by Garon Whited
Time for a little reassurance.
“Oh, hell,” said I. “I’m being intimidating again, aren’t I?”
There were a couple of nods from around the wagon.
I sighed theatrically and sat down on the wagon bed. “I’m sorry,” I said, and tried to sound sincere. “It’s been a tough couple of days and I have a lot of worries right now. I have a lot of people who are following me because they believe in me—and I don’t want to let them down. I have a manor to found, a long way yet to go, and babies due in a few months. Now I have fifty or sixty guests—all of you—I need to clean, clothe, feed, and care for.”
I bowed my head and rubbed my temples with both hands. “I’m snappish and unkind. I apologize most sincerely for frightening anyone. I’ll send Sir Raeth over, or the Lady Hellas; they are much more diplomatic than I am.”
To my everlasting surprise, the young lady who asked about the barbarians touched my arm. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; she had the guts to ask a question even when she was quivering in terror. I looked up at her touch. Everyone was looking at me with mixed expressions of surprise, amazement, and wonder.
“Sir Halar?”
“Yes… uh, what’s your name?”
“Katarin,” she replied. “Lord, may I ask another question?”
“Katarin, I have a rule: You may ask anything. Asking is never a bad thing, as long as I have time to listen. I may choose not to answer, but you always have permission to ask.”
She blushed and murmured, “Thank you, my lord.”
“That goes for everyone,” I said, looking around. “That’s the way things work here.” There were nods of cautious agreement. It was a novel concept to them.
“My lord,” Katarin said, “may I ask why you choose to… to apologize to us?”
“I frightened you,” I replied. “Seems obvious to me. You’re not frightened of me any more, are you?”
“No… not so much, no.”
“Are you still frightened of anything else?”
She looked thoughtful. Everyone seemed to pause to think. For just a moment, they had been so distracted by a knight apologizing, so caught up in my problems… and they were one of my problems. A problem of how to care for them…
“There you are,” I said, into the silence.
“But—but why?”
“Why what?” I asked, puzzled.
“Why would you care about such a thing? Surely, a lord such as yourself cannot be concerned with our feelings.”
I looked at her like she was from Venus. She dropped her gaze and muttered an apology.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to presume.”
“No, no. It’s all right. I’m just a little taken aback by the question. A lord has to care for his people. If he doesn’t, he’s not doing his job.”
This was met with blank incomprehension.
I stood up. Different times, different countries, different customs. Well, fine. I was in charge. My time, my country, my customs.
“That’s the way it works here,” I said, in a tone of flat finality. “I’ll have something to eat brought ’round.” With that, I hopped out of the wagon and jogged forward. As I passed another wagon, I was hailed.
“Sir wizard!”
I slowed to keep pace with the wagon; we were only going a trifle faster than a walk. The man hailing me was broad-shouldered and dirty. He had several days’ worth of beard and a nasty, purple-black bruise across half his face, but he seemed familiar.
“What’s on your mind, goodman?” I asked.
“D’ye not know me, lord? I’ve fed yer horse.”
Fed my horse? Who the— “You’re Larel, the smith.”
His face nearly came apart with a monstrous grin. I could see he was missing teeth. I wondered what prompted the beating.
“Aye, lord—aye, my lord, if you’ll have me.”
“You bet your anvil I will! Well-met in a dark time, Larel. I need a smith. What’s become of your son?”
“He is here,” Larel replied, nodding. The stout lad was snoring on the wagon floor; he looked about as beaten as his father. “My wife, also.” The lady was about as dirty as Larel, although nowhere near as battered. I suspected why, judging from the pounding the other two had taken.
“Then I am pleased indeed,” I answered, and offered my hand. He blinked at me for a moment, then his eyes (well, his eye; one was swollen shut) widened. He accepted my hand and stared at me.
“Be welcome, Larel,” I said, trying to sound formal. “Welcome to you and all your family.”
“My lord,” he replied, and nodded his head in a sort of bow.
“I will see to food and cleaning and clothing as quickly as possible,” I offered.
“Lord, there’re others worse than I,” he countered.
“Yep. But I’ll be seeing to it for everyone. You’re in good hands, Larel; trust me. We’ll get you fixed up and back at a forge as soon as humanly possible, if not sooner. I’m founding a whole new town as soon as we get to the middle of nowhere. I’m glad the mastersmith is someone I know.”
“Lord?” he asked, looking even more startled. I guess it does come as kind of a shock to go from potential orc-lunch to soon-to-be-mastersmith for a whole community.
“Oh, hush. Rest and recuperate. I’ve got a lot of work to do and a lot of people to care for—and quit looking at me like that!”
He dropped his eyes—so did everyone else in the wagon—and muttered, “I beg y’r indulgence, my lord.”
I sighed. “Sure. Rest. Got to run.” And I did, on up to a supply wagon. Bouger was already there, riding beside it and discussing food and drink with a trio of ladies.
“Greetings, your frightfulness,” he said, saluting. I glared at him.
“What do you know about it?” I demanded, hopping up to ride on a sideboard of the wagon while we spoke.
“Just what people are whispering. You looked royally wrathful as we rolled out of Eastgate. You were, as has been said before, ‘in a mood.’ Your people know the look, my lord. Did you not think the harnessing and the hauling were exceptionally swift?”
I thought about it. “Well… I was highly pleased at how quickly it went, yes.”
“The newcomers know you not as we do. You are a knight and a wizard and they have heard tales, lord. In your wrath, you routed the viksagi and slew a dragon. No man wants to discover if your gaze can truly slay.”
I grumbled, not seriously, about that bard. Bouger just grinned and concluded instructing the ladies on some trail rations for the latest additions.
“Bouger,” I said, when he was done, “see if you can get Hellas to tell them other tales—and maybe those two minstrels, Pelom and Belis, can entertain them for a while.” I beckoned him closer and we leaned toward each other. “I’ll be interested in what the minstrels have to say about our little journey so far,” I added.
“Right away, lord.”
“Also, bathing. We’ll need to let our gests wash and get the orc-stink off. Clothes, too. I’m not sure how just yet, but Tamara and I can heat water—work something out.”
“I shall get right on it, lord.”
“And one more thing. Cut it out. Stop calling me ‘lord’ and whatnot. I’ve told you this before.”
“In private, lord, most surely,” he agreed, bowing in the saddle. “But be ruled by me in this one thing; my father taught me much of rulers and commanding men. ‘Thou shalt not ignore protocol.’ We must have it in public.”
I glared at him. It galled me because, as I heard him say it, I realized he was right. I might not think of myself as a leader or commander or monarch or whatever, but other people do. I have to live up to that.
“All right. But not in private.”
He bowed in the saddle again and dropped back along the line to find Hellas and the minstrels.
The Eastrange is a fairly thick chunk of mountain range. Even at the pass, it’s more than one day of travel by wagon; I underestimated it. I’
d only been through it on horseback—well, Bronzeback—and that doesn’t give a good feel for distances. Worse, around late afternoon it started to rain. A thunderstorm rolled through the mountains and gave us both wind and water.
We were past the halfway mark and heading more steeply downhill, which made going tricky; we needed to ride the brakes. In a thunderstorm, that wasn’t too safe. It’s a mountain trail, not a highway, and the wheels are wood or iron-covered wood, not rubber. I called a halt and we wound up camping in the pass for a few hours. The whole wagon train pulled over next to a near-vertical wall of stone for what little shelter it offered.
The wagons Bob provided were uncovered. It’s hard to rig a canvas roof in such conditions, but we got on it. The pass also acted to focus the wind down its length; it felt like we were in a gusty wind tunnel. It was cold, wet, and miserable, but we did the best we could with the circumstances.
At least anyone who wanted to wash could get a cold shower. A lot of them did, despite the way the temperature was dropping. I worried about hypothermia.
I toured the wagons, one by one, and Firebrand contributed a warm glow in each. Tamara insisted on coming with me through the wind and wet. She’s visibly showing, but she can walk just fine—maybe she waddles just a little, but I’m not going to say anything about it. I have to admit her fire is better at drying people out without roasting them. Firebrand doesn’t have that sort of control. She makes living fire—or, rather, Fire—while Firebrand just burns things.
We moved the smaller children into the command wagon; it has real walls. Tamara stayed with them while the rest of us toughed it out in canvas-topped wagons.
We sat there in the pass and hunkered down against the storm. It was a miserable experience, that’s for certain. Anyone who has gone camping in the mountains and discovered the weather turns sour when you most want sunshine knows what I’m talking about. Drafts blew under the canvas covers of the wagons, carrying icy rain. The humidity was at maximum, making everyone damp and sticky even if they weren’t near a gap. Winter was by no means over; we were just far enough south it didn’t snow every night. It stayed warm enough to rain—barely.
So we sat and shivered and our teeth chattered until I worried again about hypothermia. The rain had been bucketing down for over an hour.
Blast.
It was so tempting to fiddle with the weather. My big concern was that I knew spells to call up storms, not send them away. I recall reading wonderful examples for bringing down rain, hail, or lightning. Making it stop is a whole different kettle of fish.
I made a decision to wear myself out. Tamara, of course, stays dry. Even in a downpour, water only has to touch her before it vanishes; I have to cast a spell. A variant on my missile shield worked perfectly; I cast it and climbed out of the number-two wagon.
Two minutes later, the wagon had a heat shield. A bubble of force surrounded the wagon; it allowed heat in, not out. It wasn’t perfect, of course. I can’t manage one hundred percent, and even if I did, everyone inside would roast. But it was fairly easy to build and would allow even body heat to eventually warm up a wagon.
Not that I would rely on just body heat. I stuck Firebrand into the wagon and said, “Look away.” They did, and Firebrand blazed white-hot for a second. The temperature inside climbed by ten degrees.
Good enough. I worked my way down the line, one wagon at a time.
I didn’t enspell the lead wagon; if there was any place in this godforsaken valley of stone still warm and dry, it was in there with the fire-witch. I did stick my head in to see how things were going.
Tort, sitting by the door, grabbed my by the shirt and bawled. I put an arm around her by reflex, surprised. Tamara was sitting with a pair of youngsters on her lap, comforting them while the storm raged. All the children seemed scared.
I climbed into the wagon and picked Tort up to hold her. Another child—Burel? I think that was her name—crawled into my lap and huddled against me. I think she was about five.
Unholy fiend of darkness, and I get mobbed by frightened children. The world has so much irony in it I’m surprised it doesn’t rust.
So I petted them and rocked them and gave Tamara a significant look. The one that said, I have got to get things done. Help!
She smiled a small smile and did absolutely nothing. Wench. I’d spank her later.
For nearly half an hour I cuddled two small children and tried to calm them. It worked; they calmed quickly as long as I stayed there and held them. The minute I tried to let go, they tightened their grips like a drowning man clings to driftwood.
“Okay, look,” I said. “I’ll be back as quickly as I can, but I have to go tell a storm to go away. All right? I can’t punch a storm in the face while I’m holding you.”
Tort looked up at me, eyes reddened and very wide. “Will you really make it go away?”
“I hope so, sweetie. It’s bigger than a dragon, but I’ll give it a try.”
She nodded solemnly. “You’re a hero. You can do anything.”
Ah, the faith of small children. Please, God, let me be the hero they think I am.
“If you say so,” I hedged. “Now stick close to Tamara and I’ll be back as soon as I can, all right?”
Neither of them wanted to let go, but I gently insisted. Tort sat down near Tamara, in a pile of other children.
“Sir?” she said, as I was about to open the door.
“Yes, Tort?”
“Thank you for a foot.”
I noticed she was wearing the false foot. I keep meaning to find time to enchant it so it will move.
“You’re welcome,” I answered. “I’ll get you one like your old one, someday.”
I slipped out into the rain.
Enspelling the wagons took me longer than I expected. I was dead tired before it was all over. I hadn’t thought about the horse trailers when I came up with my idea. We had canvas tarps over the tops and the horses were actually drier than we were, but definitely colder. I settled for casting the heat-retaining spell directly on each horse. It was like giving each one a sweater; they seemed immediately happier.
I slogged slowly back to the lead wagon, my boots splashing ankle-deep in the running water. My missile shield would stop anything from hitting me, but it did nothing for standing in a shallow river.
My fatigue-addled brain slowly caught on that the pass had a lot of water flowing through it.
I was almost to the command wagon when I realized it was getting deeper.
We were going to wash away.
I burst into the command wagon and scared the kids again. Hopefully, they’d be scared later, rather than drowned.
“Tamara! What have we got that can be used to block off a river?” I demanded.
She had a little girl in her lap, rocking her. The child stared at me with wide eyes. They were blue, I remember, and looked too large to be real. Crazily, I wondered if my daughter would look like that.
“Nothing of which I know,” she replied, calmly. “Hush, children; all is well. See? The hero is here and he is still working to keep us safe.” Her tone of cool, unworried authority helped a lot. It calmed the kids and it helped me get my tone under control.
“The pass,” I said. “It’s flooding. Water is pouring down the mountains and draining down the pass. We’re far enough down I’m afraid we’re going to be a bunch of boats instead of a bunch of wagons.”
“Can your magic divert this water?” she asked.
“For a while,” I said. “But not for long. I’m not sure how long I have until sunset, and I can’t put up a spell that will last the night. I spent too much power keeping people from freezing.”
She clucked her tongue reprovingly and set the child down on a cushion. Apparently, Tamara’s lap was a time-share comfort zone.
“How deep is the water?”
“Ankle-deep and rising,” I replied. She nodded and rose, crossing to take my hands and kiss me briefly. That helped the children a lot; they giggled.
“Fetch Bronze, please. I should like to ride.”
I thought that a very good idea. Bronze could outrun a river, I felt sure. I nipped back out, unharnessed Bronze, and brought her around to the rear door. Tamara came out and I helped her up onto Bronze’s back, sidesaddle; steam constantly puffed from her clothes and hair as raindrops vanished.
“I’ll figure something out,” I began, and she pressed a finger to my lips.
“Do not worry yourself, my lord; I will tend to this.”
I stared at her. “I’m sorry?” I asked. I was only thinking of getting her out of harm’s way.
She dimpled at me. “Do not think the one I serve will ignore my pleas for aid.” She nudged Bronze; Bronze turned to look at me. I nodded and we headed back upstream, toward the other end of the wagon train.
Bronze came to a halt and turned sideways in the pass. Behind us, the entire length of the wagon train was awash in shin-deep water. I stood back and bit my tongue gently to keep from asking questions; I didn’t want to distract her. She had an expression of concentration and effort.
Her hair began to blaze. She held out her hands, side by side, palms up, and a line of fire appeared between them, as though she supported an invisible, burning yardstick on them—all I saw were flames. The fire grew, blazing up higher and hotter until I had to back away from it. No gentle fire this, to warm and nurture and illuminate. This was a burning fire, white and roaring like a rocket, a fire to melt rocks and reduce bones to ash.
Drawing her hands apart with a jerk, she dropped the line of fire to the ground. It lengthened as it fell, covering the whole width of the pass. When it landed in the torrent in front of her, there was a massive, almost explosive hiss. The thin line of white fire blazed up in a towering wall of incandescent gas. The water around my feet abruptly dropped to a trickle as the remainder drained downhill. The oncoming water met the wall of fire and hissed like a war between all the ghosts of every snake and every cat that ever lived. The water converted instantly to steam and shot skyward. I felt a shift in the wind as air from behind me was drawn forward into the heat of the wall of fire. Flames poured upward into a wall of white steam like smoke from a gate to Hell.