Shadows in the Stone

by Diane Lynn McGyver

  Chapter 31

  Puffs of White Bubbling Clouds

  Bronwyn rolled over. When he struck a hard surface, he opened his eyes and saw a rocky bank. Where was he? He whirled around. Alaura sat near a small fire pit, cooking.

  “Good afternoon, sleepy head.” She smiled at him.

  “How did I…how did you…?” He cocked his head as he remembered. Holding out a hand before him, he saw the marks left by the shackles. He had believed it to be all a dream, but it had happened. Here he sat, alive, with Alaura nearby.

  “Do you remember?”

  He rubbed his hand through his hair and looked up at the mid-day sun. “I thought I died.”

  “You’re far from dead, my friend.” She turned the piece of meat in the pan. “Your ration will be ready soon, but first”—she lifted a kettle from the fire—“you need to wash.” She prepared a basin with warm water and arranged the supplies. “Come. Sit here.”

  Bronwyn stood, and as the blanket fell away, his jaw dropped—he wore only shorts! He grabbed the blanket and wrapped it around his waist. His legs shook, but he felt his strength slowly returning. He sat on the rock Alaura pointed to, knowing his face glowed as red as the fire heating his food. When he reached for the cloth, she scooped it up and wrung out the excess water. She rubbed soap on it and looked at him.

  “If I press too hard, tell me.” With a gentle hand, she wiped around the cuts and bruises on his face and scrubbed his neck. He watched her expression change when she realised a device around his neckline had pulled tight enough to leave a mark. It reminded her how close he had come to death—it reminded him as well. Alaura seemed momentarily lost in thought as her long, nimble finger traced the injury.

  “It will heal.” His voice, low and soft, tried to reassure her.

  As if reminded of her task, she rinsed the suds away. She daubed the soap on his chest and arms. “I’ve never seen the honourable sergeant in such disarray.” She gave him an uneasy smile.

  Caught off guard by the motherly attention, Bronwyn sat rigid as Alaura washed his upper body then moved to his back. He had lost count of the days on The Trail. He hadn’t bathed since leaving Maskil, so he imaged how awful he smelt. It felt great to have the dirt, sweat and blood removed. His skin breathed again. He rubbed the growth on his chin. The coarse hair felt itchy. Most dwarfs preferred beards, but he didn’t.

  Watching out of the corner of his eye, he studied Alaura’s face as she lathered soap on his back. She seemed intent on cleansing his body of the filth he had gathered—Isla had guessed right. He had never had his back scrubbed before, so he had no idea of the delight it generated until now. She massaged his aching muscles at the same time, soothing his nerves and relieving his tension. He exhaled and moaned.

  She stopped. “Is that too hard?”

  “It feels fantastic.” He glanced at her. “You’re welcome to wash my back any day.”

  She resumed her cleaning mission. Coming around to the front, she folded the blanket to the edge of his shorts. She caught her breath and tried to avoid the rising odour.

  Bronwyn noticed her reluctance. “I’ll wash them.”

  “It’s okay. The smell will be gone quick enough.” She soaped his legs and feet, foaming big puffs of white bubbling clouds. “This soap will make a skunk smell like magnolia.”

  He half grinned. “I smell that bad?”

  She winked. “Bad enough that I could find you from this distance last night.” She worked the soap around the cuts caused by the shackles. “The swelling has gone down. You’ll be able to get your boots on today.”

  He glanced at his footwear, cleaned and standing by the fire. His socks, vest, shirt and trousers hung on sticks nearby. She’d not only cleaned the dirt and blood from his shirt but mended the dagger hole, too. He wished to wear fresh clothes, but he had nothing else. His extra uniform lay with his dead horse. “It feels good to get the boots off. It’s the first time since leaving Maskil.”

  “No wonder you have sores.” After patting dry his feet, she applied plantain ointment to the shackle wounds and infected broken blisters. “You must air your feet for a few hours a day. If you don’t, within a month, you won’t be able to walk.”

  Bronwyn hadn’t thought about that, but truthfully, he had never encountered these circumstances before. Until now, he had always enjoyed a warm safe bed.

  Alaura brought the ration and whilst he ate, she tidied up the campsite. He watched her work. She was efficient and soon had the supplies gathered and packed in the saddle bags. He felt uncertain about travelling with her to pursue Keiron and his men. It could end only in a battle; he didn’t want her involved. He should send her home, but if he did, he’d be horseless. Thinking back, he realised Alaura to be the only woman he had fought beside. They had worked well together though practically strangers at the time. Even then he thought her beautiful.

  “When you’re ready, we’ll leave.” She placed his clothes beside him and took his plate.

  He reached for his shirt. “Thank you for cleaning my things.” She turned to look at him. “Thanks for everything.”

  “I’m sorry I misled you last evening, but you needed a peaceful sleep to heal.”

  “No need to apologise. I’m grateful you looked out for me. In my condition I was being unreasonable.” He winked at her. “I thought you had put something in the soup.” He watched her playful smile grow before she turned away. The last time he’d seen her, they had shared more than a kiss. He wondered how to get back to that place in their relationship. From a cold start, he felt it near impossible.

  A few minutes later, with the gear packed in the side bags, Alaura pulled herself into the saddle. The sturdy red-chestnut mare beneath her shook its head, rattling the hackamore bridle and reins, and shaking the flies from its flaxen mane.

  Bronwyn looked up at her. He wished she had waited for him to mount. It would be awkward climbing in front of her. He watched her adjust the reins, straighten her cloak and slip her left foot from the stirrup. She pressed against the pommel and left the back of the saddle open as if she expected him to sit there.

  “Can you move back a bit, please?” he said.

  “I’ll adjust myself once you get up.”

  He stared at the empty space on the back of the saddle again. She did expect him to be a passenger. “I’m going to take the reins.”

  “This is my pony.”

  He didn’t want to point out the obvious, but she didn’t understand protocol. In his most courteous voice, he said, “I’m the man; I’ll take control.”

  Alaura scoffed at him. “It’s my pony. I’ll guide her. Clover will respond better to me.”

  “I’ve ridden many horses stronger than this. I’m sure I can manage.” He slowly lost his patience. He wouldn’t sit behind this unreasonable woman.

  “Clover doesn’t respond well to men.”

  “She’s a lot like her rider.” Bronwyn half grinned, but the dilemma of taking control of this mare remained. “Slide back, and let me in front. I’m sure I can handle her.”

  “I’m sure I can do better.”

  “It’s only a pony.”

  “Clover is not only a pony. She’s special.”

  “Why? Is she magical?”

  “Are only magical things and beings special to you? Don’t you think of yourself as being special?”

  It wasn’t what he considered special, but what she did. He had no use for magic. But why else would an old pony be special? This woman, who wielded her magic over things, including him, wanted him to believe otherwise.

  “I think you are,” she said.

  He looked up at her. A single braid pulled her hair from her face, exposing her delicate features. Her firm but understanding eyes captured the afternoon sunlight. She revealed no hint of sarcasm, no sign of a challenge, merely the honesty he had come to know over the years.

  “Here, I’ll help you up.” Alaura reached out a hand to lift him into the saddle.

  “I’m traine
d to handle these types of situations. It’s best if I controlled the mount. Please, slide back so I can get in front.” Surely, she’d listen to reason. After all, this was no silly game like those she played with the children at Moon Meadow. He waited, but she didn’t budge. Her stubbornness irritated him. Didn’t she understand he couldn’t accept the inferior position she offered? A sergeant of Aruam Castle couldn’t be dragged through the forest on the backside of a pony with a woman in control!

  “While you argue with your pride, we’re losing precious time.”

  Bronwyn clenched his fist. Her words infuriated him. If she was any other woman, he’d physically remove her from the saddle and take control, but he couldn’t do this to Alaura. His inability to treat her like other woman and put her in her place bewildered him and only frustrated him more. Taking two forceful strides, he drove his foot into the stirrup, grabbed her hand and jerked himself into the saddle behind her. He had grabbed her with such force, he thought she might tumble to the ground, but she regained her balance.

  The mare moved beneath him, stepping to one side than the other. It reared, sending its front hooves into the air then stomped them on the ground. Its head shook wildly as Alaura tried to gain control. Suddenly, it sprang to its muscular hind quarters and bucked.

  Not having time to secure a grip, Bronwyn flew from the mare and landed on the ground. He picked himself up and scowled at the animal. It glared back at him, its ears pressed against its poll.

  “Damn it! I thought you said you had control of this old nag!”

  Alaura slid from the saddle and stood in front of the mare. She caressed its muzzle and spoke softly to it.

  The empty saddle tempted him to climb onto it. Then, he’d have the upper hand.

  “Come.” She beckoned him near.

  When he stepped closer, the pony pulled away, flared its nostrils and widened its eyes.

  Alaura held her hand out to Bronwyn, gesturing for him to try again. He approached the animal from behind her. When he got close enough, she guided his hand beneath its nose. “Clover, he’s my friend. He won’t harm you. I promise.”

  He listened to her soothe it with her soft voice. She held his hand steady beneath its mouth as it smelt and nuzzled his palm. If it bit him, he’d most likely punch the stupid creature.

  “That’s it, girl. You can trust him. He’s rough on the outside, but beneath the gruff exterior he’s gentle.”

  He eyed the woman. Did Alaura believe all the things she said about him?

  “I know, Clover. He’s a stubborn man, but he’s a good man. He did mount you too roughly, but I’m sure he won’t repeat the mistake.” She caught his eye as she guided his hand along the muzzle, and across the nose to rest upon the white stripe running down the centre of its face.

  Clover tried to pull away, but she held the hackamore bridle. “It’s okay, girl. He’s not going to hurt you.”

  “Is this what you meant by her being special—she enjoys throwing her rider?”

  “She doesn’t trust men. I found her starved and beaten. Her owner—a man—had abused her. It took a long time for her to heal.”

  Bronwyn looked over the pony again and wished Alaura had brought a sturdy horse. This old nag didn’t look as if it would go far before it needed a rest. “I’m not familiar with this breed.”

  “She’s a Haflinger. They’re sturdy mounts. Great for trails and mountains.” Alaura released his hand, wrapped the reins once over her forearm and pulled a cube of rutabaga from her pouch. She placed it in Bronwyn’s palm then directed it to Clover’s mouth. Soft lips gathered the vegetable, drew it into its mouth where it was chewed with exaggerated movements. Reaching once again into the pouch, she pulled out a brown bandana and tied it around his wrist.

  “That’s Isla’s! Where did you get it?”

  “She had left it at Beathas’ cottage. I brought it with me for her scent.” She held the bandana to Clover’s nose. Its nostrils flared and its head bobbed. Hairy ears stood straight and twisted forward as if listening for a distant sound.

  Alaura moved behind Bronwyn, took his hand and rubbed it against the muzzle then along the cheek and back to the nose. It sniffed his clothes then his neck. When the pony nuzzled his cheek, he leant back.

  “It’s not going to bite, is it?” Clover sneezed, sending droplets of moisture over his face. “Ah! The orc’s curse!” He wiped the wetness away with his free hand.

  Alaura giggled. “Clover’s starting to like you.” She returned his hand to the nostrils, so it could sniff the bandana again. “Isla, Clover…We must find Isla.” After climbing into the saddle, she reached for his hand.

  Bronwyn patted the mare’s neck and shoulder, eased his foot into the stirrup and hoisted himself up behind Alaura. He felt the pony move beneath him, but she calmed it. Not knowing where to put his hands, he reached behind and held onto the cantle.

  “Hold onto my waist. You’ll have better balance.” Alaura looked back at him as she adjusted her weight.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to have to pick you up again.”

  He was unsure if he trusted her playful smile. “Let’s go!”

  Shortening the reins, Alaura made a clicking sound from the side of her mouth and with her leg, signalled the mare to move forward. Clover’s walk turned into a steady lope as she made her way past the trees surrounding the clearing.

  Bronwyn found his seat with the rhythm of the pony, but each time it dodged a branch or a root or changed directions, he lost his balance. At times, it took flight, shaking its head in the wind as if it had caught the scent of a predatory animal. Only when the mare had to manoeuver around an obstacle did it slow its pace, merely to begin again at a heart-pounding speed. Throughout all this, Alaura never faltered. She stayed as steady as Clover, bending and leaning at the right moments.

  After almost falling off twice, Bronwyn decided to heed Alaura’s advice and hold on to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling himself near. She acted as his anchor in the shifting sea he found himself riding upon. Soon, they bounced as one, leant together when Clover lurched in another direction and balanced upon the saddle as they sped forward. They travelled faster, more efficiently and left far behind the elm tree which could have overhung his grave.