by A. C. Cobble
Ben grimaced. He’d feel naked without his longsword, but Amelie was right. Anything they could do to distance themselves from Lord James’ description would be worth trying.
They slept again on the dusty wooden floor. At first light, they left.
Ben sat on the smooth wooden bench at the front of the cart. The donkey plodded along ahead of him and the iron-bound wheels bounced over the muddy streets of Amum. Amelie was inside, crouched down and peering out small windows that dotted the walls of the cart.
Crisp morning sunlight illuminated the city. It had just begun to stir. They were joined in the streets by shopkeepers who were opening up for the day, baker’s boys who were darting by them delivering fresh loaves, and a handful of other wagons rolling along. Ben was glad to see they weren’t the only ones venturing out on the road.
Amelie whispered to him from a small opening behind his seat, “They must have waited a day after the storm, making sure the roads had time to dry before they left.”
Ben nodded then realized she couldn’t see it. He rapped on the seat in acknowledgement. It wouldn’t look right if he replied to her. To any observers, it would appear he was talking to himself.
Ben shook the harness, trying to encourage the donkey to pick up its pace. He steered their cart behind a wagon that had just joined the early morning throng. It was stacked with bales of the tough plains grass that was found all around the city of Amum. The grass had been dried, bound tightly, and loaded high in the wagon. A treated canvass tarp was laid across the top and cinched tight. Ben couldn’t fathom what someone would want with bundles of dried grass. The wagon was going the right way though, and that was all he cared about.
He followed close behind as they approached the eastern gate of the city. Wagons queued up, waiting to roll through the narrow gate. Travelers on foot passed them, ducking and weaving through the slower-moving commercial traffic. Horses were rare, and the only ones Ben saw were pulling heavy carts stacked with swords and other paraphernalia for war, products of the smithies that lined the north side of town. Donkeys or oxen pulled the other wagons.
At the gate, Ben held his breath and tensed. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head and scrunched down, trying to hide his height and the shape of his body. The guards barely looked at him. They were clustered around a pitiful fire that gave off the earthy scent of burning buffalo dung.
A traveler trotted past Ben. A sword hung at his side and he jingled with the sound of chainmail underneath a thick cloak.
The guards glanced at the man as he hurried out of the gate, but none made a move to stop or question him. The traveler had scruffy blond hair and was a good hand shorter than Ben. Not a close enough match to interest soldiers that early in the morning.
None of them even gave a second look to the peddler’s cart.
They rolled smoothly into the fresh, open air outside of the city. Plains extended out in front of them. The scent of the fires drifted away and Ben kept the donkey at a steady pace, following the wagon full of dried grass.
A few empty wagons took the opportunity of the open space to roll by him on the grass, but most plodded along the road, keeping the pace of whoever was in front. Ben imagined them to be a steady stream of ants mindlessly crawling across the plain, rolling in the well-worn wheel ruts of the wagons that came before.
At midday, Ben heard a bang behind him and looked back to see Amelie’s head poke up over the top of the cart. She looked around then climbed the rest of the way out and up the ladder, stepping off onto the flat roof. From the roof, she looked up the road then back behind them before climbing down to the front and sitting next to Ben.
“There’s not much to see,” she remarked.
Ben nodded and flapped the donkey’s harness listlessly. He did it more to keep the animal awake than to coax any speed out of it.
“Do you think it’s safe for me to ride up here?” she asked.
“Not as safe as riding down below,” replied Ben.
“I’ll stay for a few minutes before going back.” Amelie looped her arm under Ben’s and laid her head down on his shoulder. “I need the fresh air.”
Ben kept one hand on the harness and laid the other on Amelie’s.
That night, Ben pulled off on the side of the road. A long string of wagons were each spaced several hundred paces apart. The line continued down the road and out of Ben’s sight. Ahead of them, he could see a merchant train had paused early. In the fading evening light, he saw half a dozen wagons and a score of men meandering about, preparing the camp.
When the cart pulled to a stop, Amelie slipped out of the back. She pulled a rough burlap bag off the side and gestured for Ben to take it. He wrinkled his nose but did as she asked. It was full of dried buffalo dung. They’d found it in Samuel’s warehouse. On the plains, there was no other fuel.
Ben cut a chunk of turf out of the ground and built a pyramid of the dung. He sparked it alight and moved aside as Amelie returned with a tripod, an iron pot, a salted ham, dried rice, and dark red beans.
“Get used to this,” she muttered. “Our good friend Samuel kept a variety of merchandise in that warehouse but hardly any food.”
Ben sat on the grass and grinned. “Amum is behind us and we’ve got plenty of open road ahead. It could be worse.”
Amelie poured half her water bottle in the pot then arranged the tripod to straddle the dung fire. She hung the pot over it and sat down next to Ben.
“It could be worse,” she agreed. She dug in her cloak and pulled something out. “I found a surprise for you.”
Ben accepted the object from her and saw it was a palm-sized, leather-wrapped flask. He shook it and was pleased to hear it was almost full. After unstoppering the flask, he sniffed at it. A warm, pleasant tingle filled his nostrils. He sipped tentatively at the liquid, a little worried about anything the unscrupulous Samuel carried. It filled his mouth with a warm burn, smoke, spices, and a hint of vanilla.
Ben sighed appreciatively. “This is good stuff.”
He offered the flask to Amelie but she declined. “I had enough two nights ago. Even after a day of resting in that cart, I still feel a little woozy.”
Ben grinned. “We’re going to have to work on that. A proper lady on the run, a mage-in-training, should be able to handle her drink.”
Amelie snorted and slapped Ben on the arm. “This is coming from the blademaster-in-training who was hung over after the first time I met him in Farview, at Whitehall, at Kirksbane, probably countless times in the City, Free State—”
“Okay, okay!” interrupted Ben. “I surrender.”
Amelie grinned back at him.
“I’d forgotten about some of that,” added Ben wistfully. “Do you remember that day in the City when you and Meghan got released early? You found me at Mathias’ tavern and we spent the entire day exploring. We went up in the towers, saw the sculpture park…”
“Do you think we’ll ever have another day like that?” asked Amelie.
Ben shrugged.
They sat silently until the water in the pot began to boil. Amelie poured two handfuls of rice and two handfuls of beans in. She took out a belt knife and started slicing the salted ham into chunks.
Later, after the sun sank below the rolling hills of the plains, a crisp, half-moon rose above the empty landscape. They crawled into the cramped wagon. Amelie had arranged the blankets and lone pillow as best she was able. Ben wedged himself next to her on the narrow bed. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly.
Amelie titled her head and planted a warm kiss on his lips. Not the hungry kiss she’d given him two nights before. This was simple, sweet.
Before Ben could say anything, she rolled over, facing away from him. She pulled his arms tight around her. Within several dozen breaths, she was sleeping.
***
Ben was jolted awake.
The sound of screams cut through the silence of the night. It was pitch black inside the cart, but he was able to find h
is longsword in heartbeats. They’d laid it across a cabinet above his head. He gripped the wire hilt and lurched to the wagon door.
Amelie was stirring in the bed behind him, still trying to figure out what was happening. Ben burst out the door, leaping to land barefoot in the tall plains grass. The cold sent a shock through his body, but he remained focused, channeling his energy into his senses, feeling the air around him, scanning the moonlit landscape, listening for anything nearby.
Nothing. There was nothing nearby, but several hundred paces up the road, at the merchant train, he saw the source of the screams. Torches were waving wildly as frantic men ran around the campsite. From the distance, Ben couldn’t see the details, but he didn’t need to. The cold blast of air to his face when he jumped from the wagon had woken him fully. He recognized those shrieks. Demon. He studied the activity and listened closely.
From the door of the cart, Amelie called to him, “What is it?”
“Demon,” answered Ben. “It was a demon.”
“Should we go help?”
“I don’t think they need it anymore,” replied Ben.
The tone of the outcries had changed. Instead of screams, he now heard shouts. The raw panic was gone. He couldn’t hear what the men were saying, but he could guess. They were shouting to their friends, checking to see who was alive and who was not.
“It must have been just one,” murmured Ben.
A shiver swept through his body and he noticed how cold his bare feet were. Gritting his teeth and wrapping his arms around his shoulders, he tried to retain some warmth as he went to check on the donkey. It stood where they’d tethered it, staring placidly at him. Ben blinked at the animal. He’d expected it to be jerking at the rope or fallen over from a terror-induced heart attack. Instead, it looked just as serene as it did tied behind Samuel’s warehouse or plodding along the road.
Ben shrugged and returned to the back of the wagon. “Let’s go inside,” he suggested, “and from now on, we bar the door when we sleep.”
***
The next morning, Ben gazed grimly at the carnage from the night before. The six wagons in the merchant train were clustered tightly together. A pile of corpses rested unburied a dozen paces off the road. The surviving men were rearranging the cargo in their wagons. They didn’t have the men or the animals anymore to pull all of it, Ben guessed.
“Need help?” he called.
An older man, tired and worn from decades on the road, answered, “Not anymore, son, not anymore.”
Ben nodded and they rolled past.
They rolled for days. Ben sat up front, watching the shift in the donkey’s haunches as it marched along. Amelie, secreted in the cabin of the wagon, studied the devices they’d taken from Samuel’s warehouse.
At night, they would lie close together. Amelie didn’t kiss him again, and Ben didn’t press it. He ached for the drunken moment they shared in Amum, but he didn’t want to push Amelie. She’d lost her father. She was in constant fear of the Sanctuary, the Coalition, hunters, mages, demons, and on and on. Her kiss and her body were nearly all he could think about during the cold windy days driving the cart. At night, pressed against her warmth, he found himself tightly closing his eyes and praying for sleep to release him from the sweet torture of lying so close to her.
After a week on the road, with nothing but passing travelers to break the monotony of the plains, he nearly shot up out of his seat when he saw a stand of trees. They were small and bent from the constant pressure of the wind, but they were trees, the first ones he’d seen since before Amum.
Small clumps of trees in the distance became common, not a forest, but at least it was some break in the undulating hills that made up the plains. Near the road, most of the trees had been cut down by travelers. Only stumps remained.
Little towns began to crop up as well. At first, they were not much more than a few farms linked together, but further east, they grew into proper villages that Ben estimated were half the size of Farview. When they approached, Ben kept the wagon rolling. Little children and the occasional hopeful housewife eyed them as they passed, but no one hailed them. These towns were built on a road and were used to strangers.
One evening by a real fire with wood instead of buffalo dung, Amelie suggested, “We’re going to have to stop at one of these places sooner or later.”
“If we stop, we increase the risk of discovery,” challenged Ben.
“If we don’t stop, we’ll eventually raise suspicions,” responded Amelie. “A lot of wagons pass through here, but many of them are carrying weapons from Amum’s forges or other bulk commodities. A little peddler’s cart like ours would stop in at least a few of these villages. Most of our goods are worthless in Irrefort. It’s out here, away from civilization, that a real peddler would make coin off needles and thread.”
Ben frowned. She was right, of course. A peddler who didn’t try to sell a few wares would be suspicious indeed.
“You won’t be able to hide in the cart,” advised Ben.
“We’re over a week away from Amum. Surely they don’t have the resources to track us this far. We’re talking about some minor lord, not the Veil. There is risk in anything we do. I think trying to appear normal is our safest option. Besides, there are some things I’d like to pick up while we’re in town, something to eat aside from salted ham, beans, and rice, for example.”
Ben sighed and dug out the leather-bound flask Amelie had found. He took a quick sip, turned it up, and finished it.
“Maybe we can restock that too,” offered Amelie.
***
The first town they stopped at was a rambling, friendly looking place. It was situated along the banks of a narrow river and crawled up a hill to where a grand, domed building presided. Ben stared at the building curiously. It wasn’t like anything he’d seen in a town this size. It reminded him of a palace, but there were no walls, no guards, so surely not a lord’s keep.
South of the town was row after row of agricultural fields. In the winter, not much was growing, but Ben guessed they produced enough to support most of the plains dwellers to the west. Silos and warehouses were scattered around the fields. It was another oddity Ben took note of. These people weren’t concerned about attacks, or they would have built everything close together. Being so spread out implied that bandits or aggressive neighbors weren’t problems.
At the gates, a pair of guards sat on a rough bench, watching the road and snacking on a loaf of bread and wedge of yellow cheese.
“Reason for entry into Morwith?” called one of the men as Ben brought the cart to a stop.
Ben gestured to the cart. “Passing through. I’ve got small luxury items and household goods. I’ll see if there’s any interest here.”
The guard stood and adjusted his leather jerkin. He didn’t move to the spear propped up against the wall beside him, but he could reach it long before Ben would be able to jump off, get in the back of the wagon, and retrieve his sword.
“Household goods?” asked the guard. “Plates, forks, that kind of thing?”
“Yes, of course,” replied Ben nervously.
“Good,” replied the guard. “Save a set of cutlery, will you? My wife Wanda has been pestering me for ages that she wants a proper set. A spoon is good enough for the slop she cooks, but I ain’t gonna tell her that. Remember, Wanda.”
Ben nodded to the guard and snapped the harness to get the donkey moving again. “I’ll remember, cutlery for Wanda.”
The town of Morwith had broad dirt streets suitable for an agrarian community that had a lot of produce wagons passing through. It was also relatively wealthy. Fresh stucco, thatch, and paint adorned the buildings along the street. It was a sharp contrast to the decrepit buildings in Amum.
As Ben steered the wagon through the streets, a woman poked her head out a window and called to him, “Peddler, you setting up on the green?”
Ben blinked. “Ah, yes, on the green. Give me a bell and I’ll be open for business.”
The woman disappeared back inside.
Ben kept the cart along the main street, hoping that it emptied out into the green. He was frantically trying to recall everything he could about how peddlers operated when they arrived back in Farview. He was also cursing himself for not paying attention when they were loading the cart. He remembered piling up an assortment of goods and stuffing it into various cabinets, drawers, and boxes, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what they put where. At the time, he was thinking only of escape from Amum. He didn’t consider he may need to pull the stuff back out and sell it.
Luckily, the town was small. He didn’t have to circle the place trying to find the green. It was located right in the center of town where the two main streets intersected. The one he was on passed east to west and appeared to carry through traffic. The other street led north to south. From the green, Ben could see it wind its way up the hill to the large domed building he’d seen from outside the walls. To the south, it disappeared out of sight between buildings. He guessed it would eventually lead to the fields he’d spied by the river.
When Ben pulled the cart onto the green, he saw a wagon was already there. A woman was sitting in front of it and banging was coming from behind. As Ben steered closer, he saw the woman was quickly stitching a rough pair of britches. Tinkers, Ben knew their like from Farview. They would travel from town to town and fix things people didn’t have the skill or were too lazy to repair. Harmless folk usually and they wouldn’t mind Ben parking his wagon next to them. Any customers interested in his wares may have items in need of repair also.
Ben drew closer.
The woman eyed him suspiciously.
“Looks like you’ve found a good spot,” called Ben.
“Same spot everyone uses,” responded the woman sharply.
Ben grunted then steered the donkey to a stop, two-dozen paces from the unfriendly woman and her tinker wagon. Amelie peeked her head out then emerged onto the brown, winter grass of the green.