The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  “Where’d you find these?” Chance said.

  “About six miles southeast. Recognize them?”

  Chance slipped down from his horse, landing in the grass less gracefully than he’d planned. The day in a saddle was taking its toll on his back and legs. He limped over to the newly found horses and ran a hand along the hot neck and withers of the first one. It was coal-black with a sweeping mane and tail. The bridle and reins were braided leather with polished blue and green stones woven into the straps. The saddle was a mat of thin red leather heavily engraved with manic runic writing. The saddlebags were also woven leather, though stained to the color of mud. The bedroll was thick, gray wool, free of design. There were no stirrups.

  “A Watcher’s horse,” he whispered as he moved around to the rear. He pressed a hand down on the back edge of the saddle blanket and simultaneously pushed up on the rear rim of the saddle itself. There he found the expected name: Graen Aehod Cole.

  Despite his mental preparation, Chance’s stomach lurched. He hurried around to the second horse, which was a patchwork of white, brown, and red, and wearing tack and gear nearly identical to the first. He knew without checking the saddle that this was Friss’s horse. The sight of it made him want to fall down in the dirt.

  When he’d steadied himself enough to look, he examined the back of the saddle: Friss Maedroll Cole

  He looked up at Jhom, but said nothing.

  “Yea,” Jhom said seriously, “I know.”

  “Are they…?”

  Jhom again swiped a hand back across his sweaty head, then reapplied his hat, holding it by the curved rim as he adjusted it into place. As he reflexively stroked back the long feather sweeping away from the blue band, he examined the drifting grasslands.

  “Well? Are they dead or not?”

  “Can’t say,” Jhom said too carefully, “Didn’t find any sign of them, though I can’t summon up any scenario where two Watchers voluntarily give up their mounts. Spent a half hour or so looking for them, but the horses’ trails circled all over high hell. I came back for Mawby. He’ll find them a lot faster than I will.”

  “They didn’t just lose them,” Wenzil said, “Ain’t no way a Watcher would be so careless with his ride.”

  Chance looked over at him. The dressing on his thigh was wet with blood again. “We need to change that,” he said. It wasn’t what he wanted to say.

  “Reckon so,” Wenzil said, nodding, “Also reckon it’ll wait until we find your friends.”

  Chance looked off toward the south. “There’s an abandoned farm a couple hours southeast of here. We can hunker down there and change your dressing. Last I saw it, the house was intact. And there was still most of a barn standing. Are you up to riding out and bringing Mawby back?”

  “Yea,” Wenzil said, “And I promise not to bleed to death before I return with him.” With that, he kicked his warhorse into a lope.

  As the runner rode off into the plains, Jhom jabbed a finger down at Chance, growling, “Now don’t you go assuming the worst already!”

  The order was too late in arriving. “Prodes, maybe,” Chance said as he looked up into the fading sky, “There’s nowhere to hide from them out here.”

  “Chance! What the hell did I just tell you? Blame the prodes after you see their handiwork, not before. Damn if you don’t cherish any and every opportunity to fret.”

  Chance turned back to his horse and climbed the mountainside up to its back.

  “Khe’naeg’s balls! I swear you’re going to worry yourself into an early grave.”

  “Damn you, Jhom. I told you, I don’t need a mother.”

  “Bullshit! Never known anyone who needed one more.”

  Chance wheeled his mount around toward the southeast. Before urging the horse on, he looked over at Jhom. “We can’t all be Baeldons, Jhom. The world needs a few of us to have souls.”

  “Reckon I was wrong, Chance. You should stick to your worrying. You’ve no talent for humor.”

  ∞

  Chance immediately understood what Jhom had meant about the trails of the Watchers’ horses being ‘all over the place’. Even in the settling darkness, their tracks were as clear as footprints on a beach. The frantic, circling trails spoke of something chasing them, though the grass showed no evidence of anything in pursuit. He looked up into the darkening sky. It was prodes. It had to be.

  Mawby was on his hands and knees rooting around deep in the grass a few dozen yards ahead of them. He was listening for the trail. Jhom sat on Farnot halfway between them scanning the skies for danger. Darkness was nearly on them, and though none of them had spoken of it, Chance knew they were all wondering just how well prodes could see in the dark. They’d sure as hell had no difficulty taking Beam down back at the hatch.

  Mawby pushed himself to his feet. For a moment, he simply stood in the failing light, staring down into the angry grass. Finally, he turned and walked back toward them. As he approached Chance’s horse, he said, “Reckon I have them.”

  “Have them?” Chance said, “What do you mean? They’re close?”

  Mawby waved off toward the southeast. “There’s someone over there beyond that sharp hill. Maybe a quarter mile out, maybe a bit less.”

  Chance looked over at a low, pointed hill silhouetted against the graying sky. It was only a couple hundred paces off. “You’re sure?” he said, looking down at Mawby again, “That close?”

  “Well, I’m sure it’s someone. I can’t tell you it’s who you’re looking for, not with any certainty. But I’m fairly sure there are mindblades at work. Something’s blurring my head against the vibrations. Gets worse when I try to focus in on them.”

  “Good work, Mawby. I appreciate it.”

  Mawby shrugged. “It’s nothing. We would’ve found them anyway if we’d just kept riding.”

  “I’m glad you’re with us,” Chance said, “Now let’s head out.”

  Mawby snatched his rein before Chance could urge his horse forward. “Just you be careful, now, Chance. They can blind you and worse if they’re aggressive enough with those mindblades.”

  “I’ve got Friss’s face locked in my thoughts,” Chance said, slapping Mawby’s shoulder, “Don’t worry. She’ll know it’s me before she reacts.”

  Chance watched Mawby slip up onto the back of his horse. Though the huge animal was as high as the top of the Vaemyn’s head, Mawby practically levitated into the seat, and that with a wounded chest. The Vaemyn never stopped impressing him.

  Jhom’s sword hissed free of his scabbard. He looked over at Chance. “I’ll lead,” he said as he urged Farnot into a lope.

  Wenzil was right behind him, his sword held out at his side. Mawby was hard on their tail.

  They rode down the backside of the long, sloping hill. Jhom was just beginning to rein in Farnot when the sound appeared. A high pitched whistle started up in Chance’s ears, low at first, but quickly swelling in amplitude.

  “Stop!” he called out to Jhom.

  Jhom was already riding back toward him, a fist parked against his ear. “Damned Watchers,” he growled, “I can feel them in my head already.”

  “Friss!” Chance called out. The noise in his head was too loud, too shrill, like someone was drilling a metal bolt into his skull. He felt dizzy and confused. He wasn’t even sure he was still sitting on his horse.

  “Friss!” Jhom called out, “Let up, girl! It’s Chance and Jhom!”

  Chance’s mind was spinning so giddily, he couldn’t tell which way was up or down. He felt like he was floating away from himself, like gravity had lost its grip on him and he was drifting out into the sky. If he didn’t get her attention quickly, her mindblades could cause them permanent damage. Or worse.

  “Graen!” Jhom yelled out again, “Friss! It’s us! You let up on the mindplay now, you hear?”

  A blurred shape vaulted straight up from the grass beneath Jhom. The Baeldon was on the ground before he could call out.

  A shrill voice screeched curses and
threats in the archaic tongue of the Watchers. By the time Chance found his way to the ground and ran to the skirmish, Jhom had her arms pinned behind her at a most disagreeable angle. His cheek bore a dark smear above his beard.

  “Lei me gwae, ye whora mare’s saen!” she bellowed, “I’ya kaeill ye mortaen deid, swearaen aet aur fordeth!”

  Even in the darkness, Chance identified a dark skinned woman with flaming red hair. It was Friss, and the relief he felt overpowered the effect of her mindblades. Unfortunately, before he could identify himself to her, she spotted Mawby. She released a battle scream, knocking Jhom off his feet with a psychic pulse in the same instant.

  “Vaemyn!” she shrieked as she flew to her feet. In the same breath, Mawby shot backward, flying off his feet as hard as if he’d caught a neck rope while galloping.

  “Blaedye wairrier!” Friss shrieked as she ran at Mawby with her knife drawn, “Feer aen waer! Aur goeds be—”

  “Friss!” Chance said sharply as he leapt between her and Mawby, “Friss, it’s me. It’s Chance Gnoman. Look at me!”

  Jhom appeared behind her and roped her in with his great arms.

  “Friss, look at me,” Chance said with his palms open to her, “It’s me. It’s Chance.”

  It took a beat, but she stopped struggling. The pressure in his skull receded even as the whistling sound faded to silence. For a moment, she just stood there panting.

  “Chanyth?”

  “Yes, Friss. It’s me. It’s Chance”

  “Chanyth?” she whispered again as if afraid to say the word too loudly, “Traeth be faenyd me? Chanyth? Afeer staend faerthe?”

  “Standard!” Chance said sharply, “Speak standard, Friss.”

  Her eyes were wild as she looked up at him. “Chance?” she said between pants, “Chance? Be ye there? It ain’t possible!”

  “Yes, Friss, it’s possible. And it’s also possible you put a nasty cut on poor Jhom’s face.”

  “Jhom?” she said, twisting her face up at him, “Jhom, truth to gods, be it so, me love?”

  The Baeldon released her. He swiped his cheek and held his fingers out to inspect the dark blood. “Yea, Friss,” he said, laughing, “It’s me, all right. Most of me, anyway.”

  She threw herself up into his arms before he could finish his words. “Oh, Jhom!” she cried out with her face buried in his thick neck and her arms wrapped tight as shackles around him, “Oh, me dear love, Jhom, apologies deep and true. Gods almighty, ye scared me shit to boot!”

  Jhom carefully pulled her away and knelt before her. “I hope I never piss you off for real, Friss. You about melted my brain out my ears. You need to work on that temper, you little witch.”

  “Oh, Jhom! Words ain’t enough! I’ll cut out me own tongue, better to show sincerity of bloody word. Me heart’s a-seizing at seeing yon lovely face!”

  “Yea, better you keep your tongue right where it is,” Jhom said, laughing, “We’ve wounds enough now. The bandage supply won’t last forever.”

  Friss threw herself harder into him, squeezing him like she’d never let him go.

  “Careful, there, lass,” Jhom said as he carefully peeled her away, “You’re going to break my neck if you keep that up.”

  She wasted no time turning to Chance. As she flew into his arms, she cried, “Chance! Oh gods above, Chance! Ye’ve a face I feared never to spy again, short of bloody memory. I worried the gods would nary again grace me so lovely a sight!”

  “It’s all right,” Chance said, holding her and stroking her head, “It’s all right now, Friss. Everything’s fine.”

  “Bless us, we found ye!” she said, squeezing him harder, “We’ve been to Graewind and back, prowling about landside, searching for ye like infant for tit. Fretted ye dead, didn’t we? Surely as Calina sings, we did.”

  “We?” Chance asked.

  Her grip on him weakened a bit at the word. After a moment, she pushed herself, back she but didn’t completely let go of him.

  “What is it, Friss? Where’s Graen? Is he with you?”

  “Aye, he’s with me,” she said, with her voice weakening, “Over yonder there, bad wounded. I sensed ye party coming. Moved him off a wee bit. Reckoned ye for savages, didn’t I? Figured ye’d be better inclined to follow me taer-cael, thus leaving his soul to Calina’s will.”

  Chance eased her out to arm’s length. “Well, I guess your plan worked well enough, didn’t it?”

  She laughed as she wiped the tears away with a dirty hand. “Reckon I’d be a bloody seer, yea?”

  “When we found your horses, I feared the worst.”

  “As usual,” Jhom said as he scooped his hat from the grass.

  Chance sent him The Look.

  Friss turned toward Jhom. Wiping away her tears, she said, “Damned glad to see ye’d not be growing no shorter, Jhom, me love.”

  “Sadly, no,” Jhom replied, grinning, “Just wider.”

  She looked up at Wenzil. “Who’d be this skinny mountain, then?”

  Wenzil looked at his sword as if he’d just realized it was in his hand. As he awkwardly sheathed it, he mumbled, “I’m, uh, I’m… well, I’m Wenzil. I reckon.”

  “Ye reckon, do ye? Ye ain’t sure, then?”

  “Yea, I’m pretty sure. I’m called Wenzil because it… well, because it’s my name, I reckon.”

  Friss looked over at Chance. “Pray tell, what manner of blather be that? Why such trouble to speak so? Is he simple, then?”

  “Simple?” Jhom said, laughing, “Nay, worse than that. The boy’s shy to the point of wetting himself around women.”

  “Well, that’s just a goddamned lie!” Wenzil belted back at Jhom. Then he blushed again and threw a sheepish look down at Friss. “I mean… I don’t, uh… I don’t wet myself or… or nothing.”

  Friss then turned to Mawby. “And just who’d be this, then? A prisoner or such? How is it he’d be walking free as wandering monk, with hands unbound and free for mischief, and sword in grip to serve proof to bloody point?”

  Mawby looked down at his weapon as if he weren’t sure how it’d climbed free of his scabbard.

  “This is Mawby,” Chance said, throwing a hand over the Vaemyn’s shoulder, “He’s no prisoner. He’s a full member in this ill-fated party. He’s one of us.”

  At first, she just stared at Chance as if there weren’t any words to throw back, because after all, there’s no point in arguing with insanity. Then she looked at Mawby and said, “One of us, say ye? Seen ye what mayhem the Vaemyn be up to of days late?”

  “I have,” Chance said, “And he’s still one of us.”

  “Renegade?” she pressed.

  “No. He’s a warrior. A tracker, actually.”

  She looked at Chance like she was certain he’d lost his mind. “Warrior? The Vaemyn be riled up like nest of bloody hornets, flinging selves at Graewind and points more dire.”

  “Trust me on this, Friss. I’m well aware of the current state of things, and I still give Mawby a full pass.”

  Friss looked over at Mawby and studied him for several moments, then visibly relaxed. “Strange times of late,” she said directly to him, “A storm rises from yon southern keep, lightning bolts striking with face of bloody Vaemyn at point, ain’t that right? Ye brethren rally a cause known but to them, though me mind fills like gutter to barrel on wake of storm, fills with visions of the Biled bastard down about Crow’s Nest Keep, yea?”

  Mawby looked back at her for a moment. Then, he nodded and said carefully, “Ay’a. You’ve called it straight enough. But I’m not part of that. I’m on the other side. I’m on his side.” He looked over at Chance.

  She followed his gaze. “Given what sorry sights me eyes have drank these dark days past, I’m hard pressed to say what be truth and what be none of it. And yet, dear Chance, ye’re kith and kin to me, blood or lack of it be damned. I ain’t no choice but to trust ye judgment passed, though truth may be we’ve all gone raver.”

  Jhom laughed at that. “Yea, you’ve ca
lled that one straight, darling. I doubt there’s a sane one amongst us anymore.”

  She turned back to Mawby, stepped forward and offered him her hand, saying, “Me name’s Friss Maedroll of Whisper Cole. Me Whisper hails from Highbridge, northeast as crow flies over yon Naeworn Mountains. Any man called friend by Chance Gnoman and Jhom Fenta be friend to me by means of shared blood oath, and I’d never shame meself to question manner or means of said relationship.”

  “You’re not short on wind, are you,” Mawby said as he accepted her hand. “I’m Maubius of the House of Yendt. You can call me Mawby.”

  “A good name that. A sturdy name. I’ve done fair amount of work for Farks in me day, and I’ve shared more’n a few barrels of mead with more’n a few renegades residing on said pirates’ payroll. Always a pleasure to have true set of horns on bloody detail.”

  “The honor’s mine, Friss.”

  Friss turned back to Chance. “Calina’s love fills me to be seeing ye upright and breathing, me dear Chance. And for reasons pure selfish, I’m double happy the gods be choosing this moment to deliver ye into me welcoming arms. Graen’s hurt. Hurt real bad. Needs be ye’d see him, and sooner be better than bloody later, if it pleases.”

  “Of course,” Chance said, gesturing her on, “Lead me to him. Jhom, bring my kit.”

  Moments later, he knelt in the grass beside Graen, who was flat on his back in the tall grass. It was immediately obvious that the man was badly hurt. His head was propped on a dark wool bedroll. He was sweating profusely. His breathing was labored and irregular, and he was audibly wheezing. Dried blood crusted the outer edges of his lips. Panic gripped his eyes.

  “Chance,” Graen said with much effort, “G-good to… to be seeing ye again, me old friend. Ye face be a most… a most welcome sight.”

  “Lie still, Graen,” Chance urged him, “Let me take a look. We can reunion over wine later.”

  “I’m… I’m dying, me dear. Hope lies dark as night, short of easing me pain toward calm and graceful exit.”

  “Easy, Grae,” Chance said as he stroked the man’s brilliant red hair back from his bronze forehead, “You’re not going anywhere.”