by A. C. Cobble
Another furious set of swings and Ben realized that if he kept fighting defensively, it was only a matter of time before he made a mistake or stumbled. Then he’d be finished. One blow from the heavy weapon was all it would take. That thing could cleave him in two.
Ben had landed several light strikes on the hunter, but few of them were strong enough to dent his armor, much less cut through and seriously injure the man. Thinking quickly, Ben waited until the hunter swung again, stepping forward onto his good leg.
Ben met the blow with this sword, tangling their weapons. Then he darted inside the man’s guard and stuck his leg behind the hunter’s. Using his leg to hold the man close, and his body to prevent the man from drawing his axe back, Ben placed the edge of his longsword on the hunter’s neck and sliced. The blade cut through flesh and a fountain of blood poured down the front of the black plate armor.
Ben collapsed onto his rear and the man crashed down next to him. Ben’s head throbbed where the butt of the battle axe had smashed against his skull. He touched his fingers to the wound and they came away bloody, but not so bloody as to kill him. He grunted. There was a time when the primary evaluation of an injury wasn’t whether or not it was fatal.
Ben struggled to his feet and shuffled over to where Amelie was lying on her back. She was covered with cuts and abrasions. Blood striped her face like the feral jungle cats he’d seen in the Stranger’s Market in Fabrizo. He could immediately tell it wasn’t her facial injuries that were bothering her. She was griping her left shoulder and her eyes were closed tight. Her breaths were coming through gritted teeth, slow and deep.
She mumbled, “You kill him? I think he broke my collarbone.”
“I did,” replied Ben. “Do you think you can move? I don’t want to stick around here longer than we have to in case there are more of them.”
“If I get to my feet, I think I can walk. I won’t be able to get far.”
“I know,” Ben responded. “We have to get away from here though.”
Ben carefully helped her to her feet, grimacing every time he saw it was causing more pain. But she had to get up. She couldn’t lie in the snow forever.
He slid her weapons into their sheaths then left her side to collect their pack. When he returned, he saw Amelie was staring at the woman hunter. The woman was attempting to drag herself back into the forest toward the small town they’d left earlier that day. She could only use one arm and her head was titled at an odd angle.
“I don’t think we should let her leave,” remarked Amelie, still clasping her broken bone.
Ben frowned. “She’s pretty badly injured. I think she’ll die on her own.”
The blond huntresses overheard them and looked back, scowling. The left half of her pretty face was covered in a mask of blood. She didn’t say anything.
“She may die on her own,” allowed Amelie, “but she may not. We can’t risk it, Ben. If she survives, she’ll tell others where to find us.”
Ben drew his longsword and stalked over to the woman. Amelie came behind him. The woman hid her pain well, but he saw the fear lurking behind her steely glare. Her leathers, wet from blood, reflected the moonlight. Ben’s longsword wavered in his grip.
“Amelie, I’ve never killed a woman,” he admitted. “I’m not sure if I can.”
“She would have killed you,” reminded Amelie, “and me. When you attacked her, you saved my life. Ben, she was heartbeats away from bashing my head in.”
Ben stood over the woman, motionless.
Finally, Amelie suggested, “Ben, give me your longsword.”
He looked back at her and saw she was holding out her hand. He sighed. “Your rapier is lighter. It will be easier for you to use with your shoulder.”
“Help me draw it.”
“You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
She nodded tersely.
Ben sheathed his sword and drew hers. He handed it to her and she took it in her good hand. Ben stepped back and closed his eyes, sick at what they were going to do.
“You can run, Lady Amelie,” snarled the woman, “but there will be more like us. The Veil has become personally interested in you. It’s just a matter of time. You are a dead woman.”
“Not as dead as you.”
With his eyes closed, Ben heard Amelie grunt and then the sound of a blade puncturing meat. The woman gasped once, and her breath let out in a wheeze.
Amelie nudged him and said, “It’s done. Let’s go.”
Walk in the Snow
They travelled through the forest, slipping and stumbling along the snow-covered road. Amelie was wincing and gasping in pain at every step. Ben knew they would have to stop soon. She had to rest. He was amazed she’d been able to continue as long as she had.
Two bells after they left the scene of the fight, he saw a tall rock jutting out of the forest floor. It leaned over slightly, and underneath the overhang, the ground looked relatively clear. He steered Amelie to it. She followed, uncomplaining. After sitting her down, he scrambled about, pulling out a water skin for her and looking for dry wood.
“I don’t think I can do the heat transfer,” she said with a groan.
“I know. I know. I’ll get it figured out.”
He found some dry sticks at the base of the rock and arranged them into a neat pile. He stacked damp wood around them, hoping it would cook out the moisture before he needed to stick them into the fire. Luckily, they’d bought flint and steel back in the town and he was able to get a small fire going in short order. He put water on to boil and pulled out hard biscuits and salted pork.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to wait for me to cook a proper meal?” he asked.
She nodded curtly.
When the water got warm, he dunked a cloth into it and dabbed at the blood on Amelie’s face. The hilt of the woman’s swords had battered her, but the injuries appeared superficial.
“Am I still going to be pretty?” Amelie attempted some humor but winced as he pressed the cloth against one of the cuts.
“You’ll always be pretty,” he said with a smile.
He earned a doubtful snort in return.
“Seriously, I think you will heal,” he offered. “You’re going to be black and blue for a week or two, but I don’t think you need stitches. Under the blood, it doesn’t look that bad.”
“It feels bad,” she moaned.
“I’m more worried about your shoulder,” Ben replied. “We need to find a place you can rest for a few days. Your collarbone is cracked. If you try to hike like that, it won’t heal properly.”
“I agree,” she acknowledged through gritted teeth. “Meredith had a similar injury from falling off her horse when we were girls. She had the best physic in Issen treating her and still didn’t leave her room for a week. We’re out in the middle of nowhere though, and we can’t go back to that town.”
Ben kept wiping blood off his friend’s face. He knew they had to stop, but she was right, where?
***
The next morning came early. The bitter cold of the northern winter seeped under their heavy cloaks and the fire had died down to the point it did nothing to fight back the chill. Amelie’s shoulder had swollen during their few bells of fitful rest and she could barely lift her arm. Ben sliced up a spare shirt and tied it into a sloppy, makeshift sling.
“It’s not perfect,” he muttered, “but we have to keep your arm and shoulder stable.”
She sat with unshed tears glistening in the corner of her eyes. Amelie was tough, but hiking through the snow with a broken bone wasn’t going to work.
“We’ll stop at the next town,” declared Ben.
She nodded silently. Ben made a hasty porridge for them and cleaned up the dishes after they ate. He helped Amelie to her feet, trying to avoid putting any strain on her shoulder.
She had split lips, a swollen eye, and cuts on her cheekbone and forehead. Underneath the injuries, a hard determination shone through. She’d been battered and knocked down
, her face was nearly bashed in, but the huntress hadn’t damaged the thing that made her strong. Amelie had the will to carry on until they reached the end of their journey.
He met her eyes and smiled.
“What?” she mumbled through puffy, swollen lips.
“I was just thinking how lucky I am to have you with me on this.”
“You think you’re lucky to have me?” she asked skeptically. “Since we met in Farview, you’ve always been the one helping me. Fighting Rishram, bringing me out of the Sanctuary, knocking that bitch off me yesterday before she cracked my skull. Ben, you saved my life again.”
“I guess you’re right,” he agreed impishly. “Now that you mention it, I think you owe me. If I remember correctly, after that fight with Rishram, I got a kiss.”
Amelie chortled then groaned, raising her hand to her shoulder. “We’ll see about that. For now, you’re still on the job. Find us somewhere warm and dry.”
***
They shuffled along the road at a snail’s pace. Amelie slid one foot in front of the other, trying to walk smoothly and avoid jolts to her shoulder. She was holding it tightly now. Ben could tell she wouldn’t last much longer. At this rate, if the spacing between towns held up, they’d be traveling three days before they found the next one.
He started looking for another rock or stand of trees that would provide shelter when he heard a familiar sound. A steady thumping echoed through the woods.
Amelie looked up when she heard it too. “Chopping?”
He nodded. “The question is, is it friends or foe?”
“Maybe a better question,” she replied dryly, “does it matter?”
He shrugged. She was right. They were desperate.
As they drew closer, the chopping paused. Ben waited, picturing the next bit in his head. Heartbeats later, a crash sounded and birds scattered, flapping furiously to circle their nests before coming back, assured there was no threat.
“What was that?” asked Amelie.
“A tree falling,” responded Ben. “It sounds like a solitary woodsman.”
They trudged toward the sound of the fallen tree, ears perked for any hint of danger.
“Here,” said Ben, gesturing to a narrow track that led off the main road. It was covered in deep, unbroken snow. Along the path though, he could see stubbed branches of trees where someone kept it clear. He walked ahead, stomping the snow down to blaze a trail for Amelie. She shuffled along behind him.
The narrow track led a quarter league deeper into the woods before they finally entered a clearing. In the center sat a small cottage. Its walls were rough timber and a tendril of smoke drifted out of a chimney. Behind the cottage, Ben could see the edges of a chicken coop, a small shed, and what was likely a patch for a vegetable garden when it wasn’t covered in snow.
“Seems homey,” remarked Amelie.
“It is,” called out a voice from behind them. “It is my home.”
They turned and saw a man bundled in a thick motley of furs. A bristly red beard nearly covered his face. He carried a tall wood axe which he was gripping tightly.
“We mean no harm,” said Ben. He gestured to Amelie. “My friend is injured and we need a place to rest.”
The woodsman frowned. “Mintota is a day’s walk west. Start now and you can be there by mid-day tomorrow.”
Ben shook his head. “She has a broken bone. That is too far.”
Shifting his weight, the man adjusted his grip on the axe. “This is my home, I said. It is not an inn.”
“We understand that,” acknowledged Ben, “but we desperately need help. We don’t have much coin, but we are willing to barter. Please, you seem like a good man. My friend needs your help.”
Peering at Amelie, the woodman took a step forward. “You do that to her?” he growled, gesturing to her battered face.
“Bandits,” answered Amelie. “We were set upon by bandits. We got away but not before they did this to me. They broke my shoulder too.”
“There are no bandits around here lass,” rumbled the woodsman. He took another step forward and raised his axe with both hands. “I have a daughter whose husband liked to rough her up. I couldn’t stand by and watch that kind of thing. Wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. Made sure that insolent pup couldn’t live with it either.”
Ben shifted, clearing the hilt of his longsword.
“Oh, come on now!” exclaimed Amelie, wincing in regret as she tried and failed to raise her arm. “Sir, if you’re willing to fight my friend because you think I was abused, then surely you’re willing to share your cottage for a few days to help me heal. I promise you, Ben did not do this to me. It was a woman, actually. Please, we need your help.”
“A woman?” asked the man, curiously.
“It’s a long story,” replied Amelie tartly. “One I’d be happy to tell you, unless of course, I need to seek shelter elsewhere in this lonely and deserted wood.”
“Aye, lass, I get your point.” The man stomped toward his cottage and waved for them to follow. “I’ll feed you and let you stay tonight, but this time of year the larder isn’t very full. We’ll talk tomorrow about barter.”
***
The fire in the hearth was low, just glowing embers, but the sturdy cottage retained a comfortable heat. The woodsman stuck a pair of logs onto the fire and stripped off his outer layer of furs. Ben helped Amelie sit down in the lone chair in the room and started adjusting her sling. He gently probed around the break, checking to see if the swelling had gone down.
“Broken collarbone, you said?” growled the man.
Ben nodded.
“She’ll need to rest,” suggested the gruff woodsman. “Two or three weeks, minimum.”
Ben looked at the man.
“Right.” The woodsman coughed, rubbing at his bristly beard. “Like I said, we’ll work out something tomorrow. Tonight, I’ll cook us up a chicken and some potatoes. I’ll be out back plucking the bird for half a bell. I gotta walk away from the henhouse so I don’t disturb the others. Take your time freshening up. I keep the chickens mostly for the eggs, but it’s a special occasion, so I don’t mind having a chicken for supper. Afterward, you two can rest. I’ll let you share the bed and I’ll sleep by the fire. I do that sometimes when it’s cold. The bed’s a bit drafty, to be honest, but it’ll be better for your friend.”
Ben stuck out his hand, “Thanks for your help.”
The man took it and gripped firmly. His hand was covered in rough callouses from the wood axe.
Ben had an idea.
“The name is Benjamin Ashwood, but you can call me Ben.”
“Ashwood?” asked the woodsman, still gripping Ben’s hand.
“My father was a woodsman. He taught me a bit of the trade.”
“That’s good to hear, Ben,” replied the man, his brows knitting. “My name is Creegan. I do a bit of logging myself.”
“Maybe I can help you?” suggested Ben.
“Maybe. For now, I recommend you tend to your friend.” Creegan nodded at Amelie, who seemed to have fallen asleep in the chair. “I’ll be back with that chicken.”
By the time Creegan returned with the freshly plucked fowl, Ben had moved Amelie to the bed and arranged her as comfortably as he could. He’d stuffed some of their spare clothing around her so she wouldn’t move on her shoulder in her sleep. She was snoring softly. He’d looked over the cuts and scrapes on her face, but there was nothing he could do for that. The woman hunter had pounded her hard with the hilts of her swords. Some of the cuts might scar, but they would be small ones.
The gruff woodsman observed what he’d done then nodded appreciatively toward Ben.
“I told you about my daughter,” the man said. “I can’t stand to see a woman treated like that. Nothing in this world upsets me more. If I thought you’d done that…”
Ben started to speak but Creegan interrupted him.
“I know you didn’t do it, boy. I can see how gently you’re treating her, a
nd I don’t see any guilt. My son-in-law was gentle too, but the guilt was always there, hovering like a ghost. It just made it worse, I think. He felt guilty, he’d blame it on my girl, that’d make him mad again, and the cycle would continue.”
Creegan shuffled over to his hearth and stuck a spit through the chicken. He dropped a few potatoes at the edge of the fire and swung the plucked bird over the heat. Before long, the smell of roasting chicken filled the small space.
“I’m not much of a cook,” admitted the woodsman. “I hope you aren’t picky.”
Ben shook his head. “We’ve been travelling hard the last week and haven’t had much to eat. I wasn’t far from eating my boot. Your chicken can’t be any worse than my boot. ”
Creegan shrugged. “Maybe not.”
The man sat down in his chair and Ben perched on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb Amelie. He’d wake her it when it was time to eat.
“Tell me, Master Ashwood,” inquired Creegan, “what do you know about logging?”
Ben smiled. Every boy who grew up in Farview knew a bit about logging. From his father and from Alistair, Ben knew just about all there was to know.
“I grew up on the south side of these mountains,” he started. He proceeded to tell Creegan about his childhood and the days he spent cutting down trees and hauling them down to the mill. By the time he got to how he lived in the mill and spoke to the mill workers daily, the woodsman was nodding. A friendly smile was peeking through his overgrown beard.
***
The next morning, Ben stared up at a towering tree, intimidated by its majestic presence. It wasn’t that the tree was taller than others in the forest, or wider, or any other measurement he could think of to describe an impressive tree. It was just magnificent, like it was the tree, and all of the others were pretending to be it. This was the original specimen. What a tree should be.
“What is it?” asked Ben, gazing up at the tree in awe.
The grizzled woodsman looked at him and remarked, “It’s a tree.”
Ben glanced at the man. “It’s not like any tree I’ve seen before. It has the same braches and leaves, but it’s different.”