by Dan Brigman
Jaken repositioned his cloth over his eyes and shook his head before spurring his mount forward. She offered him the slightest of smiles, and he did not catch it as he strode forward.
Yabusan’s caution echoed through Jaken’s mind to erode his newfound strength.
25 — Arstle and Reunions
This neck cutting is getting more than tiring. Kirian laughed while the thought emerged, as the blade against his throat dug into his flesh. The blade pulled back, but Kirian could not be sure if his barking laugh caught the man off-guard. A second later the blade glittered away downward. A loud thwack paused the frogs’ litany just before the thud of a body smacking the ground.
Kirian saw the shadowy shape and reached for the disarmed blade—a small dagger of poor make. Kirian stood with his hand around the handle. He turned with the open hand to check his throat. Melek stood three feet away, a length of firewood in both hands, his grip so tight, pieces of bark had flaked off.
Even in the low light Kirian saw an angry red knot on Melek’s wide forehead. Blood trickled down from a gash above the knot. Melek’s gaze held on the person at their feet, still alive based on the chest’s rise and fall. “The little bastard caught me off guard.” Melek threw the wood on the body’s torso, then glanced up at Kirian.
Kirian motioned to Melek’s face and followed with, “He caught you off guard. Even with all the planning?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity from slipping out.
“Even I have to relieve myself from time to time,” Melek replied. His face had shrouded like a thundercloud. He stepped closer to the downed figure on the balls of his feet. One foot stretched back to snap a kick.
“Stop.”
Melek let the foot relax and peered at Kirian. The word had been whispered yet offered no room for debate. Melek’s scandalized face prompted Kirian, “He tried to kill me. For that he deserves my respect.”
Kirian wiped down from his throat and looked at his hand. Only enough blood shed to cover half his palm. He pressed gingerly against the minute slash. Kirian grunted with satisfaction at the clotting wound.
Melek sighed. Surprise flecked with curiosity shadowed his face. “Fine. You deal with him. I’ll keep watch for the next four hours.” He paced to the fire and tossed a log in before retrieving a rope near Kirian’s pack. He threw the rope and offered, “And, clean that wound. Rusty as that blade is, you’ll be of no use to me soon.”
Kirian snatched the bundled, silken rope in midair, then focused on the would-be assassin. He stooped and flipped the figure over, then fell back on his haunches. Not a man. A young woman, if that. Barely older than that lord’s wife, Kirian thought, grinning at the memory which prompted his trip south. Pretty and with short hair. Short enough to be mistaken for a man from a distance. “Damned Guardians. Smart.” She wore a brown, tight-fitting shirt, cloak, and leggings exposed no skin, but her ashen face and hands lay limp. Her face lay in the dirt in a hands-wide pool of blood. The thickening blood darkened her near-blonde stubble of hair. Kirian sighed and got to work.
Minutes later, Kirian kneeled next to the boiling pot of water and eyed the still form just a few feet away. Melek had cut strips of cloth from the woman’s cloak without a word from Kirian. He tossed them into the pot and walked away to patrol the camp. The woman lay helpless, tied as well as Kirian could manage, given the short rope. Her wound clotted once she was out of the muck, yet he still bandaged her head. No reason to let her die. He wiped at his neck gash, grinning again at the tied-up woman. The grin faded when the firelight flickered across her slight face and hands for more than a breath. Ashen.
His mind screamed. Cut her throat! Now, you fool, before she wakes! Kirian looked down with confusion—he stood over her, the dagger at her throat. A slight flicker of movement at her eyes, then they opened. Kirian fell backward onto the soil and grass, his heart pounding and sweat beading on his brow. Kirian pushed up and held the knife forward close to one of her black eyes.
She neither blinked nor moved. Her breath came unhurried and without worry.
The tableau broke moments later with Kirian’s blade still at her eye. “You going to kill me or just bore me to death.” No question, just statements lacking even curiosity.
Kirian swallowed and peered down at the blade. He wiped his brow. The thought of what he had been ready to do brought a taste of acid to the back of his throat. Kirian stood and felt his knees pop from kneeling so long. His eyes never left her face or arms. Even though the rope held her arms behind her back, Kirian dared not look away. Not yet, anyway. No telling what she can do.
“No,” Kirian mouthed. The word surprised even himself. And her, too, given the open shock shadowing her face. “I’ll not kill you, Blighter. But I’ll throw your corpse in that pond, if there is even one hint of danger.”
The woman, no, a blighter’s creation, returned a slight a nod. If Kirian had not been waiting for some response, he would have missed it. She rolled over and he let her fall. She closed her eyes, and her breathing evened out. Just as Kirian turned, she said, “You shouldn’t have let me catch you. My masters will eke out everything I know.”
The voice sounded near-human, a façade of what this being had once been. An undercurrent of rot touched each syllable. Kirian inhaled while he scanned the area before answering. Melek’s silhouette stalked on the opposite side of the pond. Either Melek could not hear her voice, or he did not care as to what happened to her.
Exhaling the held breath, Kirian replied, “They’ll not find out what you know, if you’re dead. And this talking—it’s starting to sound dangerous.” The words hung in the cool air for a breath. Kirian stared unblinking and fixedly at the form. The whites of her eyes gleamed in the fire and moonlight, then she blinked.
“They’ve other ways of retrieving information from my corpse.”
“I can only imagine that it’ll set them back some time and energy, if they need to resort to such measures, Blight-spawn.”
Kirian stepped to the fireside opposite the form and sat. The day’s tiredness of trying to flee then the ambush of this thing had worn down Kirian. Fatigue seeped in, despite the creature’s presence requiring implacable resolve. A few hours of sleep will do me good, as my newfound friend has no compunctions about waking me. If the Blight-spawn kills me in my sleep, then let it be on Melek’s head. Kirian stole one more glance at the creature. In the meager light, the ashen face seemed to glow as if her skin had been made of white, polished marble. A thought of its beauty flicked through Kirian’s mind before he squashed it. He laid down, turning about trying to find a comfortable spot. Crickets and the pond’s frogs created a lulling chorus. Her gray-white skin’s luminescence clenched at his mind until sleep took hold a few breaths later.
“Wake up, idiot.”
Kirian groaned at a not-so-gentle boot tip tapping his ribs. “What?” he mumbled, sleep still trying to pull him back under.
“Idiot. You were supposed to take care of it.”
“What?” Kirian mumbled again. Incoherent thoughts continued. “Take care of what?” He laid a hand over his eyes as he rolled over to his back.
“He means you were supposed to take care of me.”
The voice, rotten and eerily human-like, rushed Kirian to wakefulness. He sat up, pulling the hand to his brow, the pain rising so fast, it caused his teeth to grit together. Kirian replied, through clenched teeth, “I still can’t believe you didn’t kill me.”
“I’m not here to kill, but to simply stop you.” She sounded calm. Her voice belied no concern for being kept a prisoner.
“Stop us from what?” Kirian’s whining reply framed his irritation.
“It doesn’t matter. When I’ve reported my failure, I’ll likely be incinerated and spread across Amant’s collection.”
Melek offered, his low voice rumbling, “You talk too much, blighter. Kirian, it’s your watch. You will keep her quiet. I must be insane for not having ended that thing by now.”
“Yes, yes.” Kirian blinked a
way the throbbing within his temples and stood. Melek’s snores erupted before Kirian had gotten to his feet. Each inhalation matched the languishing frogs and occasional horned owls hooting in the distance. Kirian stepped around the fire and the huge man’s form to reach for the Blight-spawn.
Kirian grasped her still-tied arms and hauled her up. “Do you have a name, Blight-spawn? That way I have something specific to report to the authorities. Your description is already locked into my mind.”
While Kirian dragged her across the high grass, she replied, “I am nameless, undeserving of such recognition.”
“Fine. Blight-spawn it is.” Kirian paused nearly fifty feet from the fire. He laid her back to the ground and turned back to the campsite. “Stay here. I’m a good shot with a crossbow, even in this lighting.” He returned moments later with a torch alit in one hand. With the other, Kirian helped the creature to her feet. She offered nothing resembling a threat, which caused him to pause again in a few paces.
“You nearly kill the two of us after following us for days. You’re a Blight-spawn, which Originators know most folks consider as nothing more than myth, yet I sense nothing dangerous in you. Perhaps, there is more legend than truth with your kind.” Kirian pushed her forward, continuing with incoherent mutterings when silence became her only response.
In less than ten minutes the torch light reflected off the dilapidated shack. “This will be your new home Blight-spawn. Since there is no threat within you, excepting that of attempting cowardly acts, I’m going to stash you in there.” He motioned the torch toward the shack while still moving forward.
“Fine,” she replied, “do with me as you please. Your mercy will be noted, but not reciprocated by those who come after me. Know that not all of us have chosen the path we follow. Not all of us seem as weak as you believe me to be.”
“Whatever you say, Blight-spawn,” Kirian replied with a laugh. “I’ll take on your kind any day or night.” They stepped within a foot of the open doorway. What remained of the door lay in pieces inside. “To think I was going to slit your throat just for the color of your skin. Power isn’t inherent in a legend and I do appreciate your willingness to remove me of my naiveté.”
The woman began to speak, but Kirian forestalled her by pushing her into the opening. He heard her feet scrambling for purchase in the debris-strewn interior. A breath later, crashing glass reverberated outward just before a large wooden piece of furniture collapsed to the dirt floor. Kirian listened and he could make out the faintest moaning of pain, mixed with irritation. He turned and stopped at a weak voice.
“While you believe your kind is the only to have mercy, remember than even my kind can have mercy.”
The last word cut off, restoring the forgotten farmyard’s silence. Only the dim throbbing of his heart reached his ears. A blink later, Kirian spun and sprinted back to the campsite, remembering he was supposed to be keeping watch.
Two days later the companions, filthy, travel worn, and exasperated at each other’s decisions at the campsite, caught sight of Tolsont. Melek had resumed his taciturn behavior once Kirian explained he had not put down the Blight-spawn. Melek spoke of the creature like a mangy dog carrying rabies. To Melek the path had been clear, but to Kirian, over the many miles north lost in thought, he had made the right decision. Kill something that had not really tried to kill me. The big man just doesn’t like getting his pride hurt—surprised by a woman, blighter or no.
“We skirt around Tolsont,” Kirian said while they rested miles from the city’s tall wall.
He had repeated the phrase several times, but it had been a method of pushing off his normal drive of stopping for weeks there. The capital city offered more than any of the southern cities, if you wanted to call them cities, could imagine. Kirian always hoped Sacclon would annex the adjacent provinces just to quicken the pace of Tolsont’s growth and ability to offer him additional employment outside of his normal work.
Kirian turned to the horses while they trotted to a patch of taller green grass, and within seconds their mouths took in large mouthfuls. Spring’s newness allowed already-longer days, and slightly-increased temperatures led to an explosion of life. Greenness abounded and wildflowers—yellows, blues and purples—lured in honeybees, yet they offered no comparison to the Day Star. Nothing could, in Kirian’s estimation. In the hours of the day following their blooming, Kirian had sat on horseback consumed with watching their whiteness shrivel before they became gray and shrank back toward the soil.
“Never thought I’d see that place,” Melek replied after nodding, breaking Kirian’s thoughts.
“Another time, I promise. I’ll not describe it for you. You can take it in with your eyes. If I do, I’ll wash away my willpower and abandon our self-imposed tasks.”
“I’m sure it’s a fine place, but large cities don’t mix well with my people.” Melek hesitated. “Perhaps it’s time to change that considering what has happened.”
The words settled over them, allowing nothing else to be uttered. They both sat staring around the camp’s firelight close to the city walls and towers darkening with Sol’s setting. The final rays flitted away, leaving nothing behind except Melek’s watch, which he had started without fail or debate for days. The man never took a torch, letting either of the moons give enough illumination. When it was too cloudy, he just listened, or so he had responded when Kirian had asked this morning.
Last night’s downpour just before midnight lasted an hour or more, waking Kirian up and drenching the fire. But Melek had stood twenty paces away unmoving and letting the rain sluice over him. When he returned to the campfire, which brought more cursing than Kirian cared to admit to when getting the fire restarted in the mud and dampness, Melek sat next to the fire. With soaked clothes and hair, Melek watched the flames lick for air, offering no words other than, “Your turn to watch.” Before Kirian stood, his own clothes waterlogged, Melek’s tight snores blended with the night insects’ cadence.
An hour after sunrise, Kirian and Melek looked back upon the northern wall of Tolsont. They both took one last glance—Kirian’s eyes held a longing for comfort and Melek’s eyes filled with disdain. The ford across the Vespow far north of Tolsont had taken half the morning to find due to the earliest of northern snowmelts. The waters had risen, blocking the normally-easy sightline. The wooden post marking its location had been torn down, leaving Melek to curse the wasted time.
Kirian tried to spark a conversation about the Zhizian glacier feeding the snowmelt. He had traveled there with Einar, Ellia, and Saen the year before Kylia’s birth. Kirian spoke for several minutes, lost in his own musings, until he turned to Melek. Even though the large man rode abreast Kirian, he seemed to pay no attention. Kirian coughed into his hand trying to garner Melek’s attention, but with no luck. Kirian pursed his lips. I’ll take no offense. It’s good to think about the old days, though. He pushed the thoughts away as he pointed to the west toward the Veinriven Mountains.
“Melek, listen. We’ve got about five days before we reach Arstle’s place. We’d do best by skirting around the villages north of here. We’ll pass two, but we’ll not see them.”
“Why?” Melek asked, his focus intent on Kirian.
“Because we don’t want another one of those Blight-spawn on our tail. We’ll reach Arstle’s woods soon, but we can’t allow one of those things near his place. He might kill us for just letting the thing near.”
“Very well,” Melek replied. “Your plan is sound. I’ll scout ahead and get us dinner. Meet me near that hill when evening begins.” He pointed far off in the distance. Without waiting, the man kicked the mount forward.
Kirian sighed, half raising his hand, then let it fall to his thigh. “It’d be better if we stay together,” Kirian began and let the rest fall away. He left the road and trotted northwest for a half mile to stay within visible distance of the road. They had already passed several travelers on the road leading south before separating. The road carried wagons, an occasi
onal rider on a stout mount bred for long travel, walkers—alone or in pairs—and even a few passing provincial guards. No one with ashen skin or black armor. None had offered any words just simply a nodding when they crossed paths on the road. Only faint smiles ever crossed their faces.
Days passed. Melek scouted ahead and backtracked, his mount never seeming to tire. Melek’s hunting ability bordered on miraculous, or so Kirian said on the third evening north from Tolsont. They sat around the meager campfire near the wooded slopes of the Veinrivens, and Melek offered nothing but a slight grin.
“I’ve hunted from the day my father could carry me into the wilds, even this far north of my home.” Melek paused and waved his hand around them. “It poses no trouble. The whitetail deer have thicker fur, but they still offer their sacrifice to our needs.” He paused again, pointing at the tall wild oats growing thicker the further north. “And, these oats—sacc—are what the mounts love most.” Melek eyed the mounts, standing free of hobbling less than thirty feet away. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re gaining weight.”
“Sacc is the namesake for the province we sit in now,” Kirian offered, prompting a nod from Melek. Kirian poured another ladle of the rabbit stew before blowing on it to cool it. He took a slurp, letting his tongue piece out each flavor. After swallowing, Kirian continued, “Cooking must go hand-in-hand with hunting in your family.” Kirian glanced at Melek while he took another spoonful; the large man stared into the fire. Kirian began repeating his words, before Melek forestalled him with a palm.
“My family said we could never desecrate a living being by not appreciating its sacrifice. Appreciation means learning and using every herb, spice, root, and flower. They all make the meat taste better, which means that we offer compassion to our guests, companions, and family.”
“Thank you,” Kirian said. While he blew on another spoonful, Melek nodded and sat back against the wide log from a long-dead oak.