Sufferborn

by J C Hartcarver

“Not the original owner. My name’s Bowaen. I’m a whitesmith. A piece like this would’ve been made for a king or a warlord.”

  “This is it. It’s the sword I’m looking for.” She slid the bracelet over her hand, its strung shells poking and snagging her skin the whole way. “Take it.” She dropped the treasure in his hand. Dorhen had made it for her, and now it would help her find him. If this wasn’t a part of the Creator’s intricate workings, she’d never be able to see it.

  Bowaen sheathed the sword. “C’mon, we’ve got jerky—and I’m not talking about my little friend, Del.”

  In retaliation, Del blew smoke at Bowaen’s face as he knelt beside the box he’d been carrying on his back.

  Del reached into a fine woven sack. “Oi!” He tossed a piece of dried meat to Kalea, and she fumbled it.

  “Thank you.” She knelt down and prayed to thank the Creator before biting into the sweet, smoky pork. It had been over twenty-four hours since she’d last eaten pine nuts gathered from the floor of a pub.

  Bowaen unlocked the front of the box. Inside, many little drawers with little round knobs were arranged in rows. He opened one of the drawers and dropped her bracelet in before hastily closing it and locking the box.

  “What’s in there?” she asked before taking another savory bite.

  “Orders.”

  “What’s a whitesmith?”

  “I shape precious metals like gold and silver. I work for the Wistara White Guild, but I also happen to be the best swordsman on the peninsula. As much as I’d like to, I can’t keep my ass in the workshop. I’m the runner who delivers the orders to the noble houses across the Lightlands.”

  She pointed a limp finger at the box. “So you’ll take my shells back to…”

  “I’ll keep ‘em for myself and make new pieces to sell for my own gain. I’d like to open my own shop in Gaulice soon.”

  “Glad I could help.” She averted her eyes away from the box. “So what does Del do?”

  “Besides scuffin’ his boots out behind the shop, smoking, and looking seedy? He’s my apprentice. But he doesn’t practice enough with metalworking. He might be the future official runner for my shop, when he’s good enough.”

  “I get plenty of practice working metals,” Del said, leaning forward to tap his ashes into the fire.

  Bowaen raised a hand. “Not what I’m talking about, Del!”

  “Talking about what?” Kalea darted her eyes between them.

  Bowaen pinched the bridge of his nose. “The fact that he uses our sacred craft to forge skeleton keys and lock picks.”

  “I don’t steal.”

  “Not from the guild, at least. Del’s trying to go straight, and I do believe in him…but he’s a work in progress.”

  “I see…” She turned to Del. “If you need, I can hear your confession.”

  Del’s mouth dropped open in a partial smile and his eyebrow lifted. “Confession? Don’t priests hear confession?”

  “Yes, but I can too. I’m devoted to the Creator and confident I can be His medium. It’ll help you a lot if you’re trying to reform your life. It’s like shedding an old skin and starting anew.”

  Del stood up. “No thanks. I’ve gotta shed some piss right now instead.”

  Bowaen shook his head and bit into his own piece of jerky as Del walked into the darkening forest. “I told you he’s a work in progress.”

  “You have a lot of patience for him. Is he your son, or family of some kind?”

  “Nah. He’s a peasant kid I met when he was twelve. An orphan. He wandered in from one of the neighboring manors after many of the peasant houses burned to the ground. A horrible disaster. He staggered into my shop all covered in ash, begging for water. I gave him some, and he never quite left afterward.” Bowaen shrugged. “He’s been good company.”

  Kalea forced a smile. “I guess Dorhen is in Carridax.”

  “Dorhen?”

  “He’s the one. I’m looking for him.”

  “The name sounds elvish.”

  “Yes. He is an elf.”

  Bowaen bobbed his head. “And you think he’s in Carridax because I’m going there?”

  She shrugged. “He’d have to be. I was told to go north with a man carrying that sword.”

  “Told by the Creator?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice weakened. “It’s not too far, I guess.”

  Bowaen made a kind smile for her benefit. “How far could he have gotten? And when did he…?”

  “About a week ago, plus a few days.”

  “Who took him?”

  She squinted into the dark forest surrounding their little meadow and huffed out a breath. “It was so dark. My convent was attacked.”

  Bowaen reared his head back and frowned.

  “And then he burst in. He broke the door and tried to save us…to save me. I got out, and when I returned he was gone. They were all gone.” She sniffled. “The chaos, it still jumbles my memory. But I remember men with jeweled gloves.”

  “Jeweled?”

  “Yes, beautiful gloves. In red leather—maybe.”

  “Red.”

  “They were being rough with the novices. And with me.” She shook her head and rubbed the back of it where it had cracked against the wall that awful night. The knot was gone, and the pain too. The memory brought it back, along with the feel of the man’s erection against her hip and the cold wall at her back. Those memories easily blended with those of Kemp’s attack.

  “Doesn’t sound good. None of it.”

  “It’s too horrible to…” She stared into the fire, losing herself to its dance and her memories. “I also remember gold. Gold sticks and lightning. And a strange hum in the air.”

  “Sounds like they were casting spells.”

  “Spells?”

  “Well. Have you ever seen…? There’s been some bad people walking around lately.”

  “These were as bad as I can imagine.”

  He leaned forward to stir the fire. “Somethin’ not right has been going on. My guild employed my help in training new guards in addition to Del. They’re beefing up their security.”

  “Who are these people in red?”

  Also staring into the flames, he shook his head. “I’m not sure.”

  Squinting his eyes, he returned to scanning the cold forest wall. “Del’s taking an awfully long piss, ain’t he? I’ll make sure he didn’t get lost.” Bowaen stood. “Del! I’ve gotta talk to ya.”

  Kalea stood too as he went, the mysterious sword and his other one swaying behind him like two tails under his cloak.

  She gazed into the forest…for Dorhen. The forest was his home, not any particular area of forest, but the forest as a whole, anywhere in the world. It was where he should be. It was where they both should be right now, instead of him being unaccounted for and her having to nag and bargain her way into the company of two strangers with filthy mouths. Not that she minded Bowaen. His kind heart lived somewhere under his mask of greed and nonchalance. But neither his filthy mouth nor his attitude mattered because he carried a sword she had expected to find. A sword shown to her by a fairy, proving her mental illness hadn’t deceived her.

  Someone waited crouched in the darkness, and it wasn’t Del.

  “Bowaen!” she yelled, and darted forward to catch his arm and pull him backward.

  A small object whistled over their heads. A red-haired man in black leather lurched forward from his hiding place behind a tree and blew a dart, another one, and it bounced off of Bowaen’s leather spaulder as he turned and unsheathed his brass-handled sword.

  The man in the forest also drew a sword. Simultaneously, he threw a piece of glass down between them. It exploded into an expanding grey cloud so dense Kalea could only make out the glow of the fire to orient herself.

  Swords clashed. She ran from the sound, toward the clear air. “Del!” she shouted into the forest. Oh dear Creator, let him be alive!

  She found the tree line and called Del again after taking advantage
of the fresh air. The clashing swords chimed in the cloud behind her, along with growls and grunts. Del never answered her. It must’ve been close to the new moon night for such a heavy darkness to cover the forest. She could trip over his dead body if she didn’t take care.

  “Del!” She closed her mouth in case the red-haired man wasn’t working alone. She whispered Del’s name instead.

  A slight groan rumbled back.

  “Del?” She continued with her arms stretched forward, listening for another groan while the swords clashed in the distance. At least those noises reassured her that Bowaen still lived.

  Her hand found a tree and she traversed around it, calling Del’s name softly. Her other hand grazed against fabric. She reached and patted her hand over the texture. A person. He was still warm, and putting off weak breaths along her arm.

  “Oh, Del.” Rough ropes were bound around his chest, binding him to the tree. She moved her hands to his face and found sticky wetness. She grazed her hands around the rope to the back of the tree to find the knots. Big, bulky, difficult knots. Untying them in the dark wouldn’t happen easily, and she didn’t have a knife—she’d never thought to steal one from the convent.

  “K’lea,” Del said, and let out a long groan.

  “Yes, Del. What happened to you?”

  His groan ended. “I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “He said he’d let me live until he got the sword. Like assurance or something.”

  “Do you mean insurance?”

  He groaned.

  “Why does he want the sword?” His head lolled as she cupped his chin. “Del?” She patted his face.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did he say anything else? Is he alone?”

  He didn’t answer. She couldn’t hope to inspect his head wound unless she could drag him close to the fire. He’d have to stay tied up for now. The best thing might be to help Bowaen if she could.

  “Wait here,” she whispered, patting his chest. No response.

  She ran back toward the bright cloud behind rows of black tree trunks. The cloud was thinning and two figures appeared, clashing swords. Did the red-haired man aim to steal Bowaen’s box of jewelry orders? Bowaen probably attracted more trouble than an average escort, though the attacker’s vicious movements and angry growls were quite murderous for a mere jewelry thief. Then again, the Lightlands had come into hard days.

  She stood watching, helpless, as their struggle went on. Bowaen panted hard, his movements becoming sluggish. His attacker couldn’t have been much younger, but his energy endured. Getting any closer would prove dangerous. The clashing rang loud and rapid.

  Kalea inched forward. Studying the scene, she must be standing about where the attacker had hidden when he shot his weapon at Bowaen. Straight across from her, a lone tree stood near their little camp. She walked around the circumference of the scentless, thinning smoke to the tree. A little red feather stuck out between the bark—the dart he had shot. Probably poisoned.

  As she wiggled the dart free of the tree, a sharp clank sounded from behind. Bowaen’s brass-hilted sword broke at its middle and he scrambled away, freeing the special sword from the sheath under his cloak. He used it to block the attacker’s desperate swing at the last possible instant.

  The attacker cursed and took the defense, chanting strange words while keeping his left hand free, tensing it into a cat-like claw. From his tensed fingers, he released wires of light, like lightning. Kalea’s hair stood on end, and an eerie humming sound emerged with the wires.

  Reflexively, Bowaen raised the sword in front of his face—and the blade ate the lightning. While the attacker stood and gawked, Kalea took the opportunity to sprint forward and stick the dart into the back of the man’s neck. He whirled around, and Kalea winced. His eyes pierced her instead of his blade.

  Bowaen sprang forward and tore his attention away. The attacker ducked, plucking the dart out, and ran, stumbling from side to side. Before leaving the camp, he slammed another glass ball to release more smoke. Bowaen jumped through the new smoke wall, but returned coughing a few moments later.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, but Del isn’t. He’s tied to a tree!” She pointed.

  “Watch my lockbox, will ya?” He took a flaming stick out of the fire and ran into the woods.

  Kalea patted her chest to calm herself. They should be safe now, if that dart had been poisoned. She’d stabbed it deep into his neck. She had killed a man tonight. She’d have to go straight to the sanctuary in Carridax to confess this. A mighty penance would follow, but at least she was alive, and Bowaen, and hopefully Del.

  On her way toward the fire and Bowaen’s lockbox, a strong hand grabbed her arm with fingers long enough to wrap around her whole bicep, pressing tight enough to cut off her circulation.

  “Not so fast.”

  The attacker had returned, though his eyelids drooped and his head bobbed. He fumbled through his belt pouch to retrieve another glass ball. He threw it a short distance, and a hole opened in the air, like the one the red-gloved men had made in her convent.

  Before Kalea could scream, he hauled her through it with enough force to hurt her shoulder. On the other side of the hole, they emerged in the forest. Somewhere else in the forest, with a different camp set up.

  He put himself in front of her and jabbed a finger toward her face. “You made me use an expensive spell glass, not to mention the wasted dart! That whole operation was an expensive effort, which you ruined.”

  He spat in her face; prickly bits of saliva sprayed over her skin. “Now listen. I need to get something from your friend back there. And since you so stupidly foiled me, I’ll give you a choice. You can die, or you can help me get it.”

  Her throat trembled as she uttered, “What is it you need?”

  “The sword.”

  Chapter 21

  A Bargain for the Kingsorcerer

  The Pointing Young Man, a constellation that had been on the rise when Daghahen and Orinleah exchanged their private vows, now pointed north. It represented Dorhen. It always seemed to align itself in special ways whenever Dorhen passed one of life’s landmarks, such as a birthday or the time he had burned his hand in Orinleah’s kiln and sent his mother into a frenzy for water and ointment.

  Daghahen had followed the constellation after the lad disappeared. Over the years, he’d gotten sidetracked for a while, sometimes opting to tuck his chin tight and ignore what the stars tried to show him.

  In recent days, since he’d told some random vestal about his son, he’d decided to take on the task full force again. He had halted his duty in trying to woo the pixies because the lad was important too. He was the child Daghahen had made with Orinleah, the last remnant of the happiest portion of Daghahen’s life. Dorhen’s time on earth would be brief and dolorous, Daghahen had seen in his long-ago divinations, but he didn’t know yet how or why. And in the past, he’d never dared mention such premonitions to Orinleah. Orinleah never even knew who or what her son was, something Daghahen personally wished to find out. She hadn’t known who she’d married either. Sometimes Daghahen wondered if it would’ve been better had her clan’s saehgahn murdered him on that fateful day.

  In this area outside of his old hometown of Theddir, he could relax a bit and let his hood fall. Theddir, a moldy old town on wooden stilts, was the most elf-friendly town in the Lightlands. It was the closest human settlement to Norr’s forest wall.

  Not only had he and his brother spent their childhoods there, but many a new saehgahn made his way there as well, even in this age, to sleep in a bed and aid the needy. The women would doll themselves up extra nice and slink around the inns and streets when word announced a new saehgahn. They all hoped to get an elf’s fabled gift of gold or magic, or whatever nonsense the folktales promised. However, some women truly needed help, and that’s what saehgahn were for when they came out of their forest home. Other women abused their “helpless”
status and fabricated atrocious stories to weep out to a saehgahn’s concerned face, to get him to murder their “abusive” husbands so they could inherit their money and attach themselves to younger, prettier men. Rubbish like that was the reason Daghahen had stopped helping villagers after a while. His hands stank enough by now.

  Nobody in Theddir batted an eye at the mercyman, and after a nice rest in an inn, he strolled the fields as the constellation directed, drawing dangerously close to Norr, a place more hazardous for him than the human lands. Could Dorhen have found some way to thrive there?

  On the other side of the farms dotting the land around Theddir, Daghahen tromped over the prairies and through small copses. As he crossed one stretch of land populated with thistle and thick barnyard grass, the eerie humming sensation began in his pocket again.

  “What now?” Daghahen asked. “You wish to talk finally?” He opened his pocket and brought out Wik’s holding sphere.

  As soon as his hand made contact with the large glass ball in his pocket, the voice began in his head. Little elf, little elf, where are you going? The voice sounded like the ocean inside an empty conch shell.

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  Is this what I’ve become? A bauble to horde and pet?

  Daghahen smiled at the humming black glass balanced on his palm. “I rescued you from the witch you hate. Care to help me out?”

  Are you going to release me?

  “Are you going to answer my questions yet?”

  My energy runs low, but I might try.

  “Do you remember the Ilbith sorcerers, Wik?”

  A hiss like running sand vibrated up Daghahen’s arm, where it registered as sound in his head.

  “Do you favor them?”

  No.

  “They tend to like you.”

  They have paid homage to me in ages past.

  “And you don’t favor them back so warmly.”

  Daghahen had to glean good answers fast before Wik grew tired. It wasn’t a good thing to be trapped in a holding sphere, and the longer he spoke to the pixie, the faster it would exhaust. The sun sank fast behind the tall trees on the horizon, and the night should’ve made it easier for the pixie to carry on a conversation. Wik was known as the pixie of darkness, after all, but the confinement of the holding sphere canceled such luxury, and drained the pixie’s energy during the time of day it should’ve flourished.