by Barb Hendee
She’d brought a large piece of soot-blackened canvas scavenged back in Chemestúk, along with a cooking pot, wooden eating utensils, a dull knife, and a few more bits of scavenged food. At night, she used the canvas as a makeshift tent, though sometimes she had to use it to keep from sleeping in the muck.
On the third day, a new worry reared its head. So far, she’d passed two villages, both burned to the ground. She’d thought to buy food along the way, but now that seemed a remote possibility. Even so, could she have dared show such a coin as a sovereign in the hands of peasant without rousing suspicion? What would happen when her limited supplies ran out?
There was nothing she could do except press onward. She couldn’t go back, for she had nothing to go back to.
At times, she cursed herself for not knowing more about the size of her own country. In her darker moments, she began to wonder more and more about her chances. What if she didn’t succeed and simply vanished along the way, and Magiere never found out what had become of her?
The thought of her niece’s anguish pushed her onward again.
Toward dusk that third day, she was tugging her tattered skirt loose from a patch of thistles when the sounds of grunts and snarls drifted through the trees from the road. She quickly flattened to ground and crawled through the brush. Dragging her belongings as quietly as possible to the last of the trees, she peeked out at the road.
Two ragged soldiers in filthy yellow tabards were trying to capture an enormous brown wolf. Both were shouting and swearing—and bleeding from a number of gashes on their forearms and faces. They both had swords, but one carried a net possibly stolen off some fisherman’s skiff. They appeared intent upon catching—not killing—the wolf.
“Get around the back of him!” the one with the net shouted. “Try and get him to turn!”
But when the other soldier tried to do so, the wolf charged, snapping and snarling. The soldier swung hard with the flat of his sword, cutting off the beast’s attack.
Hiding in the brush, Bieja shook her head. Why would two Äntes soldiers risk their hides trying to capture a wolf? Squinting, she focused on the animal as it made a dodging lunge for the far trees.
White-chested, it had strange yellow eyes, but oddest of all was a dark bracelet of some kind around its right foreleg just above its paw. And when it flattened its ears in a snarl, and then raised them again, Bieja’s eyebrows rose as well.
There was a thick silver ring pierced through the base of one of its ears.
The animal might have stepped through a lost bracelet and got it stuck, but the pierced earring of glinting silver… now that didn’t make any sense.
The second soldier cut off the wolf’s escape and then Bieja’s astonishment grew.
Suddenly the animal’s fur appeared to thin across its torso and legs, and a mane of black hair began growing from its head. Its body appeared to twist and contort as it kept trying to get around the soldiers until… it rose up, grabbed the net with its hands and jerked hard, throwing the first soldier off balance.
Bieja stared in shock more than wonder at a naked, dark-haired man fighting with all the intensity of the wolf she’d been looking at barely moments ago. But she could see there was something wrong with him. He was sweating from more than just exertion, and his eyes were glassy.
“No, you don’t,” the second guard shouted, and he thrust his sword out between the naked man and the first soldier. “You’re done, you tzigän deserter! So heel like a dog, or I’ll cut you down like one!”
The man only snarled at him, human lips curled back. Then his body began spouting brown fur again over limbs that narrowed, twisted, and shortened… and the wolf lunged for the nearside trees this time.
Waves of anger—at the two soldiers—flooded through Bieja. The word tzigän was an insulting term, meaning “vagabond thieves” sometimes used against the Móndyalítko, a wandering people who lived their own way in wagon caravans. But Nadja, back at the keep in Chemestúk was Móndyalítko and Jan was a half-blood… and the Äntes had stolen Jan from his family.
Without really thinking, only letting the rage of the past few days drive her onward, Bieja grabbed a solid branch from the ground and dashed forward, swinging her makeshift weapon down as hard as she could. It cracked and shattered on the back of second soldier’s head.
He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
His partner with the net froze in shock at the sight of a plump purple-clad woman wielding half a club now. In that instant, the wolf swerved around in its dash for the trees and leaped at the second soldier, going for his face or throat.
“No!” Bieja cried out. She hadn’t intended to kill anyone.
It was too late. The soldier was on the ground, and the wolf ripped his throat out. A spray of blood splattered the road. The soldier’s eyes were still open, but Bieja knew he was dead, and then the wolf collapsed. It simply fell on its side as if its last ounce of strength was gone… and its fur began to thin and vanish.
Bieja found herself standing beside a naked, unconscious man with a head of thick, black hair. Where were his clothes? Glancing around, she spotted something dark green across the road and she hurried to investigate. There lay a pair of brown breeches, boots, a dark green shirt… and a sheathed dagger.
Biting the inside of her lower lip, she looked back. Most male Móndyalítko she’d seen were either small and wiry or tall and slender—like young Jan. The naked man on the ground was tall with broad shoulders and developed muscles. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and his dusky-toned face bore a white scar running from the corner of his right eye down to his jaw. By what she’d seen of his glassy eyes, he was ill. He was also dangerous, willing to kill without a second thought. He was a fighter… and a shape-shifter.
She’d heard vague rumors and gossip of strange things among the Móndyalítko, but she’d never seen anything of that until today. Seeing it first hand should’ve stunned her, but somehow it didn’t. Instead, a dim memory struck her of something Nadja had once said about blood oaths and a hard custom of a “life for a life” among the Móndyalítko.
“Are you going mad?” she asked herself.
She had no answer, and still, she had just saved this man.
Coming to a decision, she grabbed the clothing and dagger, ran to the road’s far side, and tossed them off into the woods. Then she hurried back and, gripping the naked man by his bare ankles, she struggled to drag him off the same way.
· · · · ·
As dusk settled, Bieja worked over the campfire she’d started, occasionally glancing over at the unconscious man laying on fire’s other side. She’d wrapped him up in the canvas scrap she’d been using as a tent—as that was all she had with which to cover him. He was still sweating, and she knew he was running a fever.
She used her small cooking pot to make tea first and then poured the liquid into a wooden mug, also scavenged from the remains of Chemestúk. Once that was done, she boiled turnips over the open fire until they were softer than she normally liked. Just as they finished, a groan pulled her attention.
The dark-haired man was stirring, and she set down the cooking pot and grabbed his unsheathed dagger from where she’d kept it by her side. She didn’t brandish it at him. Instead, she kept it low in the folds of her skirt, in case she needed the element of surprise.
His eyes opened, and he stared upward. Then he sucked in a loud breath, and panic flooded his still glassy eyes, as dark as his hair.
“You’re all right,” Bieja said quickly, still gripping the dagger’s hilt and hoping she wouldn’t have need of it.
His head rolled toward her, the fire, and cooking pot, and his expression shifted to wild confusion mixed with wariness. He rolled onto his side, trying to push himself up.
“You stay right there!” Bieja ordered. “And don’t you go sprouting any fur or fangs.”
He froze at her voice, peering more closely at her.
“Now you drink this,” she told
him, lifting the mug of tea. “I’ll mash you some turnips with salt and then fry some flat bread.”
She talked of food with each order she gave him, so he’d that realize she was in charge and trying to help him. To her relief, his expression relaxed as he leaned back again.
“You were there,” he said quietly, looking at her dress. “I saw you.”
“Yeah, I was there. I bashed one of those soldiers with a branch… and you went and killed the other.”
Stepping around the fire, she slowly—and carefully—handed him the tea, but she kept the dagger in hand behind her skirt.
“Drink that,” she said.
He was weakened and sick, and she needed him at full strength. To her relief, he slowly took the cup, watching her the whole time, and put it to his mouth.
She back-stepped once before turning around to finish mashing the turnips in a small wooden bowl, adding a little salt as well. When she held out the bowl, he took it and used his fingers to eat quickly. While he didn’t appear to be starving, he was certainly hungry enough. That might obligate him a bit more.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He swallowed a mouthful and licked his fingers. Some of the wariness returned to his eyes. “Milôs,” he finally answered.
“Bieja,” she returned, and she began mixing a little oil with flour.
“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asked.
“The Väränj burned my village.”
He grunted in a way that turned to growl and dropped the bowl to lie back down. “It’s all madness.”
She snorted. “You’ll get no quarrel from me. Why were those soldiers trying to catch you?”
He didn’t answer, but he suddenly appeared to notice the canvas in which he was wrapped. “Where are my clothes?”
“There,” and she pointed a few paces to left—with his dagger—and then wiggled the blade in the air. “Can’t be too careful.” She took in the thick silver ring in his right ear and the braided piece of black leather around his wrist. “You want me to turn my back so you can get dressed?”
Making one failed attempt to get up, he laid back down. “Not yet.”
That concerned her a little. He struck her as proud, but he was too ill and weakened to even reach for his clothes. She worked quickly to fry some flat bread.
“Do you know what kind of fever you’ve caught?” she asked bluntly.
He was quiet for a moment, and then shook his head. “It started back in the camp… before I escaped.”
“The Äntes, they… took you from your people?” When he didn’t answer, she added, “You’ve got no secrets from me. I saw you… change back there, wolfie.”
At her mocking tone, his eyes narrowed, but he looked her over. She probably somewhat resembled the women of his people—plump, middle-aged, dark-haired mothers, aunts and grandmothers cooking over an open fire along their wandering ways.
“I think they got a spy in among us… found out what I was,” he said softly, lying on his back and staring up into the trees. “Seems they wanted… something like me. They set a trap and caught us on the road… me and all my family, and they said if went with them, they’d leave everyone else alone, but if I fought, my family would die. What could I do? I agreed to go with them. My mother and sisters wept. I am their protection.”
Bieja said nothing to this; there wasn’t anything she could say. His profile was handsome in a way, even with the white scar. Pity made her resolve waver, but she steeled herself as she brought the fried bread and crouched beside him.
“Eat.”
He took it but glanced around, as if his senses were slowly coming back to him. “Did you kill that second soldier?”
“No, but don’t worry. We’re a good deal off the road from where I dragged you. And I’ll bet he isn’t going to come after us on his own.”
And aside from assurances, it was another reminder to Milôs that he was deeply in debt to her.
He nodded, rolled up onto his side again, and went at the flatbread.
“So you got sick with a camp fever but managed to escape,” she echoed, “and a few of them caught up to you.”
“Yes.”
“How bad off are you?”
“It doesn’t matter. I have to find my family.”
This was the moment of crisis, and Bieja stood up. “Not yet, you’re not. I saved your fury hide back there… and you owe me a life. Those soldiers may not have killed you right away, but whatever they had planned for you was probably worse.”
He stopped eating and stared at her.
“Your people ever travel through Belaski?” she asked.
“Belaski?” he gasped in surprise. “Of course, but what are you—”
“I need to get to the coast, and you’re taking me there.
He dropped the flatbread and pushed himself up to sitting this time. “No, I’m not. I have to find my family. They are unprotected without me.”
Bieja squared off to face him, looking down with her hands on her hips. “Oh, yes you are! Much as it pains me to say this, I won’t even make it to the border on my own. You owe me a life, and you’re going to pay it. What would your mother say if she were here? Mmmmm? She’d tell you to honor your people’s ways no matter what the cost. I need to get to the coast of Belaski, and you are going to take me. After that, you can find your family.”
He continued staring at her with his mouth slightly open until she pointed down. “Now eat the rest of that bread before it gets cold. You’ll need your strength.”
· · · · ·
She kept Milôs resting by the campfire for the next few days, feeding him water, tea, and salted mashed turnips until he stopped sweating and his eyes were clear.
They didn’t talk much.
Once he was dressed, he looked striking enough. The green shirt set off his dusky complexion, and she wondered how well he could handle the dagger now on his hip. The turning point came when he finally stood up and stripped off his shirt.
“I’m tired of turnips,” he said. “I’m going hunting.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “You coming back?”
Those three simple words had other questions beneath them. Would he honor his people’s ways and guard her life in exchange for the one she’d given him? Or would he abandon her here?
“Yes, I’ll be back,” he answered in almost a wolf’s growl without even looking at her.
He kept his pants on, and she assumed he’d probably leave them somewhere along the way once he took to hunting as a wolf. He was gone quite awhile, but true to his word, he returned carrying two dead rabbits. Bieja didn’t give him any reaction as she skinned the rabbits, though privately she was beyond relief.
She had him.
A part of her didn’t like forcing him, but that passed when she thought of her Magiere. If in being alone, she simply disappeared somewhere along this journey, never to be seen again, Magiere would mourn forever, wondering about her aunt’s fate.
No, Bieja had to take the chance Leesil had given her. And for that, she needed Milôs.
On the morning of their fourth day together, he inspected her scant belongings and shook his head.
“I can hunt meat, but we need better supplies than this.”
“I have coin,” she answered, deciding to be honest with him. “But so far, I haven’t found anywhere to spend it. We’ll just have to keep looking along the way.”
At those words, the reality of this journey he could not escape appeared to truly settle on him. Still crouching by her burlap sack, he glowered up at her.
“I will take you to the coast of Belaski, but you will have to keep up… as I plan to finish this task with all possible speed.”
“Oh, I’ll keep up,” she answered shortly. “You ready?”
Without answering, he lifted her sack and headed for the road.
She grabbed up the piece of canvas and hurried after him. “What are you doing? We’ll be spotted too easily out here.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll hear anyone coming well before we see them.”
Somewhat flustered, Bieja followed Milôs out onto the road, but she soon felt more confident about pressing him into duty as guide and guardian. He hadn’t been boasting.
They traveled all day on the open road, though every now and then he’d motion her into the trees. They’d hide until riders passed and then resume their journey.
She wasn’t the best judge of distance but, by evening, she guessed they’d traveled farther in that one day than she’d covered in three days on her own in the forest. Hope began growing inside her, and for the first time, she let herself speculate on this tavern that Magiere had purchased. What would it be like?
If there were any flaws, Bieja would take them well in hand, that much was certain.
· · · · ·
At some point along the way—later, she couldn’t remember exactly when—Milôs began telling her about his family and his life among the Móndyalítko. In turn, Bieja shared a bit about her Magiere and her niece’s pointy-eared darling—and why she was traveling to the coast.
Perhaps he talked to her simply because there was no one else. But soon after, Bieja began to realize that she had been alone far too long, and that perhaps the end of this journey might rescue her in more ways than one.
At least she wasn’t talking to herself anymore.
However, their supplies were almost gone, and they’d not come across a single intact village with a market.
One evening, Milôs stopped in the road and stared ahead. “I hear the sound of men… a lot of men.” And he shooed her off into the trees.
“They coming our way?” she whispered in the brush, wondering if maybe an entire contingent was about to ride by.
“No,” he whispered back. “I don’t hear horses. Must be an encampment. You wait here.”
“What? No, don’t you dare…”
Before she finished, he was gone. She was left fuming for an alarming amount of time, but she stayed put. She started as the bush beside her rustled, and he finally reappeared as quickly as he’d vanished. His black hair was a mess from crawling through brush, and the knees of his breeches were wet.