Flames Over Frosthelm

by Dave Dobson

Gunther Byson, Jewelsmith.

  High Street, Frosthelm.

  A lot of things made more sense now. Why Brand and Marron kept asking about the amulet, even though I was sure they had it. I pondered what it all meant, and whether it was worth my torture or Sophie’s murder.

  Boog was more direct, and a good deal happier, but then again, he hadn’t been slapped around by Brand. “Sophie gave them a fake!” he laughed.

  31

  Pulling the Wool

  “You really think this was the best Gueran could do?” asked Boog.

  I shoved an overly-friendly sheep away from my face. “I don’t know, but I’m sure he stopped looking once he found it." Something started chewing on my tunic from behind.

  We were three days’ ride from Frosthelm. Well, not three days by fiery stallion, muscles rippling with strength, mane and tail fluttering wildly in the breeze. Rather, three days by sheep cart, lurching and bumping through ruts. The only thing fluttering in the breeze was the occasional bit of dislodged fluff and a nasty and nearly corporeal odor of sodden wool, an odor I now imagined soaked deep into my hair, skin and bones, never to depart my person.

  After a less-than-graceful exit from headquarters through the kitchen window, and a midnight dash through Frosthelm avoiding patrols, we’d spent the next few hours after our release huddled behind a haystack on the edge of the city, just inside the walls. Our current conveyance had arrived just before dawn, complete with a dour driver, four horses, and twelve black-faced fluffy fellow passengers. We’d wedged ourselves into a small sunken space at the front of the cart, not obvious to a casual inspection, and Lia and the driver had covered us with tools, rope, supplies, and greasy sacks of millet, and then we were off into the weak gloom of morning. I don’t think I'd ever been so uncomfortable, but at least my frame was not nearly so big as Boog’s. This fact was hard to ignore, as my face was pressed close against his stomach, my arms pinned awkwardly over his legs.

  Though the bag of grain covering my head muffled most sounds, it had been clear to me when we had reached the city gates. I couldn’t make out many of the words, but I recognized the scrape and clank of metal-shod feet as the guards approached, the guttural tones of our driver’s voice, and the terse reply. I imagined at that point all manner of disastrous scenarios for the next few minutes. Perhaps the guards, alerted by Marron or Brand, would search the cart thoroughly, ruining our none-too-clever disguise. Or worse, a sword, plunging, probing, thrust through the pile of agrarian junk covering our bodies. But our luck held – either the report had not yet reached the gate, or the guard was disinterested in a vigorous search of a cart full of ragged sheep, or the Blood Mother’s ugliest Daughter shielded us from harm. After a few moments of agonizingly unintelligible discussion, we had rumbled through the gate and away from our home.

  A wave of nervous relief had broken over me, but it receded quickly to a profound, crushing despair. Though we still had our lives and our freedom, if one can be considered free while breathing through forty pounds of coarse millet, we’d lost everything else. Our careers were over, our status reduced to escaped murderers, our home city in jeopardy ever more dire, our leader and friend treacherously slain, and our enemies firmly ensconced in positions of power and authority.

  These dark thoughts occupied me for many hours, along with an ever more urgent sense of Boog’s failings in matters of personal hygiene and a growing respect for the volume and variety of sounds his digestive processes could produce. We could not afford to show our faces anywhere near the city. Marron, who must now know of our escape, might well send riders along all main roads leading out of town. As time flowed by, indistinct and monotonous, I had no idea how far we had gone or what passed us by on the road. I was lost in my brooding, aware only remotely of my own growing hunger and thirst.

  That day, and the first night, had been the worst. At last, the cart had jostled to a stop, and the driver uncovered us. I breathed ragged and deep, like a man held too long underwater. The sun had long since set, but even the moon, bright in the starry sky, hurt my eyes after so long in darkness. I had struggled to arise, but I was set in the hidden trough in the cart like a stone in mortar. My muscles, cramped and twitching, refused to obey, and I lay there against Boog's belly, the cold night air bathing my grimy cheek, willing my useless limbs to move. “Wuuurgh,” I said, with feeling.

  Apparently, Boog had weathered our confinement with somewhat more resilience, for I suddenly found myself launched up and out of the cart. I landed badly, face first, but I was too weak to protest. After a time, I rolled over to see Boog crouching unsteadily on the edge of the cart. I must admit to some small satisfaction when a sheep nudged him sharply from behind, sending him sprawling down at my side.

  The drover had chuckled at us and finally helped us to sit up, to drink, and to eat. He had only stale bread, water, and some thick green soup in a leather skin, but I can truthfully say I have never appreciated a meal more. We were in a small clearing, grown tall with weeds and grasses. I knew not how far we were from the road, but it appeared the drover had found us at least some seclusion. Sleep came only fitfully, that night. Whether it was from the cramped privation of our ride, or fear of discovery, or the shambles my life had so quickly become, I knew not.

  Now, on the third day, my spirits had recovered a bit, although I knew we were still in several types of danger, both immediate and ongoing. The cart did not move quickly, but we had not seen any signs of pursuit, and Boog and I had been able to ride ever more comfortably as we traveled farther from Frosthelm. There were a few nerve-wracking moments as riders and soldiers approached, but we kept ourselves concealed, and they always passed us by. Perhaps, despite Marron's growing power and his probable rage at our departure, he had been unable to mount a search. Or perhaps, I thought glumly, he was too busy bringing about the return of the undying Faera to worry about such pitifully minor annoyances as we two.

  The drover seemed a decent enough fellow. I didn’t know how much he was being paid, but he seemed unfazed by the situation, so I thought this might not be his first such transaction. Either that, or a lifetime of sheep tending had shown him the path to true serenity. He didn’t say much other than general pleasantries and seemed more comfortable conversing with the sheep than with us, although I suspected he didn’t want to know much about our situation. We took the hint and restricted ourselves mostly to topics such as ovine personalities and cart maintenance.

  The plan, such a one as we had, was to make it somehow to the border, where we hoped that the Inspectors there, untainted by Marron’s influence, might listen to our findings. Not that I had any idea what we could do then – Marron was the Prelate's personal choice to head the Guild, and we were nothing more than escaped murderers. We had a little money that Lia provided, but hardly enough to mount any kind of insurrection, even if we’d known where to begin. At the very least, we could warn these inspectors of Marron’s treachery. We owed Sophie that.

  “So…” said Boog. “Do you know anyone in Middlemarsh who could help us get farther east, out to the border?" The drover had indicated Middlemarsh was the end of his trip. I’d never been there, but I knew the basics – the largest town east of Frosthelm within the Prelate’s domain, perhaps a bit more than a thousand people, with a thriving agricultural market, taverns, inns, several mills, and the like. I think there were normally a couple of inquisitors posted there, although I wasn’t up to date with the recent changes in postings caused by the trouble at the border. Regardless, Boog and I didn’t want to make ourselves too obvious in Middlemarsh, since it was only a few days’ ride from Frosthelm, and we had no way of knowing what news or alerts (or toadies) Marron had sent out. We could hardly walk up to an Inspector and ask if he or she was supposed to kill us on sight.

  For that matter, the border wasn’t a sure thing, either. Some of the inspectors out there had been there for years or decades – I didn’t know their names, much less their attitudes towards Sophie or towards Frosthelm politi
cs. Everyone sent out there recently, in response to the troubles, had held Sophie’s trust, though. I knew several of the Inspectors stationed there personally, and I thought (or hoped) that they had no ill impression of me or of Boog. I hoped that presenting ourselves in person, though risky, might actually demonstrate the truth of our tale. If we were truly the vile, treacherous murderers that Marron insinuated us to be, we would have no reason not to fade into the countryside and hide ourselves.

  Not that this course of action held no appeal. To travel to a small backwater town, perhaps to open a store, or sell my skills with locks or with language – how simple and enchanting that seemed, compared to the uncertainty and danger that would no doubt accompany us along the much more perilous path we considered. Our training had left us with a number of skills, many of value far beyond investigating crimes and serving the Prelate’s interests. Why not wash our hands of this unpleasant situation and of the Guild that had betrayed us?

  Sophie, was why. And Marron, and my city bathed in flame, sacrificed to a risen god. And Gueran, damn him anyway, and Lia, and Bernot, and the Augur, and Monique Lenarre, and all those who’d gone to considerable risk to help us. They deserved whatever meager assistance we could muster in return. And Algor, and Tolla, and Brand - they deserved to taste a bit of what they'd been dishing out, although I had no earthly idea how that might come to pass.

  And Clarice, who had been in my thoughts a great deal during our ride. With every mile I traveled from Frosthelm, I betrayed my home anew, but it also brought me a mile closer to Clarice. I couldn’t know what she’d been through, at the border all this time, or what she might think of us, newly broken out of prison and covered with dirty bits of wool and millet – a sorry state indeed. But at least she knew the beginnings of our story personally, and I felt sure she would vouch for us to the extent she could. Whether she had any stature out there remained to be seen.

  The drover cleared his throat, which took several iterations and turned into an alarmingly lengthy and gurgly process. Finally, he spoke. “Middlemarsh. It’s not what you’re used to, you know.” He paused, picking something from under a ragged thumbnail. “Small town. People what live there know everyone and their business. You’ll stick out, no question. If you let on you’re Inspectors, you’ll be the talk of the town. Probably will be anyway.”

  Boog grimaced. The drover continued. “The one saving grace ye’ll have is that there are a goodly number of travelers come through, though not as many this time of year.” He looked at both of us for a time. “’f I’re you, I’d not be seen together. Together, you stand out like a pig in a skirt. Apart, you'd do better. Especially if word’s gotten round, or if there’s a reward.” He poked at our small fire with a stick. "Might as like part ways there, I’d say. You’d be the safer.”

  Boog turned to look at me. I hadn’t really considered this, although the man made some sense. The idea filled me with dread. I knew I’d rather face whatever lay ahead with someone I could trust, even if it meant some danger. But what if Boog didn't see it that way?

  Boog snorted, then turned back to his porridge. “Not an option,” he growled. A warm wave of relief passed through me. “But we'll lie low. Any chance to find some horses, or a ride farther east?”

  “Horses? Maybe, though you’d need more coin than I think you have. A ride? Not without some trouble, and not without exposing yourselves to questions. There won’t be many headed that way in these times.”

  “Well, we can’t stay there long,” I said. “We're not far enough from Frosthelm, for one thing, and the longer we wait, the longer Marron has to finish what he’s doing.”

  Boog nodded, then licked his bowl clean. “Agreed. But I guess we’ll just have to see what happens when we get there.”

  “So, no plan?” I asked, dismayed.

  “Lighten up, Marty,” said Boog, rising to his feet. “Our last plan ended with us imprisoned, convicted, and sentenced to death, only to be saved at the last minute by a giant snake-clerk. This couldn’t go much worse.”

  32

  Middlemarsh

  No kill! No kill! I signed furiously at Boog, who stood behind the Inspector, his staff raised with both huge arms. Boog looked at me, confused, some of his confusion no doubt related to my painful grimace and flushed face, and the fact that the near-to-being-brained Inspector was bent over, dabbing feebly at my trousers with a wrinkled handkerchief. Some of it also likely derived from my recent blood-chilling shriek, let out moments ago when the Inspector who now inspected my lap had dumped a steaming hot bowl of leek-laden broth squarely onto my privates.

  “Dear me, dear me, so sorry,” said Inspector Edmund in a quavery voice. “My balance isn’t what it was, you know. Well, you certainly know now.” He looked up at me, and noticed my raised hand, my fingers stopped in mid-sign. He squinted. “Did I get some on your arm?” Boog, still unnoticed by Edmund, lowered the staff, took a quiet step back, and frowned.

  “No,” I replied lamely, shaking my hand. “Just, er, hot on my fingers.” Edmund stuffed his kerchief back into a pocket in his vest and turned slowly to the right. If Boog stayed where he was, he’d surely be seen. Boog’s eyes widened in alarm, and he swung back around toward me, keeping behind Edmund. "Did I leave the door open?” Edmund asked, puzzled. “Thought I closed it.” He had, in fact, closed it, but Boog had burst through moments before to save me. Though Boog thought he was saving me from mortal peril rather than hot leek soup.

  Edmund hobbled over to the door, shoved it closed, and this time slid the latch bar into its socket. Boog glared at me, then rotated back around, staying to the rear of Edmund as the old man swung back toward me.

  The meeting wasn’t going well, as must be obvious by now. Nothing had gone well in Middlemarsh so far, at least for me. After bidding farewell to the sheepcart, I’d been hiding and sleeping for nearly a week in a thicket in the woods, while Boog had found warm, soft lodging at a farmstead just outside Middlemarsh. He’d embarked on a new, and I hoped quite temporary, career as a hired farm hand. Boog had been able to bring me some food and news of the town most nights, but we’d agreed that I should stay out of sight at first, and that he stood better chance of finding some kind of unobtrusive employment. The dried mutton given me by the drover was nearly gone, and what was left was so gamey that I didn’t feel like risking my guts with any more. My nights in the woods had left me increasingly cold, sore, hungry, bored, and maudlin. I was a city lad through and through, and where some hardier souls than I might have been able to live off the land, I could barely even sleep upon it.

  Thus, this plan, which had so far left me with well-boiled thighs and little else. It turned out there was an Inspector in town, Edmund, spoken well of by all, and apparently in the Guild since before the Blood Mother coughed up the world. There had been two Inspectors here up until a year or so before, but Sophie had reassigned the younger one to more pressing duties elsewhere. With my life as a woodland creature growing steadily worse and Boog's position tenable but leading nowhere, we’d agreed that I’d visit this Edmund. It could be that he hadn’t heard of our conviction and escape and might help us unawares, or failing that, that if he were as decent a chap as reported, he wouldn’t turn us in, and that we might be able to convince him of the truth behind our predicament.

  Boog waited hidden outside, and I pledged to cry out at any sign of danger. Edmund had accepted my false tale of reassignment to the border without question and had asked for news from the city. As I pondered what to tell him, thinking “Well, I was convicted of murdering the High Inspector, sentenced to death, and am now fleeing from the law” was probably not my best approach, he rose and ladled a generous bowl of soup from a kettle hung over his small fire. Far too generous, I thought now, in retrospect. Initially, I’d been quite pleased by the prospect of a large hot meal, back when I’d thought I’d be eating it rather than wearing it.

  Now, I had no idea what to do. Boog looked daggers at me from behind Edmund. What now? His thick fi
ngers wiggled madly. You elbow. Elbow, elbow, elbow. Given that the sign for ‘elbow' was not so very different from the sign for ‘jackass,’ I could infer Boog’s true meaning.

  I could not risk signing back, not with Edmund looking straight at me. I realized I had focused perhaps too pointedly on Boog, as Edmund looked quizzical. I cast my gaze down to my trousers, still dripping with soup, steaming slightly in the cool air. Just the day before, I’d washed them carefully in the river near my hiding place. The prison, the sheep-filled cart, and my stint as a forest hermit had left me filthy and ripe, so it was high time for a bit of laundering. I can now say confidently that there are few experiences so tiresome as huddling cold and wet in one’s underthings in a forest for half a day while one’s trousers aired out on a bush. And now my sacrifice was for naught. I brushed a bit of leek from my leg.

  “It’s all right, really, Edmund,” I mumbled. “I can wash up later."

  Edmund turned suddenly, and Boog flattened himself against a table. “Can I at least get you another bowl?” Boog had knocked a small pitcher in his attempt to stay hidden, and it now rolled a bit on its rounded bottom. I watched in eerie fascination for a moment as it rocked closer to the table’s edge.

  “No!” I yelled. Edmund looked back at me in alarm, and I wrenched my gaze back to him as Boog scuttled back away from the table. I could hear a series of tiny creaks as the pitcher still wobbled. Who would make such an unsteady vessel? Perhaps it was the work of a child, or a touchy relative, whose work couldn’t be thrown away for fear of offense. It looked as though it might have been hollowed out of a gourd of some sort. I invented all manner of silent curses for the unknown rustic craftsman and his vegetable-derived dinnerware. “I mean, no, thanks, that’s very kind. Look!” I said, striding gamely toward the window, though I had nothing at all in mind at which to look. As Edmund followed me over, I saw out of the corner of my eye Boog reach a finger out to steady the pitcher, and then retreat to a safer spot. He looked at me with open alarm. I pointed grandly out the window. “What a beautiful view you have,” I continued gamely. “Of the back of the mill."