The Unfettered Child

by Michael C Sahd

  “You stubborn old mule!” Nikolai shouted, “You’re going to get us killed.”

  The blacksmith turned around, his eyes smoldering with anger. He advanced on Nikolai, who lifted his spear slightly, halting the large man’s progress. The boy took a few steps back to keep Orin from impaling himself on the tip. Orin had startled him; he hadn’t expected him to come toward him like that. It must have shown on his face, because Orin seemed a little surprised too.

  The blacksmith’s gaze moved down to the point floating inches from his gut. He stared at it for a while, but Nikolai didn’t move his spear. He was ready to defend himself if he had to.

  The last few days with Orin had been miserable. His temper had been short, and he had acted contrary to many of Nikolai’s suggestions. Despite that, Nikolai felt that he had been very good natured about it.

  Suddenly, Orin laughed, long and heartily. Nikolai’s face transformed from concern to a slight smirk, and soon, he joined in. He couldn’t help himself. After days of tension, the two of them bent over, almost crying with the gales of laughter that overcame them.

  Orin slapped the young man on the back. “Come on, we’ll sleep here tonight.”

  The two walked back to the flat rock next to the stream and set up camp. After they had finished lighting the fire, Orin said, “Come here. I have something for you.” He walked over to his pack, and Nikolai watched him dig through its many pockets. He removed a Havallan scimitar and a dagger, sheathed in mammoth hide.

  Standing up with both blades in his left hand, he turned around and knocked Nikolai on his backside, surprising the young chief with his speed.

  “What did you do that for?” Nikolai shouted.

  Standing over him with his broadsword in his right hand and the other two blades in his left, Orin said, “Get up.” He tossed the smaller blades next to Nikolai. “You want to know what we’re going to do when we catch up with the elves? Get up and I’ll teach you.”

  Nikolai rolled onto his knees. “I have the spear. I don’t know how to use those,” he said, indicating the two blades.

  “You have good reflexes. You’re quick on your feet, and you already know how to attack.” The bulkier man put his broad blade in front of him, both hands firmly on the grip. “You can learn those weapons quickly. You’ll be faster with them than with the spear.”

  Standing up warily, Nikolai grabbed the two weapons, the short sword in his right hand and the dagger in his left. He pointed both blades at Orin’s chest. “If this is about what happened with the spear earlier, I’m sorry.”

  The blacksmith eyed him critically. “Good! Nice stance, but . . .” He lowered his sword and stepped over to Nikolai. Taking the dagger, he flipped it around so that the tip of the blade pointed down, then handed it back.

  “Keep this hand closer to your body, like you’re ready to punch with it. Lower the sword to your opponent’s gut. Just like when you’re fighting any other animal, you want to keep the sharp point between you and your opponent.”

  He spent the rest of the evening instructing Nikolai on how to hold the weapons, how to move with them, and how to block, and offering a few pointers on attacking. He smiled as Nikolai proved his natural ability with the weapons.

  Nikolai appreciated the lessons and began to warm up to him again. The fear that they were going to be overwhelmed when the time came nagged at him, but he kept his concerns to himself.

  *****

  The next morning, the two of them wolfed down a cold meal at the edge of the stream. Orin gazed at the water, not speaking to Nikolai as they ate. Slipping back into his malaise, he forced an apology to the young man. “I’m sorry . . . I’ve been stupid.”

  As he filled their water skins, Nikolai glanced at Orin and replied, “It’s fine.” Then he lowered his gaze back to the task at hand. “I hope they’re alright. My mother, Natalia. All of them. I want to save them. I hope they’re alright.”

  “You’ve been taking it well. Much better than I have.” Catching the water skin tossed at him, he attached it to his waist. “Look, I don’t know if these other humans will help, but I promise to ask if we run across them. However, I won’t go out of my way to find them. Is that good?”

  Nikolai smiled and said, “I can’t ask for more. Thank you. I’m sorry I raised my spear at you.”

  Orin smiled back. “Bah,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.

  As the day progressed, they traveled through dense, forested peaks, where they almost lost their quarry. Passing through several tight fissures, cut between enormous boulders, the tracks marked clear trails to follow. Although Orin was used to continuous traveling, the thin mountain air made him short of breath.

  That afternoon, they followed the tracks to the side of a cliff on a path that required them to walk single file. The brisk air whipped their hides about violently, and Orin pulled his cloak tightly around his powerful form. In spite of the full yard of shelf the mountain lent them, the sheer drop to the north had the two of them clinging tightly to the cliff wall, staying far from the edge.

  The path that followed along the ledge gradually ended and turned down onto a heavily wooded slope. The sun, now behind them, cast a deep shadow of the peak into the vast valley below.

  The trees hid most of the ground, but from his vantage, he could see that glades marked the basin like spots on a leopard’s fur. On the far side, they could see another mountain peak, brightly highlighted by the setting sun.

  Studying the land below, Orin felt confident that he and Nikolai could catch up to the group. The valley was mostly flat, and although the elves also benefited from the level basin, he believed that he and Nikolai had the greater advantage. After all, the elves still had to move a sizable group of captives through the thick trees.

  As if his thoughts had manifested before him, he saw their quarry on the far side of the valley, passing through a clearing. Nikolai pointed with his spear at about the same time and said, “Look!”

  Anticipation ate at Orin, and he said, through clenched teeth, “I see them!” The elves began their ascent on the other end of the valley, little specks disappearing behind the trees.

  The sight of his prey sent him rushing down the mountain, no longer concerned with planning. Deep down, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up this pace; the group resembled insects from his side of the clearing. Nonetheless, panicked rage fueled his sprint.

  He leaped from the tops of rocks and roots, moving quickly over the uneven ground. His heavy bag bounced uncomfortably on his back. Nikolai leaped after him, easily keeping pace. “Orin, wait!” he shouted.

  Ignoring him, the blacksmith vaulted over a fallen trunk, landing on a rock on the other side, then continuing his charge through the rough terrain. He was so close, and he had no intention of letting them get away. Nikolai stopped chasing after him and yelled, “You’re going to get yourself killed!”

  Orin raced through the valley until his lungs ached, a stitch in his side protesting his dash over the rutted landscape. Normally, he could run for hours, but he had trouble breathing the mountain air, and doing so while dodging and leaping over obstacles proved especially difficult.

  Slowing to a stop, he leaned over, gasping. “No . . . no,” he said between breaths. Despair overcame him, shortening his brief break and encouraging him to run a little farther. The stitch in his side grew more insistent, so he walked. He glanced around for Nikolai and found that he could no longer hear or see him.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed something drop from the trees, thudding as it hit the ground. He turned, ready to fight, but then a flurry of people fell from the branches all around him, landing proficiently. Yanking his sword from its sheath, he steadied it in front of him, ready to cut down the first one to attack him.

  He had thought the elves were ambushing him, but these were humans. They wore thick hides and camouflaged themselves with pine leaves and black face paint. The short shafts and steel tips on their spears meant they traded with the Havallan
Empire.

  Keeping his sword ready, he turned around as more of the newcomers arrived. Not all of them pointed spears at him, and the few who did stood just out of reach of his deadly claymore. He waited, hoping they would allow him to catch his breath before attacking. One of them said something in a language he didn’t understand, and most of the spearmen relaxed.

  When he saw the change in their attitude, he lowered his sword tip to the ground but kept it ready to swing if necessary. The speaker was taller than him, with bone beads braided into his blond beard; his skin was red from the sun.

  These people shared some of the features of the nomads, but the nomads stood slightly shorter, were tanned from the sun, and were primarily black- or brown-haired.

  The speaker said something to Orin, who responded with a shake of his head. After studying the blacksmith, the man said something that sounded familiar. The accent muddied the words, but Orin found he still understood most of what was said.

  “I’m . . .” he paused. “Sorry, but your accent is difficult.”

  Raising his arms in the air and smiling, the man said something to his people. A few returned his smile. To Orin, he said, “Good tidings. Aren’t you the blacksmith from the plains?”

  It took some time for Orin to digest his words. “Yes,” he said. However, pleasantries were the last thing on his mind. He cut to the chase and said, “I’m after the elves.” He gestured long ears and large eyes, then continued. “They have my people. I need to stop them.”

  “You were charging to your death, my friend. The elves are deadly, and their group outnumbers yours. You and your companion stand no chance against them.”

  Orin briefly raised a questioning eyebrow.

  In response, the man said, “We’ve been watching you since you entered the valley. I’m hoping to save you from rushing to your demise.”

  Ignoring the man’s warning, Orin asked, “Do you know how many are left?”

  The speaker regarded him indecisively, and he stared right back. Finally, the man said, “Eighteen elves and thirty-one human slaves traveled through our valley.” He pointed east. “Now, only seven elves return, but they have twice the slaves. Some of the captives are our neighbors, some Havallans. Did you two kill the other elves?”

  “No.”

  “Seven elves may not seem like much, but ten of the humans seem to work and fight with the elves, and one of the elves is a mage, more than a match for any warrior.”

  Orin remembered that the priestess who had helped him many winters ago had called herself a mage, but right now, he hardly cared; he had already wasted too much time. “I have to get my people free. The elves have my wife! They killed my daughter!” He shouted the last word and couldn’t hold back the sob that escaped him, but he tried his best to swallow the next one down.

  The speaker stared at him, sympathy plainly reflected on his face. Orin grew restless as the group of people discussed something in their own language.

  “I understand that you have no desire to give up, but we have a friend who might be able to help you. You must come back to our village and tell her your story.”

  Orin started to protest, but the man raised his hands, asking him to wait. “I know . . . Look, I can let you go right now, and you can die to the elves, or . . .”

  Orin sheathed his sword as soon as he heard “let you go” and stepped past the man. Two young men strode into his path, but the speaker said something to them, and they moved out of the way, allowing him to slip past them.

  When Orin stepped beyond the ring of men, the speaker said, “If you reconsider, come back.”

  Orin grunted and continued on his way.

  *****

  Trees cast dark shadows against the forest floor, except where the moon peeked through, dimly reflecting enough light to see by. Grasping a root that grew out of a ledge, Orin climbed up, sending dirt and rocks cascading down to collect at the bottom. With his other hand, he stabbed a knife into the earth and used it to pull himself up the rest of the way.

  Scrambling over the crumbling edge, he spotted the flicker of fire between the trees. Although the elves had set up camp only a slight distance up the next incline into the mountains, he had crept past them so he could approach from higher ground.

  Stalking closer, crouching low, he moved from tree to tree. When he was close enough, he lowered himself to his belly and put his knife away. The earthy smell of disturbed organic matter drifted up as he inched along the damp ground on his stomach.

  Halting paces from the elves, he pulled himself up onto his knees behind a tree. He could hear the musical tone of their laughter as they conversed. How could such a beautiful sound come from such monstrous beings?

  Peeking around the tree, he counted four elves with their attention diverted to what he assumed was a game. Glancing around for the other three, he saw a spacious tent tucked behind some trees not far off. Light glowed from within. He assumed they were probably in there.

  Farther down the hill, another fire hid behind the tall trunks, but thanks to the glow, he could see that it sat in the middle of a modest glade, with smaller tents set up around it. He searched for the women but failed to find them.

  Sliding back the way he had come, he circled the camp, moving far enough away to sneak around to the other side. The scent of stale excrement lurked among the normal smells of the forest and intensified as he made his wide arch around the camp. The closer he came, the stronger the odor grew, until he gagged on the stench.

  Watching the ground, he almost stumbled on a woman chained to a tree. Alarmed, he froze. She appeared to be staring right at him.

  Afraid she might scream or talk to him, he simply stood, unable to decide whether to retreat or to put a hand over her mouth. To make matters worse, the other captives were behind her, chained to trees or to each other. The scent of defecation seeped off the prisoners.

  As he waited for her reaction, he realized that she wasn’t really looking at him at all, but rather past him, staring into the distance. He moved closer. She moaned softly and pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face in the soiled hide she wore as a dress. A woman next to her slowly swung her head from side to side with her mouth open, drool escaping from the corners.

  The other captives around her demonstrated similar behaviors; they all seemed to be removed from reality. Anxiety squeezed his chest as he glanced around for Natalia. He had every intention of freeing all of the captives, but his first concern was for his wife. Lifting his head to glance toward the fires burning across the dark lines of trunks, he determined that the distance and cover provided by the woods would allow him to walk upright for a better vantage.

  He wound his way through the mingled bodies, continuing his search for his love, his life partner. What he saw sickened him. Matvey, one of his tribe’s hunters, appeared feverish. His leather tunic was stiff with dried blood, and a gash in the fabric revealed an infected wound.

  A woman he didn’t recognize was bootless, her exposed foot swollen with gangrene. All of the prisoners seemed a little dehydrated and beaten. He gritted his teeth as he observed the signs of negligence and abuse.

  He spotted Natalia against one of the outer trees. She and the other women bound to her sat semi-motionless. He quietly edged toward her, stepping over the limbs of bound humans sprawled across the forest floor. Her group leaned in a semicircle against a tree, hands behind their backs.

  As he drew closer, he saw Natalia’s eyes staring into the night. When he noticed her lifting her knee up and down, slowly kicking out at some imagined nightmare, his stomach dropped as it had when he had found the remains of his people, when he had lost his Samara.

  Even while he crouched beside her, she continued to gaze up into the canopy. He cradled her face in his hands and whispered, “Natalia? Love?” She stared right past him. His heart raced. What did they do to her? He shook her slightly. “Natalia, it’s me, Orin.” She looked toward him, but her eyes continued to focus beyond him, her pupils dilated
.

  She started to open her legs obscenely. “No!” he whispered. “Natalia, no . . . no!” He cradled her head in his arms and held her, crying. After a while, he slapped her, hoping to wake her from her daze, but she just groaned and closed her eyes. Drugged, she must be drugged.

  When he released her head, it collapsed to her chest. Orin stared at her stained dress. He couldn’t save his people like this, and without Sigmia, he couldn’t help them either. Even Samara might have known what to do. He wished he had brought her; then she would still be alive. No, he reconsidered, she should never see her mother like this.

  His frowning face reddened with anger, and he snapped his head toward the first campfire. The veins in his neck bulged into thick cords. He stood up and walked directly through the captives, stepping over their limbs once again. Then he drew his sword.

  When he cleared the assemblage, he sped up until, at full run, he charged into the camp. One of the elves sat talking, and the three facing him displayed shock as his massive frame grew out of the forest. He cleaved clean through half of the neck and torso of the speaking elf and sliced the rib cage of another as it rolled away.

  Blood splattered the elves who were still sitting. The elf farthest from Orin leaped away, but the other was less fortunate; he was still wiping blood from his eyes when the blacksmith brought the wide blade down on his crown. The remaining two pulled swords from their waists. The closest advanced around the fire, holding the gash in his side.

  Orin tried to swing his sword around to defend himself, but it was wedged tightly in the last corpse’s skull. He put a boot on the dead elf’s face and yanked his sword free while clumsily dodging a swing from the oncoming elf. His foot caught on the first elf’s corpse, and he stumbled backward.

  He regained his footing just as one elf tried to flank him. The other continued his onslaught, and Orin parried a swing. When he checked the progress of the elf circling him, he saw a beautiful female elf standing outside the tent flap, her painted eyes wide and her mouth open in dismay. Two other elves stumbled around in the tent behind her.