bridgette continued as Karen leaned down to kiss David’s bruised face gent
ly. “I did what I could. There are no herbs or even water, but I used a splash from the cup they gave us last night to rinse a little. I bound his cuts tight, and kept him from the bumps as I can. . .He’s still breathing miss but I can’t say. . .”
“Damnit. I love you after all you stupid oaf.” Karen whispered before sitting up and leaning against the side of the wagon and cradling his hand against her chest. She nodded to the girl, “Thank you, Bridgette.”
Karen sat in silence for a while and took stock of the surroundings. A train of well over a score of men rode along ahead of and beside the wagon. Up ahead, she could just make out the odd bedraggled villager stumbling afoot between the riders. A rattle of chains told her that there were more captives marching in front of the wagon, how many she couldn’t say. The size of the party of raiders was daunting, if the constable of Longmyst and his two deputies had arrived in time to interfere, she was sure they would have been overpowered instantly.
Karen sighed, sitting back against the wall of the cart again. “Why are we here and others are walking? There’s more room in the wagon.”
“I heard one of the men telling the others, when we were first drug out into the field,” Bridgette swallowed, “He said everybody walks, ‘cept’n those what can’t and. . .and he said the pretty ones.”
“How many more are walking?” Karen asked.
“I don’t rightly know. . .it was dark when they chained everybody up. . .and I don’t really count so good. More than the wagon, at least two of what’s here.”
Karen looked about the wagon, she noted Kelly Brighthold, David’s younger sister who looked nearly catatonic, Karen’s friend Adrienne lay with her eyes closed, either asleep or pretending to be, her thumb tucked into her mouth. Aside from the two women she knew, there were three other barmaids besides Bridgette, and two unconscious men other than David, nine all together plus herself.
“There must be almost as many of us as there are of them. Why didn’t everyone fight?”
