She nodded, unable to voice the despair she felt. She let go of the tiny hope that something her hands could do, some medicine they could produce from their stores, or a fluke of nature would suddenly heal this man. She busied herself with cleaning, medicating, and binding his many slashes and gouges, wondering, as she did, if the guard had family and friends to miss him.
WARNING
Cantor didn’t go into the cabin until the next morning. They’d cooked dinner and eaten outside the night before. Trout’s one room had been crowded with the patient in bed and Bixby and Dukmee on thick floor pallets. And for some reason, Jesha had abandoned Bridger and insisted on keeping watch inside all night.
Bixby and Dukmee were up and seeing to the comfort of their patient. Cantor stepped through the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Jesha perched at the foot of the bed.
He smiled at Bixby. “Neekoh and Trout have been fishing.”
Bixby groaned. “Let me guess. We’re having fried fish for breakfast.”
“Right, but he said there was some cornmeal in here, and I thought I’d make some corncakes.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. We’ve had fish at every meal since we met Trout.”
Dukmee looked up from the mixture in his mortar. “He did tell us that he liked to fish.”
They all chuckled, and the man in the bed cleared his throat. “Who is that old man?” His voice was stronger than the night before, and he didn’t gasp between every few words.
Jesha now sat on the bed at the guard’s waist. He had one hand resting against her back. The cat lifted her head to look over the humans in the room. She must not have seen anything of interest, because she closed her eyes and ignored them.
Bixby hurried to her patient’s side. “You’re awake. Let me give you a drink.”
“There was one brew you gave me last night that tasted like it’d been dipped from a frog pond. The other one was all right.”
Bixby wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid it’s the frog pond for now. It eases your pain and allows you to think clearly.”
And in just a minute I’m going to ask you all sorts of questions, starting with your name.
“What does the other one do?”
“Helps you sleep and keeps you from vomiting.”
“Well, I’ve got something to tell you, so I guess I’ll swallow the pond water. It would help if I could hold my nose.”
“Your nose is broken.”
“I know.”
Cantor heard the humor in the wounded man’s voice. He stepped closer and caught the man winking at Bixby.
“I’ll help hold him up so he can drink.” Cantor positioned himself at the head of the bed, where he could brace against the frame and keep it from swaying. He could also redirect any inappropriate conversation should the man feel like one last flirt with a pretty girl.
Bixby squinted her eyes at him. “Cantor, he’s dying.”
“These guards can be rough individuals. I just don’t want him talking to you like you were a bar room floozy.”
She giggled. “Bar room floozy?”
Cantor refused to be diverted. “Doesn’t this man need a drink? His medicine?”
She went away to fix the potion. When she came back, Cantor held the guard, gently lifting him by the shoulders and supporting his head against his chest, careful not to shift his torso and disturb his broken ribs. Jesha moved aside, hopping off the bed and exiting the cabin.
The guard drank the smelly brew all at once.
Bixby smiled at him. “I put a spoonful of Old Trout’s honey in it. Was it any better?”
Cantor lowered him carefully before the patient answered. “It was sweeter . . . but still pond water.”
Bixby heaved a big sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I figure you won’t be able” — he grunted — “to pour many more of those down me before I die.”
Bixby remained silent for a moment. Cantor thought the sorrow on her face would tear a hole in his heart.
She summoned a cheerful expression. “You’re in for a treat this morning. Trout makes the best pan-fried fish I’ve ever eaten. Even after three days of fish at every meal, it’s still tasty enough to anticipate. And Cantor said he would make us corncakes for a little variety.”
Dukmee stood and gestured with the hand holding his mortar. “I’m taking this medicine out to Bridger. His cold won’t last much longer.”
He left, and Bixby got to her feet, rubbing her knees. “I’ll find the cornmeal.”
Cantor rose to fulfill the promise he’d made for hot corncakes.
“Wait,” said the guard. “I want to know who the old man is.”
Cantor pulled up a stool and sat next to the bed. “He appears to be an old man who loves fishing and doesn’t mind being alone. He has an excellent knowledge of animals and plants. He’s resourceful and has built himself a comfortable home with some amazing conveniences.”
“Conveniences?”
Cantor nodded as he looked around. “Everything in this room, he’s made. The bed, the stone oven in the fireplace wall, the carved spoons and forks, even the skillet.” Cantor shook his head in disbelief over the list. “He’s shown me how he forges metal, and to think that he starts from scratch on everything is amazing.”
“He must be smart.”
Cantor agreed. “Smart and patient and handy with tools.”
“And all alone?” The guard looked concerned. “I couldn’t handle being alone. That’s why I joined the guild’s new military.” He snorted, then winced. “I didn’t find the fellowship I expected.”
Cantor agreed but didn’t want to waste the man’s energy on their negative assessment. “Another odd facet of our host’s character is that he doesn’t read. You would think that someone who is intuitively intelligent and lives all alone would devour books.”
“For a fact? Doesn’t read?”
“True.”
“Humph,” said the guard. “I can read.”
Dukmee called from the porch. “Neekoh and Trout have just come out of the woods. Looks like they have quite a catch. We’d all appreciate those corncakes.”
Cantor got to his feet. “I’ll be back.”
Bixby came to the side of the bed. “Before you go to sleep again, I want to know your name and if you’d like me to write a letter, you can tell me whom to send it to.”
The wounded man’s eyes were half shut, but he smiled. “You’re a tiny thing but your heart is big. Beautiful. That hair. Shining.”
Jesha scooted in through the open door and took up her position on the bed. This time she settled near his chest, and the wounded man put an arm around the comforting cat.
“Sir.” Bixby touched his cheek. “Your name?”
She stood and looked at the cat. “Next time. Because there may not be a time after that.”
The next time Cantor checked on the guard, he was sleeping. Bixby beckoned him outside, and he followed her to the forest where she handed him a basket and pointed to the ripe berries on mountainsweet vines. “I’m going to make a pie.”
Cantor remembered Bixby’s cooking from their last adventure together. He willingly took the container and began picking the ripe red fruit. He popped a few in his mouth as he went, testing to see if they were sweet, not tart.
She worked beside him, picking more and eating less. “I have to admit I like working outdoors much better than under the mountain.”
“I do too. Sometimes” — he glanced at her — “like now, I wish we could stay here awhile. But we’re running out of time. We have to leave this tranquil valley and search out an army to face the invasion.”
“And soon,” she agreed. “Before we go, though, I want you to experiment with the pens and paper I found. My intuition tells me there’s something for us to learn.”
Cantor didn’t want to think about using his gift to find out what the pens and pencils had traced out before. “How’s your patient?”
“He’s dying
. He doesn’t feel it, except now he finds it hard to breathe. And he sleeps.”
“Did he say any more about what he wanted to tell us?”
“No.” Bixby went down on her knees in order to reach into the lower branches. “He seems to think he should tell you, not a girl, and not a healer.”
Cantor quit picking, overcome by a sudden urgency. “Bixby, we need to hear what the man has to say. Right now.”
Bixby craned her neck to see his face way above her. She said nothing for a moment, then pushed herself up to a stand. “I think you’re right.”
They left the basket on the porch and went directly to the patient’s bedside. Jesha no longer slept, but sat with her eyes trained on the man’s face.
Bixby wiped sweat from his brow and spoke softly. “Wake up. I have a cool drink for you.”
Cantor helped position the man so he could swallow from the cup she held. Jesha moved only long enough for them to give him the drink and lower him back on the mattress.
His labored breathing hushed his thank-you. Bixby put down the cup and took the man’s hand. “What was it you wanted to tell us?”
For a moment, Cantor thought the man would not have the strength to answer. But he licked his lips, took shallow breaths, and opened his eyes briefly to look at Bixby. “They . . . they didn’t beat me for the theft. They couldn’t let me . . . go back. I overheard something.” He mumbled, cleared his throat, and took another glimpse of Bixby. “Cause them a lot of trouble if I told.”
His eyes closed again. He’d used too much breath to speak so many words at once.
Cantor put a hand on his shoulder. “Take your time. We won’t leave you.” He moved to the side of the bed so he could look the guard in the eye. “Why don’t I ask you a few questions, and you can just say yes or no or nod?”
The patient closed his eyes and nodded.
“Did you hear this conversation while you were at the ruins?”
His lips parted, and he whispered, “No.”
“Did the councilman and realm walker who were here take part in the conversation?”
“No. Not important enough . . . in the guild.”
“He’s sweating harder, Cantor. Maybe we should let him rest.”
“Get that water you use to bathe his face. I don’t think we have time to wait, do you?”
She shook her head and left to replenish the bowl and get clean cloths. Jesha edged closer and rested her chin on his scruffy cheek.
When Bixby returned, Cantor moved aside so she could reach the man’s face. Jesha reluctantly sat up. With his eyes closed, he did not respond to Bixby’s first dabbing of his forehead and cheeks.
Cantor leaned forward. “Are you still with us?”
His nod barely moved his head. “The cat?”
“She’s here,” whispered Bixby.
Cantor touched Bixby’s arm. He hated to push the man like this, hated what it was doing to Bixby too. But he had no choice. “Does the conversation have to do with the Lymen’s invasion?”
“Yes, but there’s more.” He wheezed as he spoke. His eyes popped open, and he stared at Cantor. “I don’t know — do any good — tell you. You may be bad like ’em.”
Bixby took his hand again. “We’ve run into some evil men in the Realm Walkers Guild. We’ve chosen Primen’s ways. Not evil.”
He snorted, something that must have been a derisive laugh. He choked and took a moment to regain control of his breathing.
His words came out in a breathy whoosh. “Sixty-six councilmen left. Inner circle called Kernfeudal plan to assassinate all those they can’t recruit.” He pulled in a couple of shallow, shaky wheezes and continued. “Explosion at the guild — two years ago — first attempt to kill ’em. Next ‘cleansing’ — during the Lymen attack.”
Cantor nodded. “The chaos of the invasion should give them plenty of cover for their nefarious plans.”
The patient’s mouth quirked up at one corner. “I do like the way you talk.”
“And the Lymen attack?” Cantor prodded.
“Want what aliens use to get from one plane to another. True realm walkers to be killed. Not all at once. One by one — out on missions. The kernfeudal have filth, scum — follow any command.” He swallowed, choked again.
When the stranglehold subsided, he started to speak again.
“No,” said Bixby, squeezing his hand. “That’s enough. You need to rest.”
With his other hand, he held up two fingers. “Brosternhag. Vattledorn.” The words were indistinct.
Cantor leaned closer. “Brosternhag?”
He nodded.
“Vattledorn?”
He nodded again. Smiled. “Go get ’em.”
“We will.”
The guard didn’t respond. His eyes closed as his face relaxed into contented peace. His breathing slowed, then stopped.
Cantor put his hand on Bixby’s shoulder, feeling it tremble with her tears. “You did all you could for him, and he has done all he could for us. We now have two cities in which to begin our probes.”
Jesha stood, bumped the man’s chin with her head, and then sprang from the bed to saunter out into the sunshine.
END AND BEGINNING
The funeral was an impromptu affair. Old Trout went to a shed and pulled out a shovel. “I’ve got a place.” He started for the woods and Bixby, Cantor, and Neekoh followed.
Bixby tried to shake off the sadness that dampened her spirits. “We didn’t even ask about his family, where he lived. We don’t know his name.”
“Keast Manbro.” Trout spoke over his shoulder. “No family, and few friends since he left his village on Dairine.”
Bixby exchanged a look with Cantor. As far as she knew, the old man had never been near the patient. “How do you know?”
“Talked to him.” Trout changed directions. The trail became narrower and overgrown.
Bixby pulled her wispy clothing closer and sent a shimmering cover over her sleeves and skirts to keep them from catching on branches. “I didn’t see you come in the cabin. Were we asleep?”
“I don’t know if you were sleeping. I didn’t go in.”
“Then how —” Bixby turned a questioning face to Cantor. “He’s Chomountain. I know it.”
Old Trout’s voice was calm and roused no doubts that this was an ordinary occurance. “I heard him calling. So I answered.”
Cantor’s face lit up. “There you go, Bix. He can mindspeak, not so earthshattering about that.” He spoke over the sounds of the bush being beat back. “You can converse with your mind. We can do that too.”
Neekoh made a noise in his throat.
Cantor sent him a sympathetic look. “Well, some of us can.”
“Yep. Neekoh has other talents.” Trout plowed through the undergrowth.
Neekoh’s smile returned.
Bixby slipped behind Cantor and spoke to Neekoh. “Will you trade places? With the three of you tramping ahead of me, you’ll break down the weeds. It’ll be easier for me to walk.”
“I could carry you.”
Bixby smiled at his enthusiasm. And his smile grew when Bixby refused the offer.
“No, that’s all right. It’s important on a quest for everyone to pull their own weight.” She didn’t tell him that with his back to her, she’d be able to float, skimming across the tops of the trodden plants.
She sighed, the solemnity of the situation rocking her usual lightheartedness and natural optimism. She needed time to reflect on life and death, on the path Primen had set before her. Death made one reevaluate one’s priorities. She was determined to serve and be a positive influence in a negative world. Her goals were lofty.
Neekoh thwarted her plan by walking backward in order to carry on a one-sided conversation.
She hid a scowl. Her goal for this moment was to shake off this yappy young man without it sounding like a reprimand.
Was that sufficiently lofty?
She laughed at herself and gave him an order. “Turn around
and march on, Neekoh. You’re making me dizzy.”
He laughed too and faced forward.
In the silence that followed, her mind returned to meditation on noble endeavors. Did she fall short of being an honorable realm walker? Unfortunately, she could recall many areas where she needed improvement.
They came upon a clearing, and Bixby caught her breath at the serene beauty of the glade. Sunshine spread a golden hue over grassy swells in the small hollow. Tiny yellow flowers and bigger white blooms swayed with the breeze. She could watch as a zephyr flowed from east to west with a gentle ruffle of every plant. Orange and black butterflies flitted back and forth.
Bixby glimpsed deer and rabbits, then counted three different species of colorful birds before the wildlife took note of the humans’ presence and darted to the safety of the woods.
Old Trout tramped back and forth, with his head bent to examine the turf beneath him. He seemed to waver between two spots, then made his decision, jamming his shovel into the ground. He cut a rough rectangle with the blade and then scooped up the grass and flowers as if they were a blanket. After clearing sod in the rough outline of a grave, he began to dig in earnest.
Cantor took over, the shovel looking comically small in his grasp. He could have lifted larger amounts if he’d had a bigger shovel, but he worked rapidly and soon the hole was deep. Bixby thought he was shaping it now, not so much a rectangle, but an oblong that fit within the boundaries Trout had first hewn out of the sod.
Neekoh sat on one side of Bixby, and Trout sat on the other. Neekoh had drawn his knees up and circled them with his arms. He didn’t watch the digging. His head swiveled as he considered many birds, butterflies, and small furry creatures. He, in turn, was scrutinized by those who peeked out between trees at the edge of the glade, including a fox who sat beside a bush, watching them with no apparent fear.
Old Trout had been rummaging through his knapsack. He now had thin thread, feathers, fur, and hooks laid out on a rock.
Still carefully avoiding the sight of dirt being thrown out of the hole, Neekoh looked at the old man’s collection. “What are you going to do?”
Two Renegade Realms Page 13