"Thank you, sir," Simon said.
"How old are you, pup?"
"Twelve, sir."
Bogg grunted. "A sad thing about your father."
Simon's eyes dropped. "Yes, sir."
"I'm going to get the people who did this--" Bogg stopped. Simon wouldn't look at him, and Bogg knew that the boy might never admit it, but his father had treated him little better than Marshall Dunster.
Bogg rocked his jaw back and forth. "I reckon you served as your father's apprentice. That right?"
The boy looked at his fingers. Under the dust of the street, his fingertips were stained black. "Printer."
"What was his name?"
"Oliver Jones."
Sigrid's old gray eyebrows shot up. "Why for gracious' sakes!" She turned to Bogg. "You're the brother of Ackerley Bogg?"
"That's right."
"Well, it's the beatenest thing I ever struck." She pressed a wrinkled hand to the side of her head. "Ackerley Bogg and Oliver Jones."
Tight-lipped, Bogg pressed his tongue into his tooth hole, waiting for the woman to make some sense.
"It's just that," she went on, "Oliver didn't get along with many. Kept to himself, mostly, since his wife died. We hardly keep in mind..."
"What?" Bogg asked.
"Why, that Oliver Jones was Ackerley Bogg's son-in-law. Simon's mother, Penelope Jones, died of a fever when Simon was a baby. She was Ackerley's daughter, born Penelope Bogg. Why, Simon, say hello to your great uncle... what was it? Tiberius?"
Bogg looked askance at the boy. He didn't see any reason to fuss. Gaining a nephew was hardly compensation for losing a brother. And to someone like Bogg, who didn't take much stock in family, the lad mattered even less.
Just the same, Bogg stuck out his hand. "How do, then, Simon Jones. Well met."
Simon placed his slender white hand inside Bogg's tan grimy paw. Bogg pumped the lad's arm once, grunted, and released.
With that done, Bogg reckoned he'd better lay on supplies and be on his way before the trail got any colder. His quarry was some hours ahead of him, but they didn't seem especially stealthy. If they kept leaving headless dogs in their wake, Bogg would catch them easy--
Sigrid heaved an easy sigh. "You can take him, then."
Everything inside Bogg twisted up and froze. "What?"
"He's yours," Sigrid declared. "He's got no family left here. Simon, go with Mr. Bogg."
#
Chapter 4
"What rot and slush is this?" Bogg roared. "Where I'm going ain't no place for him! It's too dangersome!"
"You'd do well not to take that tone with me, Mr. Bogg. As I said, a surplus of orphans." She focused a cool stare on him and didn't budge nor say another word.
Bogg looked from her, to the boy, to her... and back to the boy. "What say you, pup? You don't want to go out there and get starved and et by wildlife, do you?"
Simon squeezed his dirty hands into his trouser pockets. "I'm going with you."
"Godzooks!" Bogg cried. Back to Sigrid, "don't you care about this boy being killed?"
"There's no one to care for him here. I know how safe he'd be with you. I seen you defend him already."
"But a printer's son? He'll slow me up. I'd as soon shin up a thorn tree with an armload of eels! I'll never catch--"
"Well," said Sigrid Minder. "Now that that's settled." She turned and strode off.
"Woman--" Bogg began.
"Sorry!" she called without facing him. "More important things to do."
Bogg watched, in his mind's eye, all his hopes dry up and blow away. Without catching those mercenaries, he'd never come back with that broadsword, never get the thousand in gold, and never make that trip to the Hestern Sea. And until he found someone to take the pup off his hands, he'd never have a moment's peace.
The pup was staring up at him. "You seem to think I won't be able to help you. I think I can, sir. I'm not experienced, but I'm smart. You'll see."
Bogg sighed. "Look at you, lad. What do you weigh, eighty pounds? You got no muscle, you got no fat to fight off the hunger or the cold. You got no skills. A stiff breeze would blow you over. I reckon once you collapse, it won't be much work to carry you--"
"Uncle Tiberius--"
"Nope, no, none of it! Call me sir, call me Bogg, call me a damn hairy mountain man, but don't call me uncle! You got that, pup?"
"Yes, sir." And the lad grinned!
Like he knew something Bogg didn't.
#
After a bit of figuring, Bogg judged that all was not lost. The boy would start out, get tired, get hungry, and give up. Civilized folk tended to forget that the wilderness was just plain uncomfortable.
He'd last a day, maybe. Not a night. Bogg would mark the trail as they went, so Simon could find his way back alone with no problem.
With this plan fixed in his mind, Bogg set about laying on supplies. He figured it might be straightforward to simply rummage through any house with a broken door, but Sigrid Minder was shrieking at him before he set foot across the first threshold. "Don't you stir up these poor folk by stomping through their homes like those plunderers did! I'll fetch what you need. Leave it to me."
"That's sensible enough. But you don't know what I need."
"You tell me. I'll git it."
Food first. Bogg told her, and she hustled about, gathering all manner of truck: dried pork, salted venison, hominy for ash cake, and unhusked rice. Oil, good for cooking and suffocating ticks. Salt, good for all manner of things. A couple of waterskins, holding a pottle each. A pint of rum. All fixings to make an easy sojourn.
She brought two forks and two small stoneware bowls. That soured his mood. But he allowed them to be packed.
She found him a new pair of boots that fit all right. He kept his old pair, in case the new turned out hard on his feet. He refilled his own tinderbox and found a decent chewing stick.
He nearly rejected spare clothes, being so used to skins, but took on woolens and osnaburgs in case the weather turned. The fall equinox was closing on them, and it was bound to happen sooner or later.
He talked Sigrid Minder into a couple of horses. They'd only be useful so long as the terrain stayed horse-friendly and there was grazing pasture. After that, he'd slap them home. More likely, Simon would lead both of them home. But even a single day on a horse would bring Bogg close enough to breath down the necks of those Algolan mercenaries, or whoever they were.
Just who were they?
Any group of self-respecting raiders would have taken money, and had a ship anchored off the coast. These five had left wealth untouched and taken just the sort of thing Bogg was gathering now. So... no ship. They were land trekking, and set on survival. Trekking where? And where did they come from?
Simon appeared with his own sundries packed. Bogg threw most of them away.
“Even the soap?” Simon asked.
“I can make soap from fat and potash, when the spirit moves me.”
Bogg approved of the spermaceti candles, but couldn't make sense of another thing Simon wanted to bring -- a wood-handled glass lens as big around as a pint mug.
"Its a magnifier," the boy said. "I read with it."
"What for?"
He showed Bogg the book he wanted to bring. "Survival in the Miran Wilds, by Dugan Wisefoot."
"Never heard of it." But it was slim and didn't weigh much, so Bogg allowed it.
If he had been traveling alone, Bogg would have started out that evening and rode most of the night. Haggling with the boy about gear had slowed him up, and he decided to start in the morning. He had wanted rest and a couple of hot meals, anyway.
Bogg awoke naturally at dawn. He found Simon at the stable, wide awake and standing in loose hay and horse apples, saddling their two mares.
"This one's Jouster," Simon said. It was a smooth gray color, a bit like the boy's eyes, with a white star on its f
orehead. "And that one's Daisy. She's yours." Daisy was plumper, brown and white, with brown head and mane. They both had fine smooth coats and smelled earthy and healthy. Clean, like city horses.
Not once did the boy hesitate or show a shred of doubt. Maybe he'd stick for that night after all.
Sigrid Minder cooked them a final breakfast of salt bacon, sweet potatoes, and chicken eggs. Bogg chewed sullenly, and before long they rode out of Fort Sanctuary together.
#
The land of Mira was discovered, it is believed by most reputable historians, in the twenty-third year of the reign of Lord Barriyour, the Bold. It first appears in the testimony of a convicted privateer named Usrigoth, during his trial for crimes against Lord Barriyour's marine estates. Usrigoth spoke during his trial of his many methods of eluding capture, one of which was to 'fly on, fly on to the hest when the Bold's navy is hot for you, fly on, and you'll reach the edge of the world. And what's there, you'll find, when your hold is dry, and your beams are shrinking, and your teeth are loosening, is a new world, a miraculous land where you can hide, that will save you from the navy, but kill you, kill you in its own way.'
In the decades that followed, other reports of a distant land beyond the great ocean could be heard, and its rough coast began to appear on the charts of pirates and other rogues. Later, the name 'Mira Land' or simply 'Mira' appeared as well.
Then, in the second year of the rule of Bartimeus the Grand, the first royal expedition to the new land was funded and launched. This expedition, led by Duke Alirthron the Navigator aboard the vessel Griffon, never returned. During the rule of Bartimeus and his nephew Bartimeus II, three more expeditions were launched to survey the coasts of Mira.
None returned.
Excerpt from the Introduction to Survival in the Miran Wilds
by Dugan Wisefoot
#
Simon Jones found himself riding out of his accursed village at last. Beyond the wall of sharpened posts, the wagon road led them through orchards and fields of tall grass that clung to the last of the morning dew. Hooves thumped steadily in the road's damp earth, beating out a hypnotic song.
His mind boggled at the hand fate had dealt him. No longer a printer's apprentice! No more long nights in the hot stinking basement, nursing the machine, hauling the paper, mixing the ink. No more exhausted sleep on the bundles of warm freshly-printed journals and pamphlets bound for cities up and down the coast, only to be roused by a kick from his father.
He had expected six more years of this torture, denied any freedom until he was eighteen, and perhaps not even then. Simon's father had a fortune in printing equipment, and took jobs from a dozen papers, far more than he could handle. He depended on Simon for his very livelihood, and knowing Oliver Jones's wiles, he would have found a way to declare Simon in debt somehow and indentured to his old man before Simon could escape. Then, he would never escape.
Jouster picked her way along and sniffed at Daisy's tail. Simon rubbed at the black patina of ink on his fingers. When it finally wore away, it would be gone forever, like his enslavement. Erased, like his father.
The sob came up quickly, choking his throat. Simon's weeping shook his body more intensely than any crying he had done before, as if pain had been chained up in him and just now burst out.
Bogg rode silently and didn't look back.
The horses followed the wagon road as it curved around hills and yielded occasional glimpses of the ocean to the eost of them. To the hest, morning fog sank down the mountain slopes and vanished among the trees, unable to stand the sunlight. At last, Simon's body stopped shaking and he was quiet.
"I was crying about my father," he said lamely.
Bogg kept one hand on the reins and another resting on the back of the saddle. He didn't turn. "I reckoned."
"I'm through now, I think."
Simon's uncle rode some time before answering, with a voice that sounded like boulders rubbing together. "Just as well."
Bogg was the strangest man Simon had ever seen. Of course there were stories about mountain men who could strangle grizzly bears, but there were also stories about hodags and thunderbirds and fur-bearing trout. Simon had figured they were fanciful, or at least exaggerated, fueled by misperception and a lack of context newly-arrived Algolans had for Mira. Yet here Bogg was, with his sabertooth knife that was stronger than steel.
Bogg's blond hair was dirty and full of snarls, hanging almost as low as the end of the furry ringed tail from his raccoon hat. His clothes were deerskin over deerskin, tied with strips of more deerskin -- he didn't seem to own a single piece of sewn clothing, although with Bogg's back to Simon, Simon could only see the black cloak tied at his neck and flowing over Daisy's rump. The cloak was irregular in shape, and earlier, Simon had noticed it was actually velvety black fur. Another skin.
Whatever it was, Bogg had killed it himself. He did everything himself. Bogg didn't work for anybody, didn't need anybody, didn't owe anybody, sought permission from no one. He was everything that Simon was not.
But that would change. Simon was free now, and following the one person who, however uneducated, however unwitting, possessed all of Simon's lessons.
#
The sun sank low over the green mountains, and tree shadows cut across the road in front of them.
Bogg reckoned he had nicely shrunk the day-and-night lead his quarry had on him. The horses had been a good idea. They were plumb wore out after a single day's ride, and by the time Bogg would stop for the night, they'd be thirsty and hungry.
So Simon could take them home. Bogg frowned and stuck his tongue in his tooth hole. He hadn't heard a peep from the pup since his wailing hours ago. The boy had to be as wore out as the horses.
Bogg gripped the saddle's horn and turned to face him. Crackling came from his spine as he stretched it out. "Hey, lad, how do you fare?"
The boy stirred up, like he'd been dozing. "I'm all right. How much farther?"
Bogg grinned. That was more like it. "Two hours, at least."
"That's all? Shouldn't we keep going as long as there's light?"
Bogg's eyes narrowed and his jaw worked back and forth. He faced forward again. "We'll need some daylight to make camp."
Ahead of the horses, a foot trail split off from the road and cut through the grass to the left until it disappeared in the trees. Bogg had caught glimpses of his quarry's boot prints on the road all day, and at the split he pulled his mare to a stop. Which way?
The pup stopped behind him. "What is it?"
Bogg didn't answer. He urged Daisy to trotting for a spell along the road they'd been following, and sure enough, not a fresh mark anywhere past the split. So his quarry had left the wagon road. He pulled the reins and turned around. "Up there." Bogg pressed his new bootheels to Daisy's flanks and she slogged up the path. The ground was softer and showed tracks better.
After a time, Bogg could see the marks clearly. Five big men on foot. Algolan leather boots. One with a walking stick, or maybe a pike or spear.
Soon after that, passing through a thick grove of hemlock and birch trees, Bogg spied the remains of a campfire. Both he and the lad stepped down, and Simon held the horses while Bogg explored. The stones in the pit were still warm. There was no sign that a firewall had been built, but the pile of ash spoke to a mess of wood being burnt. Charred ribs of a beaver and a piece of muskrat skull in there, too. The pit wasn't laid like locals or greenies would lay it. Bogg cast about and found the place where each man had slept. He deduced that one of them was a fair sight bigger and heavier than the others. No other wisdom suggested itself to him.
"Pup," Bogg said.
"Yes, sir?" The boy stood between the horses, holding the reins, and they were fearsomely sizeable critters compared to him. "They camped here, didn't they?"
"We're going to really close on them now." Bogg faced him squarely. "It's time you told me all you seen and heard morning be
fore last."
#
Chapter 5
In the alley beside the Mermaid, Simon gagged on Yohann's beer smell while Yohann held him and Marshall felt all of his pockets for more money. A single startling boom came from the front gate, followed by screams of men and women.
"Hear that?" said Yohann. "Dog my cats, somebody's busting in! Quick, Marshall, where's your knife?" He released Simon and darted down the alley. Marshall hesitated, slugged Simon in the stomach, and raced after Yohann. They both disappeared around the stone endwall.
Simon limped to the end of the alley but the pain in his stomach was too great. He collapsed before he reached the corner. He heard yelling, then the blast of a firelock. Then screams like nothing he'd ever heard, shrieks that held shock and horror in them, and terrible things came to his mind -- he couldn't help imagining what was happening to whom.
Simon sat up with his back against the wall. What was happening? Maybe the vivets everyone was afraid of had finally chosen to strike. Or stampeding red rhinos, all shaggy fur and black horns. Or had the endless Miran forests borne something new?
He could only see a narrow range of the main avenue between the Mermaid and the stone wall of the barber's office. Two women, Hildretha and Iola Baker, sprinted by, their eyes wide and their breathing so hard and fast it was like they were screaming in little bits.
A man in chain mail armor strolled after them, carrying a long javelin and a round wooden shield, white with blue trim. His hair was silver, like his beard, and it ran down his back. He walked casually, looking around, like he was sizing up the village, deciding what to take. His eyes fell on Simon, and Simon felt his body turn to cold stone. The man grinned and nodded to him and strolled on. Blood ran from the javelin's head down the slender shaft. There was an emblem on his shield. A blue unicorn against white.
A second man appeared, an armored giant with a hammer swinging in his right hand and a slain sow over his left shoulder. His face was clean-shaven and his head was bald and tan, like a hen's egg. He noticed the Mermaid. "Look, Uilleam. A pub!" His voice was deep, but it didn't hide the Algolan accent, which sounded to Simon like people from sept of the badlands.
The silver-haired man didn't answer. The giant dropped his pig on the front stoop and ducked inside.
New World: a Frontier Fantasy Novel Page 2