by A. D. Green
Mercy led them and looked formidable, with a cloth wrapped staff across her back and sword at her hip. She sat her horse well, her dark leather cuirass already looking dry. Morten knew should he look behind, that Stama the final member of their party rode as rear guard behind the wagon.
Morten had never learned arms, had had no need as an innkeeper’s son. He had a wooden cosh in his pack but in truth had never used it. When folk got too rowdy at the inn it was because they'd drunk too much and his Da had a way of dealing with them that usually found them outside and stumbling home. He’d only ever seen his Da bring his cosh out once.
Reflecting on his companions Morten felt a bit useless. Even the dogs were more use than he. The older two ranged about the wagon, whilst Nihm’s guarded her. What did he bring? A knife he used to whittle with when he was bored. If they ran into any urak or Grimmers he'd be worse than useless, he'd be a burden.
Despite feeling sorry for himself, Morten found he was excited. He was travelling the road with folk he knew little about. With a girl, a woman, he corrected, who he liked. That she was sick and helpless only made him feel more protective if anything. No, this wasn’t the daily drudge he was used to. This was high adventure.
The wagon rumbled along slow but steady eating up the leagues and Morten found he had plenty of time to think.
His mind drifted to his folks and to earlier that day. Passing through town and out of Riversgate that morning he’d felt a sense of unease. The place was crowded with people, many having nowhere to stay except in their wagons or under makeshift tents. He’d never seen the town like it before and was worried for his Ma and Da left behind in it all.
The day remained sullen and overcast. The road they travelled followed the River Oust. To the west of the river was low lying grasslands. He knew all too well that soon the grasslands would turn marshy, full of water pools and bogs. It would be the start of the Grim Marsh.
The Grim, as it was known, was treacherous. Its water courses and pools were ever changing whenever the river was high or flooded, water seeping into the land. Many who braved its waterways and stinking mud banks perished, never to be seen again. The marsh extended for many leagues to the south until the land rose once again to the Grimwolds, a collection of rolling foothills of grass, bush and wood.
The Grimwolds were notorious, full of bandits and brigands who chose to live outside the king’s law. The Black Crow and local lords often lead expeditions into its depths but its interior was hard to navigate, its terrain difficult to cross. For the degenerates and miscreants that lived there and knew its ways these incursions posed no credible threat.
This part of the Great North Road, oft called the Grim Road by the locals, tracked south following the eastern bank of the Oust River. The towns and villages along its route tended to the higher ground to the east. Local counts and lords kept men at arms and patrolled the road to keep it safe from the Grimmers, but raids were still known to happen.
Being an innkeeper’s son had its benefits; gossip and rumour being one of them. He’d overheard complaint from more than one trader that High Lord Twyford’s call to arms for his Westlands campaign meant fewer patrols than normal. Travelling the road would be more dangerous than usual. So despite his feelings of inadequacy, or because of them, he wasn’t sure which, he was thankful for the added company.
They made good time once the rain eased. The road had more than a few travellers on it and most headed south. As well, boats and barges plied the river, laden with people all headed for Fallston to the south east. It seemed others had the idea to head away from trouble, something the Black Crow had encouraged.
The sun was close to setting and the moons just visible behind breaking cloud, when Mercy announced they would camp. The last village, Mappels on Oust, they’d left behind an hour past and it had been an eerie experience. The village had been mostly deserted apart from a few holdouts that refused the Black Crows orders to move to Thorsten or head south to Rivercross.
They had argued then, Marron wanting Nihm in a bed and made comfortable, Mercy demanding they put more leagues under them. In the end Mercy had swayed Marron. If urak were coming they would have scout parties out and a village would be a lodestone to them.
Morten unhitched the horses from the wagon. Rubbing them down, he checked their flanks and hocks and finally their hooves for any stones or cuts. Satisfied, he staked them in the grass near camp where they could feed and made sure they had water.
The river was away to the south and Stama and Lucky headed towards it, lines in hand, to try their luck at catching dinner, or so they’d said. More like to get out of work, Morten thought building the fire up and wishing they'd asked him to go. He’d not fished in a while but considered himself adept.
At least I’m good for something Morten groused to himself as he set up camp. Grabbing water skins out the back of the wagon he headed to the river to fill them.
One of the dogs, Thunder, trailed after him and he was glad of the company. He chatted to the big dog more for something to do than any other reason. Admittedly Thunder was not very talkative but he made a fine listener and seemed to like it well enough.
Morten saw no sign of Lucky or Stama when he reached the river’s side but their banter drifted down from further upstream and round the river’s bend. Filling the skins Morten slung them over his shoulder before trudging back to camp. He filled several kettle pans with the water and set them over the fire to boil.
A short time later, in the half light of the tri moons, Morten heard the two fishermen returning and turned to watch their approach.
“I told ya, it’s all in the wrist man. You need to flick it just so,” Lucky said, whirling and snapping his hand forward to illustrate his point. In his other hand he held three trout. Next to him ambled Stama carrying the lines and looking unimpressed.
“Just luck man that’s all,” he muttered back.
“Aye, Lucky in name, Lucky in life!” The big man laughed, pounding his friend on the back.
Stama winced. “Aye, well you caught em, you can cook em,” he said as they walked into camp.
“Nah the lad will cook em, won’t yeh lad?” Lucky blustered, turning to Morten.
Morten was about to acquiesce, he liked cooking and wanted to feel useful, but Marron interjected.
“He’s not a servant Mr Lucson however you couch your order.” She stared up at him from her seat by the fire. In her hand was a pot in which she was boiling something. Her eyes were piercing.
“Eh, sorry my lady?” Lucky stammered. “Have I caused offense?” All banter suddenly gone.
Morten saw Mercy watching silently from the other side of the campfire. Was that a hint of a smile on her face? He wasn’t sure, her scar made it hard to distinguish smile from frown sometimes and it was too dark to see her eyes clearly.
An uncomfortable quiet filled the space. He realised Marron was right. That she had seen it and acted on it, with all her other worries moved him beyond words. Still he liked these men and wanted to be accepted. He thought for a moment and then half smiled to himself.
“Might I propose a trade?” Morten said to Lucky.
“And what trade is that?” Lucky asked.
“I’ll skin and cook your fish if you’ll show me how to use a sword,” he said.
Lucky pondered a while considering Morten's offer.
“I’ll give you a lesson lad. The big man here ain’t too articulate for teaching much of anything other than drinking ale maybe,” Stama offered.
“Oi, don’t listen to him none. He’s all fancy dancy with his blade. Near as tickle you to death with it,” Lucky retorted. “Nah, yer a tall lad. Power over style I reckon will suit you best.”
“All right, Luck,” Stama laughed. He turned to Morten. “When you’ve had enough of the beast let me know and I’ll show you a few things,” he said.
Morten thanked Stama, watching as he wound the lines up and tied them neatly so they wouldn't tangle before stowing them away. He
turned to Marron. “Thank you my lady,” Morten said.
Marron sighed, glanced briefly at Mercy, then with a ghost of a smile, replied. “Don’t you start with all that nonsense Morten, I’m not a lady; Marron will do just fine.”
Mercy chuckled. A fish suddenly slapped against Morten’s cheek, cold, wet and stinking. He jumped, stumbling away.
“First lesson lad, be aware of what is going on around you at all times,” Lucky told him. He held his hand out and Morten gripped it reluctantly and they shook. Lucky handed him the fish. “Well, guess you better get on with it lad.”
“It’s Morten,” he replied, emboldened.
Lucky nodded his shaggy head sagely. “Aye lad, I guess it is.” He grinned. “Come, I’ll give ya a hand. Show an old soldier how not to burn his fish eh!”
Turned out Lucky was pretty good at cooking, and that Morten was the one doing the learning. The fish were filleted and rubbed down with a little salt and seasoning. Then Lucky showed him how to thread the fish onto a sharpened stick, the skin and scales wrapped around to seal the soft flesh inside. Morten was a quick study and set about preparing the other two fish.
After eating Lucky walked off into a nearby wood with a hatchet axe and returned a short time later with two stout wooden poles, bark stripped and mostly straight. Morten looked at them, not impressed with what he saw.
“I thought you were going to teach me how to use a sword,” he grumbled.
“Yeah well I’ve no sparring swords with me and I’ll not be blunting my blade for a bit of sport,” Lucky replied. “Besides, the staff is a great weapon.” He tossed one of the poles to Morten who bruised a finger, fumbling the catch. Red faced, he scooped it up from where it lay on the ground.
Lucky’s staff swung round and hit Morten with a loud thwack. He shot up at the sudden pain searing his buttocks. Feeling his blood boil, anger and embarrassment warring across his face Morten glared at Lucky.
“Staff has got great reach,” Lucky said, unperturbed. He swung his pole around in an easy arc to illustrate his point.
“It’s great at blocking.” He snapped it out in front of him as if to parry a blow. Morten watched, still mad but his interest piqued nevertheless. His blood cooled a little as Lucky went through several different stances illustrating each one in the light of the fire amid the fading gloom.
“A sword will cut straight through it though,” Morten said, unconvinced. A line of fire throbbed across his backside still and his mood was surly.
“Well yeah, these staffs sure. But a metal capped hardwood staff, now that’s a different story.” Lucky sniffed. “Still they’ll do for now so stop yer moaning Red. You want ta train or not?”
He did. Morten spent the next hour clacking away with Lucky. He was taught how to hold the staff and how to move it. Lucky got him practising various blocks, side blocks, head blocks and leg blocks.
Moving slowly Lucky would swing his staff in a prescribed fashion allowing Morten to block each one. The pattern was the same and as they got into a rhythm Lucky would speed his strikes up. Morten followed his mind and muscles keeping up as the tempo increased.
Lucky stepped back. Morten took a deep breath puffed but pleased with himself. It was tiring and his arms ached, but it was the rewarding ache of effort well spent. He felt… worthwhile. Not that an hour with a stave changed much but still, he was on the path and the lesson felt empowering.
“Good. Now that was a simple exercise. It didn’t require you to move your feet much or do much of anything,” Lucky said. His breathing was easy and he smiled as he spoke. “Still it was a good effort and those basic blocks are a good foundation to build on. It’s dark. Tomorrow we’ll start again only I’ll show you how to move your feet and body because a fight is a fluid thing, ever changing. If’n you can remember those blocks and move smoothly then you’re in good shape, Red.”
“When will you teach me how to attack?” Morten asked, eager to learn more. He liked Lucky; found he had an easy manner about him and a simple way of explaining things.
“When I think you’re ready,” Lucky replied. “First you need to learn defence. Practise those blocks. Practise them hard so that they’re second nature to you. Then when you need them your thoughts and fears won’t cloud your actions.” Lucky was in full flow now and Morten sensed he’d enjoyed teaching him.
“The trickiest thing is learning when and how to switch between defence to attack and back again. So lad, first things first, defence.” Lucky patted Morten on the shoulder with one big beefy hand as they wandered to the camp fire.
Mercy and Stama had practised as well but had finished some time before. Marron had watched them all with interest and as Morten took a seat beside her said. “I’ve a need to hone my own sword play. It’s been too long since I last swung a blade.” She looked to Stama as she spoke.
“I would be happy to train with you Lady Marron,” Stama responded confidently.
“Tomorrow then, first light?” Marron replied her voice flat. She hadn’t smiled much these last few days, but then she’d not much to smile about.
“Marron, would you mind if I looked in on Nihm,” Morten asked nervously, worried he might be over stepping some boundary.
“That’s thoughtful of you Morten,” Marron replied. A sad smile flittered across her face.
“Er, it’s just Nihm’s dogs are a bit protective,” Morten said, feeling a bit stupid.
Marron twisted to face the wagon and gave a whistle. A moment later the two dogs bounded out and ran to her side.
“Let’s get you girls some food.” Marron ruffled their necks affectionately. She glanced at Morten pointedly then stood. Thunder and Maise suddenly materialised out of the darkness behind her.
“Thanks,” Morten said, jumping up quickly. Hurrying to the wagon, he clambered up the tail board and into the back.
A lamp was hooked over the frame by the bench seat shedding a soft light over the interior. Morten knelt beside Nihm and stared, drinking in the sight of her, his heart beating fiercely in his chest. He felt guilty, as if intruding somehow. Like he’d stolen into her room whilst she slept and at any moment she would open her eyes, see him there and ask what the hells he was doing.
Taking one of her hands Morten held it, feeling its warmth and duality. Soft but hard in places, callouses and hard skin over fingers and palm. It was the hand of someone used to hard work.
“Nihm!” he whispered. “Nihm, it’s time for you to wake.” Morten felt silly but found he didn’t care.
“Come on now. We’re worried about you.” He paused… then forced himself to continue.
“I’m worried about you. Please Nihm,” he begged.
She didn’t answer. She looked so peaceful, her breathing easy, her chest rising and falling gently. Watching her Morten traced the line of her neck up to her jaw. Then to her lips and slightly crooked nose and finally to her brown, green flecked eyes. His mouth hung open as the realisation suddenly hit. Nihm watched him back.
Her eyes blinked.
“Wait here Nihm, I’m with you,” Morten stammered, then turning his head to the front of the wagon.
“MARRON!”
Chapter 46
: Assimilating
It was a weird sensation. Whilst Nihm could not really feel Sai, she still felt a connection. She could think of Sai and Sai was there. She wondered more than once if she’d gone mad; if this was all just a delusion she'd created. And yet, though she didn’t understand the how of it, she knew this was real. Sai was so different, so alien from anything she had known or experienced. How could it be a dream?
Nihm had a sense of Sai and in that sense there was no artifice, no emotion, no nothing really. It was strange and difficult with no anchor point. Cut off from external stimulus her whole world had reduced to herself, as if she floated in a bubble that was neither dark nor light but was just opaque nothingness. She was alone, with just her thoughts and Sai.
What was Sai? How was it inside her, part of her? What w
as it doing? These were all questions she had asked and Sai had answered. The problem was she didn’t really understand the answers.
Nihm relived her memories, memories she had forgotten and some she didn’t even remember having. Memories from being a babe and growing up at the homestead. They played out in her head clearer than she had ever known them. It felt like she was watching herself as she grew, observing from a different perspective.
Nihm saw all the falls and the fun, the laughter and the tears, the tantrums and the petulance. She felt love and safety, of being and belonging. It was herself, who she was.
Her memories played out in her head. She had time. Had nothing else to do trapped as she was in her own mind. She relived Darion teaching her how to hunt and fish; how to track in the woods and field; how to read the stars and skin a deer. He and Marron had taught her to fight as well; sword, knife and bow. They were good too; she could tell from the ease and poise of their movements that they were passing on lessons they'd mastered themselves long ago.
Marron taught her herbs and plants and how to use them; how to bind a wound and drain a poison; how to stitch a boot and head alike. She taught her to read, oh how she loved to read. The stories and histories captured her imagination and helped shape her vision of the world. A world she had experienced nothing of. A world she was isolated from.
Loneliness, Nihm had no childhood friends. The Encomas, their closest neighbours lived a full day to the south. She saw little of them and knew them hardly at all. Her only experience of civilisation was Thorsten, two sometimes three times a year. Nihm saw she was not like other children. She had lost much without knowing there was anything to lose.
Her thoughts flashed briefly to Annabelle, little skinny Annabelle with the smudged face, peeking out of the hay loft at the Broken Axe. It would have been nice to have had a friend to grow up with, play with.
Ah but she had learned so much, seen so much, experienced so much. Playing her memories back she saw it all. The furtive glances Darion and Marron gave each other, looks she thought nothing of at the time but seeing them again in her mind told her much. Their love, their strength and self-belief and even their worry, she saw it all through adult eyes. Realised they had sacrificed much for each other, for her… and for the Order.