by Barb Hendee
“Don’t you do that again!” she scolded.
“Shhh!” he answered.
She could see from his expression that he had news, and she fell silent.
“A whole camp of Väränj soldiers,” he whispered, “hundreds of them.”
Bieja felt herself flush with heat again as she thought of Yoan’s split skull and how those bastards in red tabards had thrown torches without a thought for burning innocent people alive.
“I got close enough to hear an argument,” Milôs said, “but I wasn’t seen.”
Through her anger, she glanced at him in the darkness. “Argument? About what?”
“One of their captains wants to press on to join another contingent and help lay siege to Enêmûsk. The other captain wants to fall back.”
She blinked. “Siege Enêmûsk?”
“Word of their maneuvers got out,” he went on. “Forces from other houses are rushing to assist the Äntes. A thousand men from the House of Pählen are less than two days away from the city.”
“Pählen? How did they get involved?”
“The other houses won’t allow the Väränj to siege the city of the standing prince… no matter what the provocation. If the Väränj succeed in taking down the sitting grand prince, what’s to stop them from taking down the next?” He shook his head, staring in the darkness, and his voice grew more hollow and cold with every word. “The other houses will aid Rodêk because of this. They’ll start killing Väränj leaders until they find one willing to submit, swear fealty, and… and everything goes back to the way it was before.”
“Then it was all for nothing,” she said. “The Väränj burned my home for nothing.”
“Battles between nobles are always for nothing,” he replied. “But the people of this land are the ones who suffer for it.”
She snorted in disgust. “And you wonder why I’m leaving?”
He looked at her. “Have I ever said I wondered?”
No, he hadn’t, and she glanced away.
“In truth, none of that matters for us,” he continued. “What does matters is those Väränj have a large supply tent.”
She turned her gaze back to his face. “How large?”
“Big enough for me to slip in the back without being seen… if you can distract the guards.”
It took a moment for his words to sink in, and then she sputtered, “Distract? How in seven hells am I supposed to do that?”
Milôs smiled for the first time since she’d met him, exposing white teeth, and he suddenly looked as young as Jan.
“No matter how brutal soldiers are when ordered to attack,” he said, “in camp, they long for distraction… any distraction. With the Äntes, I saw scores of women welcomed into a camp, and none were threatened or abused. The men were too glad to see them.”
Bieja exhaled sharply and made a fist. “What are you saying? That I should go swinging my hips like some skirt-swishing tart into a Väränj camp?”
He held up one hand. “No. Not all the women who came through the Äntes encampments were… like that. Some were singers, players, gamesters and fortunetellers… and some were just trying to earn a bit of coin or food by offering to launder clothing. They were all most welcome by soldiers far from home. Though you’re a bit pale, you look somewhat like my people. You could offer to read a few palms and tell them some tales of their futures.”
“Me? Tell fortunes? You’re the Móndyalítko. Why don’t you do the distracting, and I’ll do the sneaking?”
“Because I’m an able bodied man, and they’d conscript me on sight!” Before she could argue, he pressed on. “Your voice and expressions will hold their attention—with a little effort. Trust me. When you speak, people listen.”
That sounded like a compliment, but she wouldn’t be flattered. “I don’t have the first inkling how to tell a fortune… especially to no torch-throwing, murdering Väränj brigands.”
His smile vanished. “Well, you cannot live on rabbits all the way to the border.”
Sometimes, he could be as moody as her, or maybe she just had that effect on people.
“I have to get into that supply tent,” he said. “So you have to distract the guards and keep them out front. Can you think of a better way?”
In the moment, she couldn’t.
· · · · ·
Bieja crept beside Milôs to the edge of the tree line. She had tied their canvas tent to her back and dragged the burlap sack with their few belongings. Together, they looked out over an open field into the Väränj encampment.
Only four tents had been set up, one larger than the others. Most of the men slept on the open ground, and there were numerous campfires lighting up the night.
“There,” he said, pointing to the largest tent. “Give me enough time to get around back, and then distract the guards… and I don’t care how you do it.”
She scowled at him, hoping he was right about these soldiers not trying anything to give her a reason to thump them. Really, just how long had he been conscripted, and how much time had he spent in an Äntes camp?
But as she watched him slip away, her thoughts turned back to the other problem. No matter what Milôs had said about her, she couldn’t see herself telling anyone wild tales of good fortune. That took a mix of flattery and bold-faced lies, neither of which came naturally to her. Perhaps she could offer to do some laundry… and then throw a raging fit over what they offered to pay her?
That was more like it. She could manage that.
However, even the notion of speaking to any Väränj was almost more than she could stomach, but she knew she’d better think of something quick.
A tall man stepped out of one of the other tents. He was cleaner than the others, and his hair was combed. The soldiers before the bigger supply tent showed him respect, standing upright with sharp nods, and Bieja remembered what Milôs had said about there being two captains here.
The tall one looked about a moment longer, ducked back inside, and Bieja spotted a small, unattended campfire beside that tent. That gave her a notion.
Slipping through the trees, she got as close to the captain’s tent as she could, though it was still a good twenty paces out from the trees. She took out her dull kitchen knife and cut a piece off the canvas tent. Then she cut a thinner strip and used it to tie the bigger piece around the head of a small branch she found lying on the ground. Pouring the remaining cooking oil over the branch’s wrapped end, she had herself a makeshift torch.
When the path was clear of any soldiers, she took a breath and hurried from the trees as quickly as her stout legs could carry her. She tried to stay low in the dark as she rushed to the unattended campfire, lit her torch, and tossed it at the side of the captain’s tent.
Oh, that felt so good.
To her astonishment, the tent burst into flames far faster than she’d thought it would. She dashed back for the tree line and nearly dove into a bush, hoping that no one had spotted her.
Within a few breaths, shouts exploded in the camp, and she saw men running for the flaming tent from all directions. Quite a commotion followed as futile buckets of water were thrown, and Bieja couldn’t help a vicious little smile in the darkness.
“We’ll see how you like your having home burned,” she whispered, wishing she could say it to the captain’s face.
She lay there in the dark, hidden by heavy brush, watching the tent burn, until a soft voice sounded behind her.
“It’s me.”
Jumping slightly, she turned to see Milôs crouched beside a tree behind her. “How did you find me?” she whispered, crawling back toward him.
“You have a distinct scent, like turnips and salt.”
Bieja lost all her glee as she hissed at him, “Don’t you say a word about me setting that tent ablaze! I’m no fortune-teller or panderer, and I couldn’t think of anything else!”
His dark eyes widened in surprise. “Scold you? No… setting a captain’s tent on fire was good thinking. I wouldn’t
have thought of that.” He held up a bag tall enough that it would reach his thigh when he stood. “Come and look at this, Bieja. We’re well stocked now.”
She crawled closer and peeked in the bag’s top, but it was too dark to see inside.
“Jerked beef, smoked trout, lentils and onions,” he began, “more tea, flour, and cooking oil. I even stole a jar of honey and some oatcakes.”
Bieja’s anger faded at the realization of a successful—though small—raid on a camp of butchering Väränj soldiers. A moon ago, had someone told her she’d be crouched in an unfamiliar forest with a shape-shifting Móndyalítko after raiding supplies, she’d have boxed such a liar upside the head.
“Do we have enough food now?” she asked, still uncertain how many days it was to the border. Milôs hadn’t been able to gauge their distance so far, as he was unsure what they might encounter along the way.
But he nodded. “Yes.”
“All right then,” she whispered.
· · · · ·
The following morning, Milôs told her they couldn’t travel by the road for a while.
“Why not?” she asked, more from curiosity than disagreement.
“We’re getting too close to Enêmûsk, and that’s where all the fighting will take place. There’ll be too many soldiers on the road. We have to circle wide to the south around the city.”
And so, they left the open road and struggled through the trees and brush yet again. For all his earlier threats about her keeping up, he let her set the pace this time. They encountered no one in the forest, and that night, as they made camp up a hill from a gurgling steam, he looked up at the stars, appearing relieved.
“We’ll be all right. By late tomorrow, we can risk the roads again.”
They ate well that night on a supper of beef jerky, oatcakes, and a pot of lentils boiled with onions.
Bieja looked up at the stars in some wonder that they were the same ones she’d seen for well over forty years from outside her little hut in Chemestúk. They seemed so different here.
“I’m sorry I’m keeping you from your family,” she said quietly to Milôs, who sat on the other side of the campfire. “But I have to reach Miiska.”
He took a bite of jerky and didn’t answer. But she hadn’t expected him to. He would not openly forgive her, nor say anything to help ease her conscience, and she couldn’t blame him.
· · · · ·
Then next morning, Bieja rose stiff and aching, rubbing the small of her back as she stood up.
“I’ll go and fetch some water for our tea.”
Rubbing his eyes, Milôs nodded. “I’ll get a fire started.”
As they had no bucket, she picked up the cooking pot and headed down a hill for the gurgling creek below their camp among the trees. As well as being stiff, she felt especially grimy this morning, and she glanced back over her shoulder and upslope, gauging the distance from the camp.
Upon reaching the creek, she decided to head downstream a little ways—so she might have some privacy to wash a bit more thoroughly. Setting the cooking pot down, she knelt by the water and rolled up her sleeves… debating on removing her dress for a more proper bath. But the morning was chilly, and she decided to just attempt to wash up while clothed.
The cold water felt surprisingly good after its first shock. She scrubbed her face with her hands as her thoughts—her imaginings—drifted to notions of living on the edge of an actual ocean, which she’d never seen in her life, and helping to run a tavern of all things. The idea had begun to appeal to her more and more. Of course, her real goal was to reunite with Magiere, so that her beloved niece—her only kin—would know she hadn’t perished in another pointless civil war.
Still scrubbing her face, she froze when a branch cracked behind her.
Milôs didn’t step on branches when he moved in the forest.
Slowly, she turned her head to look behind herself, and her heart skipped a beat.
Three filthy, ragged, and starved-looking men were standing ten paces upstream, staring at her. They wore no colors, so Bieja could only guess they were the lowest form of conscripts, not even worthy of a tabard by the side who’d conscripted them. Now… they were escaped deserters.
She cursed herself for not having brought her dull knife, but she stood up and tried to make her voice sound light—which was difficult for her as she was naturally gruff.
“Plenty of water here, boys,” she said. “Come have a drink.”
Her words were intended to make herself sound friendly, like someone from their own villages—who should not be attacked. But again, sounding friendly was not one of her strengths.
Not one of them even acknowledged she’d spoken.
“She ain’t got food,” the shortest one said, wiping his nose with a dirty sleeve.
“She’s got a cook pot,” another said, and Bieja noticed he was missing his left hand.
“So she’s gotta have food somewhere.”
The one standing furthest away was tall and boney. His eyes looked almost dead, as if he’d stopped feeling anything anymore.
“See what she’s got inside her dress,” that one said. “Women always hide anything of worth inside their dresses.”
Bieja drew a quiet breath through her nose with furtive glance among the trio for any sign of weapons. She had Leesil’s letter and the six silver sovereigns stashed inside her bodice, and she wasn’t giving those up to anyone.
As the shortest man took a step, she dropped to a crouch and grabbed a sharp heavy rock. When he saw she was going to fight, he dashed at her, grabbing for her arm. She sidestepped and then slammed into him with all her weight, knocking him into the stream. But before she bashed him over the head, the tall boney one grabbed her from behind.
The one-handed man ran in and gripped the neckline of her dress.
“Get off me!” she shouted, trying to shove back against the one behind her.
A sudden low growl made the boney one behind her stiffen, but the one-handed man still pulled down on her bodice, trying to tear the front of her dress. And then he was gone amid snarls and the blur of a brown bulk.
Over the splash in the creek, Bieja heard a scream and savage snarls before she could even look. On the creek’s other side, a huge wolf stood over the motionless man lying with his feet in the running water… his throat bloodied and torn open while his eyes were wide, unblinking as they stared up toward the sky.
“What in the…” whispered the tall man behind Bieja
He let go of her and scrambled backward. The wolf turned and snarled, drawing its jowls back to expose long canine teeth.
The short man in the stream struggled to get up, his expression panicked. “Run!” he shouted, scrambling backward and then fleeing.
In the same instant, the wolf lunged at the tall man so fast Bieja could barely see it move.
“Milôs, no!” she yelled, “There’s no need—”
It was too late; he leaped onto the back of the tall deserter, knocking the man face first into the water. The choking and splashing of the man ended and the creek running by Bieja’s feet began to turn red. The wolf lunged off the dead body to go after the third man.
“Milôs! Stop!” she shouted.
This time, the wolf stalled, half turning in middle of the stream to look back at her.
“Let him go,” she ordered, dropping her stone. “They were just looking for food.”
With a final growl, the wolf crouched in the water and its fur began to recede. Black hair sprouted from its head, and its shoulders began to widen. A breath later, she stared at Milôs—his expression half-mad. But as he looked at—saw—her, the rage on his face vanished was replaced by fear. Stark naked, he ran back to her with his jaw and mouth still covered in blood.
“Are you are all right?” he rushed to ask, exposing more blood in his teeth. “Did they hurt you?”
His manner—and lack of clothing—caught her off guard.
“I’m all right,” she answered,
glancing once at the bodies. “More than I can say for them.”
It sounded judgmental, even to her, but did he have to kill them?
A muscle of his jaw twitched. “They’d have slit your throat for anything you carried.”
They might have.
“Where are your clothes?” she asked.
He didn’t answer and just crouched at the stream. She looked away as he began washing off and spitting out all the blood. Only as they headed back up the hill did she think about the expression on his face after he’d turned back into a man. He’d been in a genuine panic at the idea of her being hurt. Not at all like some obligated, indebted guardian.
Instead of making her feel better, that only made her feel worse.
· · · · ·
Two days later, they crossed the border from Droevinka into Belaski. In short order, the whole world seemed to change. The roads were smooth and well maintained, and Milôs no longer shooed her into the brush if he heard someone coming. In part, she couldn’t believe she’d made it this far… that she’d left her homeland and reached a new country.
In the late afternoon, they walked into a small town with neat rows of wooden dwellings and shops and a bustling market square. A few of the townsfolk going about their business glanced her way—with a brief pause—and Bieja realized how dirty and bedraggled she and Milôs must look.
Milôs, however, didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he pointed to a white two-story building.
“That looks like an inn, so we’ll sleep indoors tonight. If you give me one of the sovereigns, I’ll get you settled and then find a stable to bargain for a pair of horses. That way, we’ll reach the coast faster.”
Though she trusted him now, Bieja didn’t relish the idea of letting anyone bargain with the money Leesil had given her. “Why can’t I buy the horses?” she asked.
“Because you don’t speak the language.”
She blink once and then stared at him. Of course she’d known people spoke a different language here, but she’d never given it much thought until now.
“And you do?” she asked.