by Colt, K. J.
“They don’t?” He sounded confused and slightly hurt, but I didn’t care.
“No, they don’t. They laugh at you to your face, and you take it like a dumb animal.”
He looked thoughtful. “Honored Thilstain taught me it was a priestly duty to be humble, to seek peace, and to serve all.”
I snorted. “I can’t even imagine how little pride you must have,” I said.
He looked wounded. I could see his mind working as he struggled to form the right reply, but I gave him no opportunity to voice it. I was in a difficult mood, and I felt it wouldn’t require much provocation for me to take my frustration out on him. He was a slight figure, still frail after his recovery, and I was sure I could knock him into tomorrow without expending much effort. “I’m leaving now,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. “You can tell Brig whatever you want.”
“But your lesson!” he protested, dismayed. “Brig swore he would beat me senseless—”
“So stand and take it,” I said unsympathetically. “I think you owe it to me. Have you forgotten how I nursed you back from the brink of death? And I pretty nearly saved your life again only the other day when you almost drowned in Dancing Creek. You were thrashing around, crying out for help, and no one else came running. But did I throw you a stone?”
“No, but—”
“No, indeed, I didn’t.” I answered my own question. “I leapt straight in and dragged you from the water at no small risk to my life and limb.”
“Life and limb?” he cried incredulously. “You’re taller than I! The water scarcely reached to your neck!”
I shrugged. “Can’t blame that on me. Maybe you should’ve been the girl.”
His face reddened, and he surprised me by kicking the wooden writing slab off my lap. “You want a fight?” he demanded, voice squeaking in fury. “Is that what you’re looking for?” He doubled his fists and took a fighting stance.
I couldn’t hide my amusement. I’d never seen him in such a temper.
“Think you can fight, do you, boy?”
I looked up, startled, at the voice that belonged to none other than the Red Hand himself. Where had he come from? We were in an out-of-the-way spot, and I hadn’t heard his approach. I stirred uneasily, wondering what he wanted. I could see his presence unnerved Terrac.
“We weren’t fighting,” I assured Rideon. “Just playing around.”
“Ah, I see. Play-fighting.” Rideon’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. He turned his calculating gaze on Terrac. “Wouldn’t you rather learn to fight for real?” he asked.
Terrac looked uneasy, and I found myself feeling unexpectedly protective of him, so I broke in with, “He’s a priest, Rideon. He cannot do violence.”
The outlaw smirked, looking Terrac up and down. “A flimsy excuse,” he said. “I won’t have such a cowardly pup in my band. If he wants to live among us, let him learn to defend himself.”
Terrac said, “With all due respect, I don’t consider myself a member of your criminal band.” There was a cold light in his eyes that, for a moment, drowned out the fear as he added, “But while I’m forced to live among you, I earn my way. I do my chores around camp, and I work as hard as anyone.”
I was surprised to find myself feeling a little proud of the boy. Grown men didn’t argue with Rideon. Even so, I rushed to put a stop to his foolhardiness before he could talk his way into a thrashing or worse.
“He does work hard,” I said. “But if you’re of a mind to see him fight, Rideon, I’m sure he wouldn’t refuse. There’s never any harm in learning to defend oneself.” I cast a warning glance Terrac’s way, willing him to keep silent. I could feel him burning to martyr himself, so it was a pleasant surprise when he held his peace.
Rideon scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Wise words, hound. Now I’ve a mind to see some sport, so let me see you practice between yourselves a bit. And to add to the challenge, the winner gets to spar with me as his reward. How’s that?”
Terrac and I exchanged uneasy glances, but neither of us dared argue. I was sure Brig wouldn’t approve of this, but he wasn’t here. “It will be just until one of us downs the other,” I reassured Terrac, who looked slightly ill. He appeared stunned by my acceptance.
Rideon put in mockingly, “Come now, priest boy. You’re not afraid to fight a girl, are you?”
That seemed to decide Terrac. “Very well, if I must.” He jutted his chin out defiantly and pushed up his sleeves. “What are the rules of this game?”
“No rules, no game,” Rideon said. “Just pound one another until one of you can no longer stand.”
Terrac’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly, but he offered no argument. “All right then. Let’s get this over with,” he said. Even crouching with fists drawn, he didn’t look very convincing. Every rigid line of his body betrayed his reluctance.
I stepped in and doubled my own fists, feeling as unenthusiastic as he looked. It was hardly an even match. Despite the nearness of our ages, I had a good six inches on Terrac, and I’d had years of outdoor labor to strengthen my muscles. It also wasn’t long ago that he’d been deathly ill. I resolved to go as easy on him as I could, but I wouldn’t let him win. Instinctively I felt this was some sort of test of Rideon’s and that the outcome might make a difference in my future.
I guess I allowed myself to be distracted by my thoughts for I was suddenly brought back to the moment by a hard fist jabbing me in the ribs. From a grown man, such a punch would have been painful. From Terrac it was more like a sharp poke. Still, it allowed me to fight back without feeling guilty. My answering swing fell wide as Terrac dodged with surprising dexterity, throwing me off balance. The next two punches caught me in the face. I bit my tongue, and that hurt more than the actual blows. It also made me realize I needn’t concern myself so much with going easy on my opponent after all.
As I spat blood, I could hear Rideon laughing behind me. Terrac’s eyes were apologetic, but that didn’t stop me from feeling a rush of anger that he was making me appear a fool before my captain. I launched an all-out assault against him, throwing a series of punches he couldn’t move quickly enough to block. I kept up my attack, but the priest boy refused to fall no matter how mercilessly I punished him.
He gave up ground readily enough, until we had backed out of the clearing and found ourselves fighting knee-deep in bramble bushes. I no longer knew who I beat or why, so intent was I on winning. I hardly noticed my weariness or my skinned knuckles. I was close to victory; I could feel it. As Terrac stumbled backward against a log, I seized the opportunity to drive a blow into his belly. He staggered and doubled over. Although I knew it was cheap, I followed the punch with a knee to his face. That knocked the strength from him, and he dropped.
Upon seeing him downed, my anger instantly evaporated, leaving exhaustion and guilt in its wake. I leaned forward to grip my knees and catch my breath. Then I extended a hand to help Terrac to his feet. He accepted it with barely a sign of hesitation. It wasn’t in his character to hold a grudge. Still, I felt a twinge of shame, noting his swollen lip and the bruises already forming over his cheekbones.
He seemed to sense my thoughts. “It’s all right,” he told me quietly. “Perhaps I’ll do as much for you one day.”
I accepted the threat as my due and turned my attention to freeing myself from the clinging bushes as Rideon approached. When my captain stood before me, I believed he had come to see how badly I was hurt. I was relieved of that misapprehension when, without word or warning, he suddenly dealt me a ringing blow to the jaw. Stunned, I reeled backward to the ground. I thought he would wait for me to get back to my feet. He didn’t. Instead he battered me with a series of vicious kicks, the strength of which knocked the breath from me. I sensed the futility of attempting escape and instead curled my body into a ball, wrapping my arms around myself to deflect the worst of the blows.
My pitiful reaction appeared to enrage Rideon, for he launched a particularly rough kick into my face. Sparks ex
ploded before my eyes, and I felt my nose crunch. Face throbbing and nose filling with blood, I sucked in pained gasps of air through my mouth. It suddenly occurred to me the blows might not stop until I was dead, and for the first time, I was afraid. Inwardly, I clawed after my magic, but once I grasped it my mind was too clouded by the pain to think how to use it. The most I could do was simply cling to the inner fire as I tried to fight down the rising darkness.
When the attack ceased as unexpectedly as it had begun, I knew a moment of intense relief. The outlaw must have expended his strength. Slowly, tentatively, I released my grip on the magic and let it slip away. Then I lifted a trembling hand to explore my aching face. My skin was slick to the touch, my nose crooked and swollen. Upper lip and jaw throbbed. Mentally, I categorized each pain: aching limbs, bruised body, and a fiery agony in my ribs. Rideon rolled me roughly onto my back. I tried to pry one bloodied eye open, but the lid remained stubbornly sealed. The other eye managed to open into a narrow slit, affording me a squinted view of my surroundings. The treetops swayed dizzyingly overhead. I was very near to blacking out and didn’t fight it. The rest would’ve been a welcome relief.
“I’d say this has been a profitable exercise,” Rideon announced with deliberate ease. “I’m sure you’ve both learned something.”
I struggled to focus my watering eye on his shadowy figure looming over me, but my vision was oddly clouded. His voice was casual as he continued, “We will never make any great fighter of you, hound. That is sure. Has Brig never taught you, the larger the opponent the greater the courage you will need to defeat him?”
I was too miserable to construct a defense. I understood his implication—I was a disappointment. Feeling wretched and ashamed of my weakness, I watched him stride away. Then I raised a hand to my face, wincing at my careful touch. My nose felt as if it were swelling larger by the second.
Terrac suddenly appeared and helped me right myself. I couldn’t stand yet, so I slouched where I was, panting through my mouth and dabbing at my bloody nose with my sleeve. I felt unreasonably angry with Terrac, crouched patiently at my side, for witnessing my humiliation. I hated his concerned expression as he peered into my battered face.
“I think only your nose is broken,” he assured me now. “The swelling and blood may make it hard to breathe for a while, but eventually it will mend itself.”
“How does it look?” I asked. “Ugly?”
Terrac hesitated. “Not too ugly. I think it will be all right on you. Look at Illsman; a crooked nose just makes him seem tough.”
I winced and tried to convince myself I didn’t mind being compared to the ugly outlaw. No one would have taken a pretty female brigand seriously anyway. But I reached a decision. “I’m not going back to camp like this,” I told Terrac.
He tried to protest. “But those cuts on your face need cleansing.”
“You can do that for me here,” I said firmly. I wouldn’t be seen by Brig like this. Not after the recent argument between him and Dradac. I couldn’t allow him to think he’d been right all along.
Terrac must have sensed my determination. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll run back and fetch a poultice from Javen for those cuts. I’ll bring food also. It will be a few days before you’re moving around much, and we’d go hungry if it were left for me to do the hunting.
“We?” I questioned.
“Yes, we. I’m not about to leave you out here alone after that plague-cursed animal has rendered you too battered to look after yourself.”
“Don’t speak of the Hand like that,” I ordered halfheartedly. “He is Rideon. He can do whatever he pleases.”
“Can isn’t the same as should, but I won’t argue the point. Wait here and I’ll return as quickly as I can.” He clambered to his feet.
“Say nothing to Brig,” I warned as he left. “If he asks, say only that I plan to sleep out tonight. He knows I do that sometimes.”
Terrac nodded briefly, although I could see he didn’t appreciate being drawn into my deception. And that was how we came to make camp alone for three days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AS SOON AS I WAS able to move, we shifted to a better location. I tried again to persuade Terrac to leave me, making no secret of the fact I would prefer to be without him. But the priest boy wouldn’t budge. I suspected he secretly enjoyed witnessing my suffering. Over the following days, I treated him as harshly and as ungratefully as I knew how, but never was I able to sway him in his determination to share in my self-imposed exile.
That first night out of Red Rock, I was too sore to plan for anything in the way of shelter, so we slept beneath a row of shrubbery. With Terrac sleeping at my back, I was reminded of the nights we spent in our pine-bough shelter last spring. Only then it had been he who suffered. I didn’t like the sense of our places being changed.
It rained that night.
The following day found the skies clear again. By midafternoon, the sogginess had gone from the ground, but our clothing remained miserably damp throughout the day. We did very little except sitting about, sulking and arguing over whether we should return to Red Rock. In the end, I won out and we stayed. We fared better the next night because the weather was warm and dry. By this time I was in good enough condition the two of us were able to climb a stout tree to sleep in. We braced ourselves in the branches, where I passed a comfortable night, although Terrac still looked weary in the morning. He was unaccustomed to sleeping among the green leaves and said he scarcely closed his eyes all night for fear of falling to the ground in his sleep.
We consumed the last of our food on that second day. Terrac went off in search of more, but I lacked the inclination to join him. My mind was still on Rideon and my disgrace. It was no surprise when Terrac returned with nothing more than a handful of berries, although I had lent him my hunting knife. If I knew Terrac, he had passed up all sorts of fox dens and rabbit holes because he hadn’t the heart to kill anything. I had sunk into such depression I didn’t even bother mocking him.
I hardly cared that I huddled down to sleep on an empty stomach that night, having let Terrac keep his scant meal to himself. They were bitter-berries, a fact I didn’t bother sharing with him. Instead I enjoyed a faint satisfaction each time I heard him wake during the night to vomit up the contents of his stomach. Those frequent interruptions made it difficult for me to find sleep, however. I lay half-reclined among the branches for a long time, staring into the shadows of the leaves overhead. As I listened to the creaks and rustles of the branches below and to the subsequent sounds of the priest boy disgorging his meal, I wondered how much longer I could hold out before giving up my wounded pride and returning to Red Rock. I tried to imagine what Brig and Dradac and the others would be doing back in camp right now. Eventually, I slipped off to sleep.
Gentle hands woke me to the cold gray light of early dawn. It was still more night than day, and I didn’t understand why I was being awakened so early. Mama bent over my pillow, the sweeping ends of her silvery hair brushing my face.
She whispered, “Come, little chickling. Don’t make a sound.” A strange excitement lit her eyes. I asked no questions but slipped out of bed, exclaiming softly as my small feet touched the cold dirt floor. Mama pressed a warning finger to her lips, casting an anxious glance into the shadows across the room where Da slept.
She had already collected my things, and now she moved silently, helping me slip a dress over my head and pull warm stockings up my legs. She was dressed to go out as well, and over her shoulder she carried a canvas sack with a loaf of bread peeking out of its mouth. I was curious where we went in such a hurry it would be necessary to eat along the way, but I kept quiet.
There was urgency in Mama’s eyes and in the quick movements of her hands as she sat me on the floor and tugged on my ragged shoes. I scarcely had time to pull my feet under me again before she took me by the shoulders and guided me quickly through the semidarkness and out the doorway.
The farmyard, illuminated by th
e faint morning light, stood empty before us. I stole a glance back over my shoulder to where Da lay, snoring loudly in the big bed. Mama and I exchanged conspiratorial smiles as we silently abandoned the little cottage and slipped into the gray world outside. Mama transferred her grip to my hand and led me across the yard, away from the cottage. Stealthily, we veered behind the barn and into the shadow of the plum trees. I felt a surge of excitement because I sensed whatever was happening was forbidden and secret—an adventure.
We crossed the farmyard and topped the ridge, pausing to look down on the sleepy cottage below. Only then did I feel both our moods lighten. On the far side of the ridge lay the neighboring village, but Mama didn’t lead me down that way. I had only a brief glimpse of the low cluster of flat roofs before we moved on. We climbed a steeper hill, then descended its slope into another valley, where a narrow road snaked along its base. Once we were on the road, Mama finally allowed me a slightly slower pace, but I still had difficulty matching her quick strides.
“It is a long way to Journe’s Well,” she told me apologetically. “We need to arrive before the sun is high.” She gave no more explanation than that.
By the time the sky had changed from morning’s gray to a pale blue, I had begun to miss my breakfast. Mama swung the sack around from her shoulder and broke off a chunk of bread for us both. We ate while we walked. Very soon after, my feet began to hurt. Mama lifted me onto her thin shoulders and carried me for a time, but we both soon wearied of that and I walked again.
Mama seemed to grow more agitated the farther we traveled. I sensed whatever mysterious adventure lay ahead frightened as much as it excited her. She began talking after a while, more to herself than to me. I comprehended little of her words. She told me we were making this trek to Journe’s Well to catch a glimpse of the Praetor’s soldiers, camped there on their journey back from the North. They had served the provinces for years, fending giants from our borders, and were at last free to return home. These men, the Iron Fists, were the bravest soldiers of our province and were led by the son of the old Praetor himself, she explained.
