The Precious Quest

by Cheryl R Cowtan

  I had been a leader for a short time, but my choices, my courage, my gift for finding adventure had bound the oath of seven warriors to me. We moved down the street of the town in the dead of night. We were an alarming sight of weapons and armour, of mixed tribe and free spirit. I did not like walking between the two rows of buildings that lined the street. Towns were not for me, for the streets’ households blocked my view and my escape. As we edged closer to the centre of town, loud voices and snippets of song floated on the night air. One of the buildings leaked yellow light around its ill-fitting doors.

  Rserker and I went in alone to test the welcome. The rest of our group moved to stand outside the building, taking posts that would give us advantage should the night end in contest.

  I paused just inside the doors, adjusting my eyes to the dim light of flickering candles and rusty oil torches. The walls were unpainted wood, beams and slats ending on a packed dirt floor. Tables were squares of timber with logs for legs, surrounded by travelers, drinkers. A few tables were tipped over and beneath one was the still figure of a man. Dead or drunk, I could not tell.

  I wrinkled my nose at the rank smell of unwashed skin and the sharp smoke of sweet reed. A few eyes slid our way, but we were mostly ignored—a good sign, for I preferred to move unnoticed.

  Reserker walked to a long wooden counter held up by cider barrels. I scanned the room again, before I left the safety of the doorway. I could see none who lived by the sword. Most of the men and women were here to drink cider and share their wants, their diseases. A woman laughed, her mouth a brown rim of rotting teeth. The man beside her pushed his bearded lips onto hers, bending her neck, roughly. She came up for air, her price on her tongue.

  I released my sword pommel and wiped the sweat from my palm onto my thigh. The airless room was heavy with moisture. Satisfied the crowd held little threat, I moved to stand with Rserker who was already ordering a drink.

  A bald, fat man watched me walk up with a greasy smile. His glance raked my body from head to toe. I narrowed my eyes at him, as he scratched beneath his apron.

  “Bounty hunters?” he asked nodding at the blades snug in sheaths on my thighs.

  I frowned at his black, piggish eyes and said nothing.

  “Seekers of the sights,” Rserker answered with a smile and bowed, drawing the pig man’s gaze away from me.

  The black eyes returned to my face as the man licked his chapped lips and answered, “We have sights that will make your blood curdle with fear.”

  Then, he smiled slickly at Rserker, “Or boil with lust.”

  A woman shrieked behind me. I wanted a wall for my back.

  The fat man hawked up some phlegm and spit it near his feet. I followed the path to his grimy toe sticking out from the worn leather of his shoe.

  “All comes for a price,” he bargained.

  I knew this was where we were supposed to reach for our money bags, but Rserker and I were too smart to let the thieves in the room know where we kept our coin.

  “Lust you say?” Reserker grinned and fingered his trimmed beard. A blonde who was beautiful once, left the lap of a drunken fool and swayed closer to us.

  The fat man laughed.

  I looked through the room again, adding up the cider mugs, looking at the clothes of the people. This rabble had little we would want. As Rserker moved towards the blonde, I decided to go outside and allow one of the others to enter. I would breathe better in the night air.

  I turned to leave, but a steady voice at my side drew my attention.

  “There is room at my table, if you wish.”

  In front of me stood a man. A man who stood out from the others. He had a handsome face framed by long, wavy, light brown hair. And he was looking at me with honest interest instead of the leer most of the other men wore. Dressed in a clean tunic and leather leggings, he carried a sword, but not the edge of a warrior. I held my place and my tongue.

  “Away from the noise,” his hand was out, pointing to a table behind a half wall, hidden from the curious eyes of the strangers.

  He smiled soothingly, revealing healthy teeth. “You are welcome to join me.”

  His eyes were open, friendly, intelligent eyes. The fat man was still talking, trying to offer me one of his women.

  “Cider,” I growled at the pig man.

  Then, I lifted my chin at the table, deciding to stay. Following the stranger, I watched his walk. His back was straight, and his stride was confident. I could see by the tunic’s stretch that he was lean and fit beneath it. Behind the half wall, the stranger slid over a wooden bench polished by years of seated patrons. I stayed standing, looking around the private seating area. He casually laid his hand on the table and waited patiently. His hands were clean, the nails trimmed.

  When the pig had brought me a cider, when I had paid, when the pig man had returned to the counter, I cautiously sat down on the bench. But I kept one thigh on the outer edge of the seat, my foot planted flat on the floor. A welcome burning followed the cider’s path down my throat.

  Finally, the stranger spoke. “You are a traveler?”

  I was not ready to talk, but the cider’s heat loosened the muscles in my tongue.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “And you are well-armed,” he said, looking at my sword, my daggers.

  I frowned at him and put down the mug, “The better to slay those who would interfere with me and mine.”

  He nodded, “I could tell you were the leader.” His eyes glowed with interest.

  “What is it you want?” The candle flickered away from my breath, for I spoke roughly.

  “Your story,” he replied, as if it were the most natural thing to ask for.

  It was an answer that flattered my pride. But, I could give little of myself, could talk little of myself.

  “My story is my own.” I surprised myself by letting out a long sigh.

  I hadn’t meant to sigh, but it had come out, had been called out by the man’s alluring presence, tempting me to share. I sat up straighter and looked more closely at him, wondering if he were enchanting me. I took in his relaxed posture, the turn of his shoulders, and his attentive expression. He was purposefully holding himself to invite talk. I was suddenly aware of the contrast between us.

  I was straight-backed and tense, leaning away from him, keeping my attention on the room. He had slipped in behind the half wall, able to hide behind it, but I had to stay alert, always ready to run, always prepared to fight.

  “Perhaps you will enjoy listening, then,” he said without rancor.

  His eyes were soft, open to sharing, the corners crinkling with a promise of humour.

  My eyes were half-hooded with heavy lids, the dark orbs glittering with reflection—a closed door to those who would read me. I took another gulp of cider. I had time before Rserker would be ready to leave. Turning in my seat to face him, I left the distractions of the room behind.

  “Speak.”

  “Do you know the Wells of Westeenian?” he asked me, reaching for his quart of cider and offering to fill my glass. I pushed my mug closer to him.

  “No,” I answered, wondering if the drink would be drugged.

  “So, you have not heard of the Wishes of Trush?”

  I held my newly-filled mug under my nose and inhaled a little steam. Mind-touching Lumen, I had the disc check the draught. It was safe. I lifted the edge of the wooden mug to my lips, continuing to stare at the amber eyes awaiting my response.

  He leaned closer to me and whispered as if confiding a secret. “It is said, if you walk to the wells from the west, and speak your wishes to the depths, your desires will come true.” He leaned back against the smoke-stained wall, watching for my reaction. His movement left the scent of pine behind to tickle my nose.

  I put down the mug, my mind beginning to turn on a new adventure. “How far are these wells?”

  “It’s hard to say,” he shrugged. “I know the way but have not walked the path.”

  “So, you
are a guide?” I asked. This was an invitation for him to share his name. I was interested, now that I could see his use.

  He sat up straighter, turning to face me as square on as the table would allow. “I am Dorn, Chronicle Warden for the Eldersleens.”

  “A tale tracker,” I used the common name for his kind.

  “If you wish,” Dorn answered good-naturedly, spreading his hands in the air.

  “Why are you not with your people?” I questioned him, suspicious.

  “Tales are best gathered through travel.”

  “Traveling alone can be dangerous.”

  “Finding a group to align with can be difficult,” Dorn replied.

  My eyes dropped to his hip, where his sword was sheathed in leather. “Can you use your weapon?” I asked.

  “When I need to,” he smiled.

  Now it was his turn. His eyes took in my traveling cape.

  “Do you journey far?” he asked.

  I had decided he would be of use to our group. I took my hand from the mug and leaned back, finally open to speaking with him.

  “We seek that which we do not grow tired of. The horizon calls to us, and we follow. The wind spins our course, and we turn. The path is never too long,” I said.

  My lips curved in appreciation of my own words.

  The man’s attention was drawn to my mouth, but his tone was serious when he replied. “The horizon is the backdrop to destiny,” he lifted his glance to mine. “But the wind can confuse the strongest purpose.”

  I did not answer, for I could see he was wise, and he had more to say.

  “I carry a thousand tales of places and people,” he smiled, “and bounty.”

  I frowned at his reference. The title of bounty hunter did not rest lightly on my conscience.

  Dorn continued, “The map is in my head. The journey lies in my heart.”

  He put out his hand, and I looked at the work-roughened palm. I pressed my hand into his and squeezed an agreement against the warmth of his skin.

  “I am Laywren, and I lead the Horde,” I said with pride.

  I had been trying to think of a name for my group of fighters and now it was done. Dorn’s brows had shot up with curiosity, and I released a true smile to shine through my normally closed features. Rserker met Dorn when he had emerged from his dalliance with the blonde woman. We spent the night plotting the next adventure and drinking cider.

  A few days later, we had finished taking what we needed in the town of Dunveegan, Dorn had pleaded with me not to torch the building that held the story hides. I had granted him this first request, and later learned the hides were under the protection of the RaiMen Empirees. Those soldiers would have hunted us down and slaughtered us like dogs, if we had not listened to Dorn.

  EIGHT YEARS LATER, Dorn was still giving me sound advice. And though he was always aware of me, always attentive to my presence, he had never courted me. I knew Dorn walked with me because I made history, and I had thought that was good enough for him, until he had kissed my hand.

  I shifted on my feet, growing stiff watching Dorn instruct the wards. He looked down at the young girl, flattered by her attention, as I was often flattered by his.

  “You do not live for your life. You live to record the lives of others. You are the record,” he smiled into the girl’s eyes.

  The wards were enthralled. I blew a little air out of my nostrils at the display. The sound caught Dorn’s attention, and he turned and met my eye. He smiled, deepening the creases at the sides of his mouth. Stepping past the wards, he walked up to me.

  “In which direction will you lead us?” He asked, his gaze traveling over my face. My skin warmed under his study.

  “North.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the chronicle ward narrow her eyes at us.

  “This is good,” Dorn nodded, “I have tales of the North.”

  The sun slipped behind the brown of his eyes making them glow like sap stones.

  “How was the night?” I asked. “Did the captive wail for her loss?”

  His skin reddened slightly, and I glanced at the girl to catch her reaction. She was standing, her head cocked in our direction trying to hear.

  “Go. Prepare to travel,” Dorn waved his hands at the wards, and they moved away, taking the girl with them.

  As Dorn turned back to me, a burst of hot wind drove the tangled hair off my neck, baring my skin to the sun. I saw the pulse jump in his throat.

  “Laywren,” Dorn’s eyes widened as he whispered my name in wonder.

  Reaching forward, he made as if to brush the skin at the hollow of my throat with his thumb. I stepped back, holding my face blank as I read his emotions.

  His voice broke when he spoke. “Laywren? Can it be?”

  I was afraid to say it out loud, “I’m not sure.”

  “May I look?” Dorn asked.

  I nodded, and he moved to my back, lifting my hair from my shoulders. I could not see the back of my neck, so I tapped Lumen to look through Dorn’s eyes. The curve of my neck appeared in my mind, fading out the camp before me. I watched Dorn’s thumb rub against my reddened skin. Under his hand, the blood rose up creating a pattern of pink swirls, ever so faint. Oddly, the markings were not as sharp as they had been in the morning.

  I drew my sight from Lumen and pulled my woolen tunic away from my shoulder. The flush was gone from there. Confused, I stepped away from Dorn, and placed my hand against my neck. I was not ready for him to see, for I could not be sure.

  “It is the flush!” Dorn said definitively, moving to stand in front of me. His eyes glittered with excitement.

  I looked away from him and shook my head.

  “Laywren!” A small laugh burst through his lips and the delight in his voice made my stomach flutter. “This is a blessing!”

  When I did not respond, he stepped forward, cupping my chin in his hand and lifting my eyes to his. I reached up and removed his hand from my face, frowning at his forwardness.

  “We must not make a false claim.” I was suddenly afraid that what I had wished for was coming true.

  Dorn’s mouth dropped open in disbelief at my reaction. But then he sighed and nodded, suddenly somber and respectful.

  “You should see Cook,” he decided.

  I was disappointed. I had expected a different reaction. The faintest shadow flickered behind his lashes, and I was tempted to use Lumen on him to see how he had spent his night.

  Instead I left him, walking quickly in the direction of Cook’s fire, but after passing a few tents, I changed course and went to my own. My emotions were heightened, making me feel out of control. What was I doing worrying about Dorn and that slip of a girl? I had a Horde to command!

  I sent out a message through Lumen to the warriors who were tracking the serpent. They had not returned, and now that we were ready to move, I would have to keep in contact with them. The group responded that they were three days North, at the base of a mountain. I could see the mountain’s peak from where I stood, small under the clouds. We would leave in the morning, and I announced this to everyone in the Horde using Lumen. Within weeks we would meet up with the others, and then I would take up the hunt for the escaped captive.

  Chapter 10: My Rule for a Man

  The moment I entered the tent, the flanks reacted. They clicked and clacked in the corner, waking Hinfūs. He whined and crawled to my side, sniffing my crotch. Slapping his head away, I commanded the hound to leave me. I moved to the back corner of the tent that held my weapons to escape the bluster. Drawing my long sword, I hefted its weight.

  “This,” I spoke aloud, “holds no surprise. I know the arc of my swing, the steadiness of my strike, the bite of the blade.”

  I ran my hand lightly down the side of the cutting edge, admiring the sheen in the dimmed light of the tent. Hinfūs sniffed me again, and whined, licking randomly at my hand and thigh.

  “Be gone, slatherer!” I shoved the hound away with my foot, pointing my finger at my side to show the unsca
rred knit in my skin. “I am healed!”

  Dorn’s tread outside of my tent caught my attention. I heard him hesitate, and then pace around the entrance.

  “Laywren,” he called impatiently. “May I enter?”

  I did not answer. The flanks rolled their yellow eyes at each other, excited at the emotions sparking the air. I quietly put down my sword. I heard him sigh deeply as he waited, then he started to move away. Suddenly needing him more than I wished to avoid him, I motioned to Right Flank to open the tent.

  Dorn entered, but stayed standing in the tent’s flap. He ruffled his hair with his hand, and the waves fell to curl softly under his jaw line. His face held heated frustration.

  “Dorn,” I warned.

  The tent closed behind him, shutting out the sun’s light. I stepped back.

  “Laywren, I wish to speak freely.” He was more serious than I had ever seen him.

  I was cautious to leave the safety of my rank, but I wanted to hear what he would say. I wanted to know what he would do.

  “I free you to speak,” I said, my voice breaking on the words that would remove the boundary of my status.

  Dorn stepped closer to me, and I veiled my thoughts.

  “Why did you not see Cook?” he asked, angrily.

  I turned my face away and a thousand reasons tumbled into my mind. How could I show my neck to Cook? If I had the flush, I would have to announce it to the Horde. If I announced the flush, everything would be delayed, and the men in the North were waiting. My desire to kill the escaped captive was strong, stronger than my need to participate in a festival of the flush that could last days. If I announced the flush, I would have to obey the flush’s choice, one guided by the goddess. Or so I used to think. Perhaps the choice was guided by the Firslain. Or Nethaz! At this point, I could not trust the old ways to choose my mate. I could not trust the old traditions. And what if the flush was false? Then, some would suspect disfavour. My rule would be questioned.

  Dorn interrupted my thoughts by grabbing my shoulders, “For Goddess’ sake, answer me!”