The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  The world round them was aswirl with pearly fog broken by an occasional dark tree trunk. They could neither see upslope or down, east, west, north or south. The sun must be somewhere before them, given the early hour, but Donyl could not spy it. The forest hummed eerily in its silence.. Though not a hunter like his brothers, Donyl knew enough to recognize the forest creatures were on alert -- holding their breath for somewhat Donyl could not hear.

  Faryl, barely visible at the head of the column riding a work-horse, halted the line of march with an upheld hand, staring down the mountain. The warband jostled to a stop, tack jingling oddly within the silence. Men with nerves stretched taut eased their swords in the scabbards. All rode with mail, even Donyl, whose shoulders ached with the unaccustomed weight of it. Faryl was the only one ill-equipped, though what good mail would do against a daemon was uncertain. As if to highlight that concern, Faryl wore a leather jerkin stripped with metal like a corset. Donyl doubted it would turn aside a spear, though it might dull a sword. The metal might ward a daemon, Nedd had said. It was iron and iron was said to repulse daemons.

  A sudden wash of fear roiled over Donyl from downslope. He saw the men react to it as if slapped by an icy wave. Cold like a winter night caused the horses to shy and dance. Sound rolled up the hill like naught Donyl had ever heard before -- several rhythmic thudding beats wound together, moving rapidly toward them. The horses rolled their eyes and blew out their noses. Then Donyl’s horse reared and tossed him to the ground.

  While he lay gasping on the ground, large brown bodies hove into sight, leaping and bounding amid screaming horses and cursing men. Donyl’s attention was only for his horse’s hooves and the large shapes that sped past him. He rolled away and scrabbled toward a tree trunk. Somewhat caught his sword belt, lifted him free of the ground and flung him closer to the tree. Donyl crawled rapidly toward the shelter and then turned to view the fog-shrouded chaos behind him.

  Deer bounded upslope and scattered the warband, sending horses bucking and men screaming. Dozens, if not hundreds, of deer raced past Donyl. One lowered its horns to hook Donyl’s horse in the side and then sped on with the horse upon its head. Another ploughed into a rider’s horse, sending it and its rider tumbling. The pounding thud of their travel drowned out all but the closest shouts. Donyl could only stare in awe and terror.

  Out of the swirling mist, a deer headed straight for the prince. Seeing his death riding him down, Donyl did the only thing he knew. He drew his sword and swung at the deer’s head. His inexpert slice caught it right cross the nose, causing it to swerve and run off into the mist on the other side of his tree. Another deer headed his way and Donyl twisted to meet its charge. The hot breath of the animal warmed his arm as it careened past him with one eye hanging out of its socket..

  How long this went on, he did not know, but his arms shook with the effort of keeping the sword aloft and swinging by the time the thundering herd flowed uphill and away from him. Not knowing if it were truly the last, Donyl leaned against the tree, panting. The analytical part of his mind noted the real blood dripping from his sword. These deer were apparently more real than the wolves had been.

  In the following quiet, men moaned in the mist. Hesitating, Donyl feared to leave the safety of the tree, where at least he had its bole for partial protection, but he could not leave the men who protected him alone in the fog. Cautiously, he set out toward the nearest voice, holding his sword with both trembling hands. As he did, a bit of the fog began to lift and weak sunlight filtered down to him. Donyl found a rider crushed beneath his horse, a leg bent at a bad angle and blood running from his mouth.

  “I’m sorry, sire,” he whispered as Donyl bent to him. “I’m done.” Then he let go his spirit, eyes growing dim and glossing over. The smell of urine rose to Donyl’s nose as he closed the man’s eyelids. He felt tears trickle down his cheeks. He’d seen men dead before, but he’d never witnessed a death.

  “Sire,” Pedyr said, kneeling beside him, his drawn sword dripping with blood. “Are you injured?”

  Dumbfounded, Donyl looked down at his body. Blood soaked his breecs.

  “I think it’s deer’s blood,” Donyl said wearily. The fog blew off uphill, so that he could now view the scene about him. He struggled to his feet. Men and horses littered a mountain meadow that was broken by occasional trees and large rocks. A quick count showed three horses down. A slower count found four men dead and another dying. Young Faryl stood silently at the edge of the killing field, knowledgeable eyes scanning the trees, the reins of his work horse clutched in one hand. In keeping with his people’s ways, he carried only a staff. He’d sunk his spear deep into the chest of one deer … the only one Donyl could see, now dead at the hunter‘s feet.

  “We should bury these men,” Donyl said after their inspection. They had no horses beyond the work horse, a few bent arms, some water in bottles and some food.

  “We haven’t time,” Pedyr protested. “It’s already past midday and the dark of the moon approaches. We can’t remain here. That’s what she wants.”

  “Then what do you suggest. Faryl, can we make it back to your village by some secret way?”

  “I’d not be taking you back to where my mam does live, sire,” Faryl told him plainly. The lad showed no anger in his speaking, merely a resignation and the clear knowledge that death stalked Donyl. “The way forward is thus.” He pointed east. “We should be about it.”

  “But these men ….”

  “Are beyond caring,” Pedyr told him. “Sire, we must flee. There’s a citadel that overlooks the Dengyal valley. Faryl hasn’t been there, but I think I remember the way. We wager it’s an eight night’s hard run there. I believe we’ll be safe there.”

  “An eight night? We won’t live to see the other side of the coming night,” Donyl scoffed.

  Faryl and Pedyr exchanged glances.

  “We’ve lived this long, sire. No use giving up just yet,” Pedyr assured. “We’ve got to be away, sire. Now … if we wish any hope to live.”

  Donyl looked over the desolate scene and near wept for the dishonor of leaving good men to rot in the sun, but he had naught else for choice. He turned to young Faryl instead. The lad was about his own age and this was not his battle.

  “You should give Pedyr directions and we’ll be on our way. Go back to Kylly Mines.“

  Faryl stared at him. Like many of his people, he was dark haired and blue eyed with skin ruddy from outdoor work.

  “Begging your pardon, sire, but I’ll not be leaving you. My da did task me to take you at least to the top of the pass and that’s two days’ ahead. And, you’ll be needing the horse to carry your supplies and I’d only have to fetch it back.”

  “’Tis not your fight, lad. You‘re risking your life for matters you know naught about.“

  Faryl narrowed his eyes and then smiled at some inner thought.

  “We’ve not much contact with the kingdom, sire, but we’ve lots of contact with the Heavenly Host. Tis the name of the village, is it not? Kylly Court. And, God do command us greater than your family and He do command that I take you as far as I’m able.”

  Donyl knew naught of this god, but he sensed Faryl would countenance no disrespect of him. That decided, he nodded to Faryl, who helped Pedyr swing a pack upon the horse’s back, turned his back on the bloody scene and set off up mountain, ghosting through the trees. Donyl limped along behind with Pedyr bringing up the rear. They had a long way to go and hell on their trail. Best to not think about what happened if it overtook them.

  Founding Year 1028

  Highway to Mandorlyn

  Tamys had heard of Mandorlyn as a legend for most of his life. Bards sang of it as an adventurous place with high mountains of gold and bewitching lasses of hardy stock. Thus, he was surprised when they exited the mountain canyon and began to descent into Mandorlyn. It was clear that they had entered the fabled valley because the canyon was gone and a true road, much like the dwarven roads of Mulyn wended through dusty r
ed hills of jagged rock where scraggly stunted plants struggled for life. There were rushing streams in some places and there the plant life seemed less precarious, but certainly not lush. Somehow this was not what Tamys had expected and he felt cheated of his dreams.

  For three days they traveled down the mountains until Duglas called a halt at midday. It took a moment of looking round to realize they were just outside of a mining village. The village climbed a narrow side valley with a high rock wall at the bottom by the road and a gaping hole at the top of the valley – the mine.

  The men stared at the first sign of civilization in ten days and they began to smile to one another.

  “Listen carefully, men,” Duglas called. “This is a peaceful village, but they will defend themselves. These are my stock and trade and I’ll ask you to be about the business I hired you to do. You’ll not be lifting any skirts of their daughters nor fighting with their sons. I’ll turn you over to their tender mercies if I catch you at it. Now, the village will be providing us with a meal out here. You’re not to go into the town at all. There’ll be guards soon enough to keep you from it anyway. Then we’ll be setting up a market faire right here. We’ll camp by a lake up ahead tonight and we’ll move on in the morning. Accept that schedule or find yourself fed to the ravens.”

  Duglas moved on to speak to the men who had come to the gates of the town. These sturdy farmers carried flails and cudgels and Tamys marked that they held them as the muleteers held their quarter-staves. He would not have bet coin on his sword against their farm implements.

  “He means what he says,” Braeden told Tamys. “You’re a handsome lad, but it’s best you turn aside any interest you draw because Duglas means what he says and the miners are cruel with those who touch their shinier goods.”

  Tamys had learned this lesson in Dunmaden, but he knew Aethyn and some of the others would learn more slowly. He did not doubt that Braeden could teach it to them. He knew for a fact that Braeden could best him with a sword and he’d had many a master-soldier praise his skill on the field.

  The miners’ wives supplied a delicious meal of stew thick with vegetables that Padraig would not have thought the soil could grow and some meat that he wasn’t able to identify, but did not find unpleasant. They brought baskets of real bread and a hearty dark ale of which they were each allowed only one tankard. As soon as the meal was cleared, the market faire was begun. Duglas gave Padraig permission to set out his own shingle and before Padraig had even thought of potential profit, he was surrounded by miners’ wives with needs he’d somehow suspected would exist.

  Padraig found himself impressed with the knowledge of the women who came to him. Far from midwives, granias and herbmen, they had trained themselves to be knowledgeable in what their families needed. They told him what they needed, not asked his advice for their ills. They paid in bits of unminted gold that they had weighed, so that Padraig had only to check it and agreed to the price.

  “You’ll want to trade those in Mandorlyn, herbman,” Duglas told him. “They know its value more than they do in Cenconyn.”

  Padraig thanked him for his advice and raked in his profits. He quickly lost sight of the people in front of him and saw only a sea of faces. Then there was a woman asking after red raspberry leaves with a boy of about eight clinging to her dress, his eyes the milky white-blue of the blind.

  “Mayhap I ask, good woman. How did your child become thus?” he asked, for he felt a burden for the child.

  “It was the red fever,” came the answer. “Last summer it was. I tried all that I knew, but he still came blind.”

  “I’ve not heard of the red fever. What are the symptoms?”

  “Fever, rash, sore throat. It caused blindness and deafness.”

  “Truly? I thought my knowledge vast, but I’ve not heard of this. Did nothing seem to help?”

  “Nay. I tried all the local remedies, but it seemed relentless. I don’t suppose you have anything that would help this late.”

  Padraig asked for permission and felt the power of God flow through him. Wanting to live, he decided on a canny course of action.

  “I might have somewhat for you. If you will meet me after dusk near the lake. I have a tincture I’d need to create.”

  “Thanks to you,” she said, smiling. “Should I bring the lad?”

  “Nay, I’ll have no need of seeing him. If your husband wants to come, that would be fine, for the propriety of the thing. Where along the lake shall we meet?”

  “There’s a peninsula that juts out just east of your camp. I’ll be checking the fish traps tonight. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Well and good then.”

  She parted. When the market faire was finished, the caravan moved onto the lake where the tuck wagon and a crew had already been at work. Tamys seemed distracted and irritable at the evening meal and Padraig reminded himself to speak with the lad after his meeting with the woman. Dusk found him sitting on a boulder on the peninsula waiting for her. She came out of the deepening purple evening, a dark shawl hiding her from view. She set aside her heavy basket before approaching him.

  “What have you for my lad, herbman?”

  “Naught. He’s already healed.”

  “Wh-at? You jest, certainly.”

  “Nay. The One God healed him this afternoon.”

  “He is as blind as night!” she scoffed.

  “He will see the morning light,” Padraig assured her.

  “Truly?” she asked, sounding like a child hoping against hope.

  “You will know when his eyes are opened. Then remember that the One God, the True God, worked this in your son.”

  “What do you or your god want for this healing?” the woman asked reservedly.

  “Naught, only that you acknowledge to yourself and your family what was wrought here today.”

  “That’s all?”

  “I promise you that, good woman. When your son sees the light, praise the Light from heaven, for He is the one who healed your son.”

  She left with a skepticism that Padraig knew well. Though he’d been a Believer from his early years, he’d seen unbelief at every turn. The night was deepening into true darkness as Padraig made his way to the tip of the peninsula where large boulders provided a comfortable leeward location to watch the stars come out. There was no moon, but the black velvet sky provided a perfect backdrop for stars that seemed far closer than he’d ever thought possible.

  Padraig dreamed of stars and other mountains when he noted a flash of starlight winking off metal as someone came toward him. Padraig’s Denygal eyesight recognized Tamys and Padraig was dutifully impressed with the lad’s ability to navigate so gracefully in the dark. He wondered mildly at that, though he wondered more about Tamys’ ability to target right on him.

  “Somewhat you want to discuss?” Padraig asked as Tamys neared.

  “Aye,” the lad said. He sat down on one of the boulders and looked up at the sky. “Lovely, how the stars seem to make a road across the heavens!”

  Padraig agreed in silence. The Wise Ones taught that important decisions were made in silence. The lad seemed to think so as well, for it was several fistfuls of heartbeats before he spoke.

  “You healed that lad this afternoon, didn’t you?” Tamys asked.

  Padraig shot him a look of surprise. How could he know that?

  “Aye, though truth be told, my God did the healing. I was only the conduit.”

  “I knew it!” Tamys insisted.

  “Aye, well, clearly you did, but how? Wise Ones say they can sometimes sense it, but not always.”

  “I know naught,” Tamys replied. “I was guarding that wagon near you and wondering how you could stand the chatter of all those women when suddenly I felt – somewhat like it feels in the mountains just before a lightning strike – like there’s power being held back in anticipation like a whip. I looked your way to see if there were clouds on the horizon and I knew the lightning would strike at you. Before I could say anything
or move, it struck, only you were fine and – and somehow I knew that somewhat had changed. I did not know what until I saw the woman walk away from you tonight. Then I knew, truly knew, that you had healed her son.”

  “He’ll see come the morrow light. I asked her here so that I might tell her whom deserved the praise.”

  “Your god, you said.” Padraig nodded. Tamys shook his head in the near-complete darkness. “I don’t believe in your god,” he admitted. “I’m not sure I believe in any gods.”

  “Not even those of your people?”

  Tamys shook his head. Padraig found he was not surprised by this revelation.

  “Will you tell me what you’re thinking?” he asked after Tamys grew silent again.

  The lad licked his lips nervously. Padraig waited.

  “I wasn’t raised to believe in the gods, truly. My father cautioned us to pay the proper respect to the priests of Bel and Lugh and to pay the proper coin as well. The nobles rule because the temple supports them. And, of course, a nobleman sponsors feast days and pays proper homage to the gods, just in case someone might take lack of interest askance. I grew up with that politic sort of religion.”

  “Aye, tis the religion of my father. I know it well.”

  “I never questioned it,” Tamys assured Padraig. “Not until Galen was struck through with a spear at the siege of Dun Celdrya and I knew that there were no gods. For months that’s how I felt. Then I heard the name of your god and – . Mayhap I tell you of this and you’ll keep my counsel?”

  “Of course, lad. I’ve trusted you with my life often enough these many weeks.”

  Tamys took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Winter before last I was raiding Lord Tren’s lands. We do that frequently, as somewhat of a sport in winter.” Padraig nodded, taking for granted that Tamys could see in this light, as apparently the lad could. “I fell captive. Lord Tren noted that I was the youngest of three sons and decided to hang me rather than ransom me. He thought my father wouldn’t pay the coin, which was likely true. So, I waited in the donjon to meet my fate. A rider let me free, smuggled me out through a bolt hole with a rider’s cloak as cover. I asked him why he’d risk his life for me and he said ‘So you’ll know that the One God loves you.’ I hadn’t time to ask more, but I wondered – through that night anyway – what he meant by that. Never thought I’d find out. Never expected to see that rider again.”