Bloom of Blood and Bone

by R J Hanson

  Jonas didn’t hold out any hope there were any servants of any of the churches that still practiced a sincere faith. Jonas hadn’t had much use for any of the ‘faithful’ for several decades. Yet some could still heal, so maybe some could still ride an Ethylwayne.

  “One does not simply get an Ethylwayne,” Lady Belyska said. “Furthermore, a witch is nothing to take lightly.”

  “Neither is a Lord of Order,” Jonas said. He hated giving away so much information, but he had a strong feeling, an intuition, Lady Belyska already knew a good deal more than she was sharing.

  “I will handle your witch and save your group that’s been sent after her,” Jonas continued. “Can you get him to the river?”

  Lady Belyska bit her lower lip. Her path had been made clear to her, so why did she doubt. People were always asking for a sign from Silvor or some other god or goddess. Those people were only lying to themselves. Those people knew what they were supposed to do but were afraid to do it. Now, for the first time, she was among their number. She knew what she must do, but she was afraid.

  “The witch hunters left here three days ago,” Belyska said. “Follow the road south to Bolthor for one thousand leagues. After you see the northern edge of the mountain range due west of you, ride for one more day south. Then turn due west. You should catch up with them before then. They will be traveling fast and sleeping little, but they are inexperienced and not mounted that well. If you push yourself, and you have a good horse, you should be able to catch up to them.”

  “Why were you riding after them?” Jonas asked.

  “I was away on church business,” Belyska said. “A…,” she took a moment, and a breath. “An over-zealous priest sent out a group of new graduates after the witch the moment news of her came to us. My argument that they were not prepared was answered with an accusation of a lack of faith.”

  “What about the cursed weapon?” Jonas asked.

  “I didn’t find it, but didn’t spend much time looking for it,” Belyska said. “It would seem that the Father stands against both of us. His Sands of Time flow quickly.”

  Jonas nodded and took up his pack.

  “Do you want me to help you carry him down to a wagon?” Jonas asked.

  “No,” Belyska said. “Get on your way. I’ll get on mine.”

  With that, she lifted Dunewell out of bed. Both Jonas and Belyska frowned at the sight of blood that had pooled so quickly on the sheets of the bed. She nodded to Jonas and stepped out the door with Dunewell in her arms.

  Lady Belyska was the subject of many stares and quiet gossip as she walked down the main street of Ivantis with Dunewell in her arms. She walked until she was past the west gate and out on the open plain of the plateau. There were many farms and homesteads crowded together just outside the gate despite the relative security of the open plateau. Fortunately, it was late at night, and those few who were awake had been drawn to the fire at the blacksmith’s shop. Even those that had watched her carry Dunewell, for she had been given his true name, had returned their attention to the spectacle of the fire.

  When she was almost fifty yards from the gate, Belyska reached out with her mind for Cassimyre, her friend, her Ethylwayne. Cassimyre was a mouse-colored mare of exceptional speed and remarkable intellect. Cassimyre knew what Belyska knew. Cassimyre knew what must be done. Cassimyre trotted out of the dark, carrying Belyska’s saddlebags in her mouth.

  Belyska laid Dunewell over Cassimyre’s shoulders, threw her saddlebags over her own, and hopped up to sit astride the beautiful Ethylwayne’s back.

  “It’s nearly three hundred leagues, girl,” Belyska said. “His life, and the life of the Champion within, depend on us.”

  Cassimyre rolled her shoulders a bit to reposition Dunewell and began at a trot away from Ivantis. The pace of the trot gently increased to a gallop and then a full, yet smooth, sprint. Cassimyre stretched her legs out into a ground-eating stride. She ran until the sun was high in the eastern sky the next day. They flew past farms, ranches, and homes. It occurred to Belyska that she was attracting more attention than the Church would like, but she had little choice.

  Lady Belyska’s eyes kept straying from her road down to the warrior in her care. What she must do frightened her. Yet, she was ashamed to admit if only to herself, it excited her as well. She ran her fingers through Dunewell’s hair while her other hand kept a bandage pressed tight against the wound in his back. In her youth, she had fantasized about this, despite the transgression of even entertaining such fantasies.

  She had put those fantasies of her youth behind her. Now she must risk everything she had worked for, the only home she had ever known, and perhaps her life to see one of those fantasies through. In fact, she had been commanded to.

  She rode on, beyond hunger, and her desire for rest, she rode on. She had pushed herself hard the day before encountering the burning smithy, before being so summoned and commanded by a champion of Silvor. Now those days of hard riding and no food were wearing on her considerable constitution. Yet, she must ride on.

  Before the sun was down that day, they had reached the western edge of the plateau. Belyska swung her leg down from Cassi’s back gently. The ride had been punishing for both of them. After stretching her own legs for a moment, Belyska eased Dunewell off the horse and laid him on the ground. His eyes were a sickly yellow, and his cheeks were horribly pale and drawn. He smelled of death.

  She placed her hands over his heart and closed her eyes. She was absorbed in prayer for a long time, exactly how long she did not know. Belyska only knew the sun had been gone from the sky for hours when she once again opened her eyes. The prayer had sapped what little strength remained in her, and she wanted desperately to collapse. She looked around for her mount, but Cassimyre was nowhere to be found. The majestic horse had likely returned to her herd to rest.

  The night was cloudless, but with only the moonlight, it was hard for her to accurately diagnose Dunewell’s condition. She knew he was still breathing… and still bleeding.

  She was tired. It had been two days since she’d eaten and three days since she’d had any rest. In good condition, a healing prayer like the one she had just uttered would have drained her. This last one had almost finished her. Now she must make the climb down the steep cliffs of the plateau. It was over two hundred feet down to the rapid waters of the Whynne. Waters that were more likely to kill than revive.

  Lady Belyska dropped her weapons belt, her tunic, her plate armor, and her traveling pouch. She stripped away everything she could spare, and then she turned her attention to Dunewell. He had likely weighed three hundred stone or more when he had been struck. Now his emaciated form weighed no more than one hundred and twenty.

  She stripped away his clothing and fine leather bracers, which, she discovered, concealed a well-maintained rider’s pike. When she had taken all but his pants, she also replaced the single bracer that contained the hidden weapon, she took a silk rope from her saddlebags. Her practiced hands made short work of the harness she lashed together for the frail Dunewell. She made a similar harness for herself and tied the two of them together. Even at a diminished weight of one hundred and twenty stone, his weight would make it an even more difficult climb.

  Belyska began by lowering Dunewell over the ledge slowly. After the slack was taken out of the lanyard, she eased herself over the side. She was already so tired.

  She lowered herself down to a slim ledge, no more than two inches in width, where she took precarious purchase with her bare toes. Once they were secured, she worked her hands down one at a time from ledge to crevasse. She repeated this over and over again. She had made it almost forty feet before dizziness began to set in.

  At fifty feet down, she felt herself straying far back from the rocky surface. Her fingertips scratched bloody against the ledge, yet she lost her hold. She fell…

  After a few feet, she saw her chance; their chance. She hurled her fist in an overhand chop down into a crack in the stone. The fist cau
ght, the bones within cracking loudly, and halted their fall. The fist was crushed in the process, rendering the fingers virtually useless. She hung there, Dunewell tied to her shoulders, more than one hundred and thirty feet from the rocky shore of the river Whynne as a bonfire of pain roared in her left hand.

  She managed a hold on the stone ledge with her right hand and gently tucked the broken left into her waistband. The pain, the hunger, the thirst, and the weariness seemed to ally themselves against her. She made a stone keep of her heart and her mind. And, thus besieged, she continued her climb.

  She could not remember a life before this climb. Her whole world had been pain and the essential search for the next handhold. The fires of agony pluming up from her hand were burning away her will. Twenty more feet; she wasn’t sure why she struggled. Thirty feet; she couldn’t remember the man’s name. Forty feet; she couldn’t remember her name. Then fear, the shock of suddenly falling.

  She had grabbed a vine that had given way under their combined weight. She screamed and gripped the vine even tighter, as though she could command it to bear them up. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it had begun, her fall stopped. Her right shoulder was wrenched violently, and the vine slashed through the callouses of her palm and fingers.

  Here the cliff had been worn away by the passage of the Whynne, and they dangled from the naturally formed overhang more than ten feet from granite wall. She began swinging them, back and forth, each swing bringing them maddeningly inches back toward the safety of the wall. Ten feet, eight feet, six feet, five feet, four feet, three feet… She lunged.

  Lady Belyska threw her right hand out for the stone wall. Their bodies crashed into it, fanning the flames of anguish in her left hand. So much did her left hand hurt that she did not notice the flesh of her right being torn away by the rocky ledges as they fell. At least she wouldn’t be cold, hungry, or tired anymore. She would see Silvor soon…

  Warmth. Wonderful warmth.

  Lady Belyska opened her bleary eyes and blinked several times to clear the sleep from them. It was night, but the clouds concealed the stars. Light from the fire warmed her face and danced with the shadows on the rocky overhang above her. Her stomach registered the smell of smoked fish before her nose did.

  She eased herself up from the sand. Her right hand had been wrapped in a used bandage and was stiff from the many cuts and abrasions. To her surprise, her left was strong and whole. The man called Rutger by the Steward, a man she knew to be Dunewell and wanted for the murder of a Reeve in Moras, lay sleeping a few feet away.

  He was still wickedly thin, but the color had returned to his face. His breathing appeared to be regular and smooth. She let him sleep.

  Lady Belyska, using her left hand, pulled the stick out of the ground near the fire and brought the cooked fish on its upper end to her lap. She moved slowly, the pain from her crushed, and apparently healed left hand, was still a phantom in the nerves of her mind. She plucked meat from the fish and began with small bites. Her stomach cried out for more, but she had been hungry before. After several small bites, she returned the fish to hang near the fire and tried her legs. They supported her, and she made her way from the fire to the edge of the nearby river.

  The Whynne rushed by with killing speed and deadly chill, however, there was a small pool at the edge of this not-quite cave that was calm. She lowered herself to the edge and drank deeply. The water was terribly cold, and no comfort to her chilling and goose-fleshed skin, but her thirst rejoiced in it. She took several deep drinks before the cold forced her back to the fire.

  Her soldier’s mind had already taken inventory of their pitiful camp. First and foremost, they were both still alive. Silvor had provided. Dunewell had fashioned his rider’s pike onto the end of a thin piece of driftwood to make a crude spear. Three other fish were on improvised spits and mounted in the path of the smoke from the small fire, and an armload of driftwood was placed near the fire and was drying out. They had the bit of rope she’d used to make harnesses, Dunewell still had his pants and one bracer, and she had her pants and undershirt.

  The wash and rocky overhang had a sandy floor and a ceiling that was perhaps forty feet high. She could see the vine that had pulled loose hanging about thirty feet above the sand. The small cave, about a furlong wide, was cut off from the rest of the world by the violent waters of the Whynne. She could see the plains stretching out to the west but had no way of crossing the river to get to them.

  Cassimyre could get to them, of course, but it could be months before she could be called upon again. The Ethylwayne were a mystery, even to her. She had many theories as to where they went or what they did, but no way of knowing if there was merit to any of her speculations. Sometimes she came. Sometimes she did not. That was that.

  In small bites, Belyska finished her fish. Then she moved two of the other fish nearer the fire and laid down. Sleep took her again.

  “How is the hand?” Dunewell asked in a croaked, broken voice from over her shoulder.

  It was daylight now, and she found that her hunger and thirst had returned. Yet she did not want to move from his warm embrace. She could feel the heat from his arms and chest as a shield against the bite of winter that was still strong in the air.

  “Much better,” Belyska said as she flexed her left hand.

  Dunewell nodded and, raising the arm that was wrapped around her, pointed to the rushing river nearby.

  “The Whynne?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “It was the closest.”

  “I hope you don’t take offense,” Dunewell said.

  His breath on her neck was a delight like she’d never known before.

  “You were shivering,” he said. “I was pretty cold myself. I built the fire up, but there’s only so much wood to be found close by. In my defense, I’ve also held men like this. What I mean to say is in Tarborat. Winters there…”

  As he began to speak more rapidly, trying to offer some explanation to assuage any perceived advance, he began to cough. As the coughing wracked him, Belyska turned so that she could hold him. The cough was deep, but no longer produced blood. After several moments, the coughing fit passed.

  “Whitburn told me what you did for me, for us,” Dunewell said. “It would seem that I’m in your debt.”

  “Whitburn?” she asked, as innocently as she could muster.

  “He said you knew about him,” Dunewell said. “And about me. He is how I was able to heal your hand. I wanted to do more, but we’re both still pretty weak.”

  “It was a Muerso blade,” she said.

  Dunewell began to reply but had to resort to a nod as another coughing fit took him. She held him close, letting her warmth flow into him and allowing his to ebb back into her. As she held him, she prayed.

  The power of her prayer, the power of Silvor, flowed through them both; healing, warming, sustaining. She was only able to pray for a few minutes before her strength waned. They held each other, and a blessed sleep came over them.

  “It’s a good sign,” she said from behind him.

  Dunewell was standing at the edge of the pool, the new makeshift spear in hand, no longer searching the waters for fish. The new spear had been crafted by Belyska, much to Dunewell’s fascination. It was of a three-pronged design she had learned of when spending time with the Zepute of Janis. He was watching the wolf that was pacing the opposite bank of the river.

  “In that he’s on that side of the river, and we are on this side, yes,” Dunewell said. “That is a good sign.”

  “No,” Belyska said. “Next year will be the year of the Wolf, a Holy year in the book of Silvor. It is seven months away. Seven is a number of power. He sent him to watch over us.”

  “I suppose that’s some mystical knowledge you possess?” he asked.

  “Basic reasoning actually,” she said. “Wolves prefer the mountains or forests north or south of us. They rarely stray into the plains. He’s also traveling alone. Wolves never travel alone; unless they’re in the
service of Silvor. The fact that the year of the Wolf is only seven months away, well anyone with a basic education knows that.”

  Dunewell laughed and was relieved that no coughing fit followed. He was stronger now, but it would likely be weeks before his health was fully recovered.

  “Have you given any thought to our current predicament?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “And, having considered it, I think you look ridiculous in those ragged pants holding that homely spear.”

  Dunewell turned to look at her. Belyska was working very hard to maintain a straight face. Under his gaze, her resolve melted away into a giggle at first, and then a belly laugh full of mirth. His own ability to wear a mask of stern expression was also compromised. She bit off her laughter for a moment to stare at him, which seemed a trigger for his own laughter. As he began to chuckle, her own laughter returned full force. They were cold, they were hungry, and they were laughing.

  He returned to the fire, threw the few last pieces of driftwood on, and sat down next to her in the sand. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she turned to him, pressed her face into his chest, and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  Dunewell turned to her and pushed her chestnut hair over her ear and kissed the top of her head. He expected admonishment from Whitburn to come at any moment. He had given his oath. Furthermore, she was a paladin, and likely sworn to chastity herself.

  Belyska turned her green eyes up to his and held him in their depths. The smell of hair was of lilacs in the spring; her breath filled his lungs and his soul. Their lips met slowly, and then they were both as warm, as hot, as Merc’s furnace in the summer sky.

  Dunewell secured the rider’s pike in the concealed scabbard of his remaining bracer. He was still weak but could move without ache or too much pain. His wound had healed and would likely not reopen even if he exerted himself. Belyska’s hands were both whole now. Her hunger had been abated as best as it could be, and she was rested. In fact, she hadn’t slept as well in decades as she had in the last nine hours.