A Warrior's Burden: Book One of Saga of the Known Lands

by Jacob Peppers

  The village of Celdar, though, was only an hour’s walk away, give or take, for he could see it in the distance, the smoke rising from the chimneys. Well. Maybe a few hours considering the trousers. Either way, far closer. They would probably have ale, maybe even beds, though in a backwater village like that he thought it just as likely they all slept in the dirt and drank their own piss.

  Still, Maeve was there. Maeve who he had not seen in fifteen years. Maeve who, if memory served, had threatened to kill him if she ever saw him again. Though, to be fair, he’d had many people—women in particular—say similar things to him over the years and some of those he had seen again and, while it had to be admitted that though he might not be flourishing, he was, at least, still alive. Probably the woman had only meant the death threat as a jest. Not that he could ever remember Maeve going in for many jokes.

  Either way, there was no choice, not if he wanted to save the doomed man and the doomed boy—something he still wasn’t sure about. He might know what was coming to them, but he had no idea what he should do to help them—committing suicide by charging at fifty armed men didn’t seem like a particularly tempting option. The sad fact was that he’d never been much of a planner. Or a doer either, come to it. He had always considered himself more of a dreamer. Not the type of man who did incredible things, true, but the type of man who saw them, maybe, or heard about them over a nice pint and appropriated the best bits for his own.

  Maeve, though, she would know what to do. She always had, in the past. The woman might have been a bit of a bitch—the gods could attest to that, surely—but she was also clever. Cleverer than she had a right to be. He’d seen that cleverness in dozens of her schemes over their years campaigning, even if their leader—the man currently walking toward his doom, though he knew it not—had nearly always overruled them and chosen instead the path of blood, as was his way.

  He would go to her, then, and tell her of what he had seen in his vision. She would no doubt come up with some plan—assuming she didn’t kill him, of course, or neuter him as she’d joked on more than one occasion, doing a bang up job of keeping a straight face and not breaking a laugh or smile. A plan that would, no doubt, somehow enable them to save the boy and the man against all odds. As for Chall, well, that would be the end of his involvement. Once he had told her, once she had been warned, he could wash his hands of the whole affair and get back to…well, get back to getting kicked out of taverns and womens’ beds, that was what, his biggest worries bouncers and candlesticks, not swords and pissed off princes. Although, there was no denying that the bed part was becoming less and less frequent of late having, he suspected, some inverse relationship with his growing gut.

  Then, resolved—or, at least, as resolved as he ever really got—Chall started down the dirt road toward the village of Celdar, pausing from time to time to defend himself against his recently-acquired trousers.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  You ask me why I chose this path?

  Very well, I’ll tell you.

  My father was a farmer. My mother too. Their lives spent digging in the dirt, their backs hunched at labor and for what? For more than one night when we were forced to go to bed hungry.

  No, I will never be a farmer. Better to do anything than that.

  Better to die.

  —Maeve the Marvelous following the Battle of the Barrier Mountains

  Maeve knelt in the dirt of her garden, digging her hands through the fertile soil to create a small pocket, a pocket in which she laid a seed. Then she gently pushed the dirt over, covering it. It was nothing now, nothing but a small seed that might be easily lost or forgotten. But in time, it would grow into a tomato plant, a plant which would produce food that could be eaten. A small thing, perhaps, but then small things, she told herself often, could make all the difference.

  That was true, but it wasn’t the real reason why she spent so much time in her garden. She knew enough of herself to know that much. No, her reasons were much simpler than that. She liked the feel of the soil in her hands, liked the texture of it, liked, too, the knowledge that hands which had once spent so much time destroying could also create, could help make and sustain life, not just take it away.

  It brought a certain peace that had been so rare in her life, one that she had desperately needed. And dirt, it had to be said, washed off far more easily than blood. So, she went about her task, smiling, even whistling a song, one she could not remember the name of.

  Chall would know it.

  She frowned, pausing at that thought, the tune she’d been whistling faltering. Strange, that she would think of the mage now, of all times. For fifteen years, she hadn’t given him or any of the others from her past a thought. Or, at least, she’d tried not to and, most of the time, she had even succeeded in that. Lately, though, he had been on her mind a lot. And not just him. Sometimes, the past could trick a person into thinking it was well and truly in the past, that it had forgotten about them and, therefore, they might be allowed to forget about it.

  But then, on other nights, the past would snuggle close as she lay in bed, unable to sleep, so close that she could feel its breath on her neck. And she would see them again, all of them as they had been fifteen years ago. She would see the blood, too, would smell it. And of course, there were the screams. Screams the echoes of which she thought she could almost hear even now.

  She gave her head a shake and pushed her hands into the soil once more and with a bit more force than was technically necessary. That was when she heard the voice.

  “Hi, Maeve.”

  She knew it at once, that voice, had heard it often enough that it would have been hard not to, and never mind that fifteen years had passed since last she’d heard it. Still, she told herself that it couldn’t be, that it was impossible. Yet, when she looked up, there he was. Chall the Charmer, as he’d once been called. A man whose handsome looks had only been eclipsed by his honeyed tongue. But there was little left of the charmer to him now. The years, she saw, had not been kind. But then, are they ever?

  He stood in tight, purple trousers that looked as if they were prepared to burst, and his shirt was stained with what she would have guessed was spilled ale. Different in so many ways from the man he had been, but the smile he gave her, one that at once seemed flirtatious and mocking, was one she remembered well, one that had often made her want to kiss him and kill him at turns. “Chall,” she said, sitting back and letting her arms rest on her folded knees. “You’ve gotten fat.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Same old sweet Maeve. Sure, I might have put on a few pounds—”

  “Fifty at least.”

  He sighed, rolling his eyes. “Anyway, it isn’t just me that’s changed, is it? I never would have thought to see Maeve the Marvelous wrist deep in dirt. And on her knees, too, though perhaps that last bit isn’t so unusual.”

  She frowned. “I always hated that name.”

  “I know.”

  It was her turn to sigh. “So. What are you doing here—” She was interrupted by the sound of a heavy trod behind her.

  “Loretta?” a voice asked in a low growl, like a bear warning someone away from its territory. “Who’s your friend?”

  She turned back to see her husband scowling, his big arms folded across his thick barrel chest. “Ah, Hank,” she said, “I thought you’d gone out drinking with your friends.”

  “The boys, Lorrie,” he corrected. “I told you, they’re not friends. They’re the boys.”

  “Of course,” she said. “My mistake.”

  He gave a snort, glancing at Chall. “Women. If it weren’t for what was between their legs, we’d have gotten rid of ‘em ages ago, ain’t that right?”

  Chall grew pale, glancing at her as if he expected her to draw a dagger—admittedly, she used to keep several secreted on her person—and cut the apology out of Hank’s flesh. “I uh…” He hesitated. “That is, I’ve always found myself appreciative of what’s between their ears.” Hank only stared at him,
blinking, and Chall chose to clarify. “You know, their minds.”

  Hank stared at the fat magician as if he were some alien species, then noted the pants with a grin. “Well, wearin’ trousers like that, can’t say as I’m surprised. What was her name?”

  “I’m sorry,” Chall said, “whose name?”

  “Well, the woman you stole those trousers from, of course,” Hank said, barking a laugh at his own joke.

  Chall gave what might have been a laugh, if one ignored the sarcasm and disgust in it. “Oh, it’s hard to say. Women, you know? I don’t usually bother keeping up with their names. What’s the point, right?”

  Hank frowned at that, as if trying to decide whether or not he was being mocked which, knowing Chall, he most certainly was. Then he turned back to her. “Who is this fucker, Lorrie?”

  She scrambled for an excuse. She had never told her husband about her past, had never told anyone, in fact, having no desire to unearth memories she’d been trying to bury for years—or, for that matter, to risk someone taking it in their mind to get the not insubstantial reward that was offered for her head or the heads of those she’d once traveled with. “Tax collector,” she said finally, wincing inwardly as she did.

  “Tax collector?” Hank said, frowning suspiciously at Chall. “We’ve already paid our taxes.”

  “Right,” Chall said, as quick as he always was—thankfully, being grossly overweight didn’t interfere with the speed of a man’s thoughts, “well, this isn’t for taxes, see, more to assess the profit potential in earnings for some of the outlying farms.”

  “The fuck are you talking about?” Hank demanded. “Do we owe any money or not?”

  Chall glanced at her in disbelief then back to Hank, giving him a sickly smile. “You…do not.”

  Hank grunted. “Well, why not just say that then? Anyway, all tax collectors dress like you?”

  “Oh yes,” Chall said, nodding, a sober expression on his face, “it’s the new uniform.”

  Hank shook his head. “Damn this world we live in. Folks getting weirder and weirder every day.”

  “And dumber too,” Chall offered, nodding.

  Hank scowled again, still trying to decide if he were being mocked. Then he made a point of eyeing Chall up and down. “Well. Maybe I ought to get into the tax collectin’ business. You ain’t starvin’ that’s for damn sure. Anyway, I thought you folk usually came around in twos, with a partner.”

  “Oh, that. Well, I’m afraid I got hungry,” Chall said dryly. “I had to eat him.”

  Hank stared at him for several seconds, and Maeve was left wondering how she would intervene if he decided to give Chall a black eye. Wondering, too, if she would intervene at all. “Anyway,” her husband said finally, turning to her, “I had to come back to get some more money—it’s my night to buy the rounds.”

  “Getting an early start are you?” Chall asked, glancing up at the early afternoon sun.

  Hank let out a growl—one Maeve had heard before—and started toward the magician, but Maeve stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Please, Hank, no trouble. Did you find the money you needed?”

  Hank continued to scowl at Chall for several seconds before turning back to her. “I did, never mind that you tried to hide it under the bed. Honestly, Lorrie, sometimes I think you ain’t got any sense except what I beat into you.”

  She gave him a smile. “Sorry, Hank. I wasn’t trying to make you angry. Only, we’ll need to buy groceries soon, and I was trying to keep—”

  “Never mind what you were tryin’ to keep,” he snapped. Then he glanced back at Chall. “You’re still here.”

  “Um…yes,” the magician said, fidgeting. “Yes, I am.”

  “Right,” Hank said. “Well. Best not be. Off with you, fat man.”

  Chall turned to her, incredulous, but she gave a slight shake of her head. “Best leave, Cha—sir. Everything is in order here. We pay our taxes every yea—”

  “I had a vision, Maeve,” he interrupted. “Of him. He’s in trouble.”

  Maeve felt as if she’d been struck by lightning, and she stared at the mage in shock. Chall always enjoyed joking—was notorious for it, in fact—and she’d long since lost track of the men and women who’d wanted to kill him thanks to his “jokes.” But the mage was not laughing or smiling now, and if it was a joke, it wasn’t a very funny one, even for him. Instead, he only stared at her, the import of his words obvious in his steady gaze.

  A vision. Chall was many things—a philanderer, a fraud, and a liar chief among them—but he also happened to be a powerful illusionist, perhaps the best who had ever lived, and that wasn’t all. He was also blessed—or cursed, to hear him tell it—with the ability to sometimes see into the future, to catch glimpses of it. Often these glimpses were unclear were, according to what he’d told her years ago, like catching sight of a fish’s ass before it swims away. But this vision, whatever its contents, had obviously been clear enough to drag him out of whatever brothel or farmer’s daughter’s bed he’d been sleeping in and bring him all the way here, purple trousers and all. That worried her. She had told herself she was done with her past, done, too, with all those people who had been a part of it. But then, she had always been good at lying to herself.

  “Go on and drink with your friends, Hank,” she said, so worried by Chall’s tone, by the worry in his gaze, too, that she didn’t take care to honey her words as she often did with her husband.

  He noticed. In another moment, Hank was jerking her up by her shirt sleeve. “Who you think you’re talkin’ to that way, Lorrie?” he demanded. Then he shook his head. “Damn me, but I thought that the last lesson I taught you would be the last. Seems like you’re just too stupid to learn.”

  She brushed his hand free with a practiced flick of her arm. “Not now, Hank,” she said. “We’ll talk. Later, alright? But not now, now I—” She cut off as he slapped her a ringing blow across the face, and she stumbled, nearly falling.

  “Hey—” Chall began, stepping forward, but she held up a hand, stopping him. The magician was many things, but a warrior was not one of them. She tasted blood in her mouth—Hank was a big man, strong, and, as everyone in the village knew, prone to use his fists instead of his words.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “look, Hank, I didn’t mean anything, alright? I’ll just finish talking to Cha…to the tax collector here and then get back to work. Please, go have a fun time with your friends, okay?”

  “No,” he growled, his fisted hands on his hips like some obstinate child. “No, I don’t think I will. You’ve got a lesson comin’, Lorrie. Had one comin’ for a while, it seems, and high past time you learnt it.”

  He reached out to slap her again, but this time, Maeve did not let him. Sometimes, the body remembers what the mind forgets, and she ducked underneath the telegraphed blow with ease, then rose, bringing the ridge of her hand to his throat, pulling the blow at the last moment to keep it from being lethal. Hank grunted, stumbling away as a hand went to his throat, but instead of stopping, he let out a roar like some angry bear and charged her.

  Maeve was impatient to hear about what news Chall brought and so she decided she didn’t have time to waste humoring her fool of a husband, not today. He grabbed for her, but she pivoted, slapping his arms away contemptuously before grabbing a handful of his fruits and giving them a squeeze. That stopped him quickly enough, as it did all men, and he gasped in a sharp intake of breath.

  “Enough,” she growled at her husband who was watching her with wide, terrified eyes, looking at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Now, I am going to have a conversation with my friend here, Hank—that’s right, my friend, or at least, not a tax collector. And you are going to go and drink with your friends. Isn’t that right?”

  “Y-yes,” he stammered through the pain. “L-Lorrie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Never mind that,” she said, releasing him with a shove that made him cry out. “Just go on—away with you.”

&
nbsp; He stood there trying to scowl at her—an effort made more difficult by the fact that one hand was cupping his fruits tenderly, the other rubbing at his throat. “We’re goin’ to have a talk about this later, Lorrie,” he growled. “A long talk.”

  She sighed. “I don’t doubt it. Now go.”

  He scowled at her, then at Chall as if he had murder on his mind, but thankfully he turned and started away. Maeve watched him go then gave a shake of her head. “That’ll be trouble later.”

  “Seems to me that’s trouble all the time,” Chall said. “Gods, Maeve, what happened to you?”

  She looked at him, feeling a bit defensive. “What happens to all of us, Chall—time. That’s all.”

  “Still,” he said, “I wouldn’t have ever thought to see you let yourself be bullied by some…some ape that looks too stupid to know how good he’s got it. Or even read for that matter.”

  She gave him a smile at that. Chall could be sweet sometimes, too—though always, without fail, only when he didn’t mean to be. “No,” she said, “maybe not. But it’s better than a public torture and an even more public execution.”

  “If you say so,” Chall said dubiously, staring off in the direction her husband had gone.

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Forget Hank. He’s a fool, but fools are easy enough to control. Now, why don’t you tell me why you’ve come.”

  He gave her a wink. “Missed me, did you?”

  She stared at him. “I refused your proposal and married an ape. What does that tell you?”

  Chall winced at that. “Right, on to business then. Though,” he went on, getting that shifty look he sometimes—nearly always—got, “it’s a bit of a tale, and I’ve had quite a walk, and I’m a bit thirsty. I wonder if it wouldn’t be possible, that is, if maybe you had something…”