by Lee Bezotte
“Yes,” Dulnear answered plainly.
The shopkeeper wore an odd expression. “Are ye headed there now?”
“Yes,” the man from the north said.
The store owner narrowed his eyes and asked, “Is the woman going with ye?”
Dulnear was in no mood for conversation with the man, and didn’t want to let on that his companion was a slave. “She is an old friend from these parts,” he answered curtly.
“Oh? Where exactly?” the man pressed.
The northern warrior’s patience was beginning to run thin. His nostrils flared and his temples tightened. He glared at the man behind the counter and snarled, “You will have to forgive me, but I am not in the mood for conversation.”
The lanky shopkeeper’s eyes grew large and he swallowed. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” he said. “It’s been a slow day, and there ’aven’t been many people to talk to.”
“Well you will have to save it for your next customer,” Dulnear said as he crossed his arms.
“As you wish, sir,” the man said. “My apologies.”
When Faymia finally came out to join the man from the north, she was dressed in a pair of pants with the shirt she’d shown Dulnear earlier. She also had on a green tunic, tall boots, and a long, gray hooded cloak that could double as a blanket. In addition, she had picked out a bag, a canteen, and a few other small items to make life on the road easier.
When the warrior saw her, he suppressed a smile from appearing at the corner of his mouth. Gone was the harried barmaid in oversized men’s clothing. She now looked like a proper traveler, and much happier in clothing that fit the way it was intended. As he paid for her new belongings, he exchanged an unpleasant glance with the shopkeeper. The warrior and Faymia then left the shop together.
“Now let us have a good meal,” the man from the north suggested, shaking off the conversation with the store owner.
Faymia said nothing, but smiled as she kept pace with the man’s long, deliberate stride.
As they walked across the street to the pub, there were far fewer strange looks from the villagers; only the occasional glances that are common when one recognizes that someone is not native to the area. Though the air was cool, Dulnear chose to sit at one of the three tables situated outside of the pub instead of going in.
It wasn’t long before the owner of the small tavern came out to greet the two travelers. He was portly and rosy-cheeked, and his hair looked as if it had been blown in every direction by the wind. “You’re welcome. Why don’t ye come inside, where it’s warmer?” he asked.
Not really considering how Faymia felt, Dulnear answered, “We are fine here, but we are hungry.” After his last experience on the inside of a pub, he simply wanted to have his meal where he could eat it in peace and leave without any hinderances.
“Then ye’ve come to the right place,” the man replied. “I’ve just pulled a roast out of the oven and have plenty of veg.”
“That sounds perfect. Two portions, please,” the hungry warrior ordered. “And two mugs of ale.”
The friendly proprietor went back inside, leaving Dulnear and Faymia alone at their table. It was the first time the two had ever sat together without the need to perform camp duties. There was nothing to gather, nothing to cook, and nothing to clean. The brief moment of simply facing each other brought back the awkward feelings the man from the north felt in the store, but with greater intensity.
Faymia broke the silence. “Thank you for these clothes, and the bag and canteen,” she said with genuine appreciation.
Relieved that he didn’t have to initiate their conversation, Dulnear answered, “It is my pleasure. They are fine garments and should serve you well.” He noticed how the cloak draped over her slender shoulders and, for the first time, how her silver eyes and raven hair contrasted her smooth, fair skin. “You look very nice,” he added. “In the new clothes, that is. That stolen slaver’s suit was not very becoming.”
Faymia smiled slightly. “No, I suppose it wasn’t,” she admitted. “And traveling would be difficult in my barmaid’s clothes.”
“And the bruises are almost completely healed,” Dulnear added.
The woman looked down and adjusted her new tunic. She then rubbed her forearms and said, “Thank you.”
Dulnear wasn’t sure why the statement made his companion feel uncomfortable, but he made a mental note to not mention the bruises again. “I am very hungry. How about you?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Yes, me too,” she answered, turning her gaze back toward him.
Just then, the pub owner returned with two plates of roast lamb and vegetables piled high, and two mugs of ale. “Now, I’ll be inside if you need anything else. Enjoy!” he announced, and disappeared back into the tavern.
The two sat for quite some time, enjoying their meal together and each other’s company. Conversation was sparse, but Dulnear felt a lift in the heaviness for the first time since leaving Laor. There was something about his new companion’s unassuming demeanor and gentle temperament that was slowly growing on him.
After they had eaten their fill, Dulnear and Faymia continued their walk north. Now that they were only a day or two from the Fuar River, the man from the north felt a tightening in his chest. He did not want to lose the companionship the slave woman brought, but knew that bringing her to Tuas-arum would only add to her pain. The heaviness that had lifted during their meal together was returning in force. “Have you thought about what you will do when we reach the Fuar?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” the woman answered honestly. “My mother was my only family and she passed on years ago. If I stay in one place too long, Tcharron is sure to find me. I suppose I will keep moving until a solution presents itself.”
The man from the north furrowed his brow and asked, “Do you have any friends who can help you?”
“I’m afraid the few friends I had became slaves at the same time I did. I don’t know what has become of them,” she answered as she looked down at the ground in front of her.
A hint of the familiar disdain for slaves returned to the man from the north. He could not understand how one could so easily give up their freedom. “How long ago did you enter into slavery?” he asked.
“About five seasons ago,” she answered. “The slavers came to my village shortly after my mother died. It was such a difficult time for me. She was my only family. I felt abandoned and lonely, and when someone came to my village offering a distraction from what I was going through, I was happy to partake.”
A measure of understanding settled on the man from the north. He continued questioning as they walked together. “How long did the slavers stay in your village?”
Faymia looked toward the sky, recalling the days of feasting and entertainment. “Many weeks. Going to their nightly amusements became a part of my life, even after they started to make us pay for all of the festivities.” She then looked back down at the road, swallowed, and kept her head turned so that it was difficult for Dulnear to see her eyes.
“Did you lose much during that time?” he asked, though he was sure he knew the answer.
Faymia’s voice started to tremble. “Everything. I sold family heirlooms to keep feasting. I even sold our land. When everything was gone, I offered the slavers my body, which they gladly took.” Tears fell from the woman’s eyes as she recounted, “I felt so ashamed. When they wouldn’t accept a night in bed with me anymore, I chose slavery. I believed that, since I had nothing of value anymore, there was no point in trying to live free.” She then used the end of her sleeve to wipe her pink nose as she took a deep breath.
“Is that when they put you to work in the pub?” Dulnear asked as a look of concern grew in his eyes.
“I only wish that is what happened,” Faymia answered through her tears. She exhaled and lamented, “They put me right to work as a woman of the night. I was with many men until Tcharron felt I was used up and no longer desirable. That is when he put me to work
in the pub.” She stopped walking and stood in the road, weeping. Her shoulders shook and she folded her arms, keeping one hand over her eyes.
The man from the north stopped and faced her. He was moved by her story but did not know how to comfort her, so he simply placed his hand on her shoulder as she trembled and cried. Faymia quickly threw her arms around the large man’s trunk and sobbed into his fur coat.
Dulnear felt the desire to alleviate her sadness but had no idea how. He patted her on the back and whispered, “It is okay. Everything will be all right.” They were words that he had little confidence in, but he said them with as much conviction that he could muster.
“I am like filthy rags now,” the woman confided. “No virtuous man would ever want me after all I’ve done.”
“It is okay,” he said again, and he kept his arm around her until she regained her composure. When she did, he offered her a handkerchief, which she gladly accepted.
“I’m sorry,” Faymia said. “I don’t mean to blubber.”
“It is okay,” the man from the north repeated. Trying to think of a way to cheer her up, he quipped, “If you cannot share your feelings with a sword-wielding, giant man from the north, then who can you share them with?”
The woman giggled as she wiped her eyes with the handkerchief. “Thank you,” she said before handing it back to Dulnear.
The man from the north held his hand up. “You can keep that,” he said. “I have another.”
Faymia smiled in appreciation as she placed the damp cloth in her pocket, and the two of them continued their march north.
The next morning, Dulnear awoke to the smell of a squirrel roasting over a fire. Faymia was tending the meat and, when she saw that the warrior was awake, she offered him some wild berries and a cup of coffee.
The man from the north sat up and looked around as many thoughts rushed to fill his mind. He normally would not have accepted generosity from a slave, but was softening toward this one. Also, he was always the first to rise and, though a hot breakfast was a pleasant surprise, he didn’t like that he’d slept through Faymia’s meal preparations. He was both disappointed in himself and impressed by the woman’s ability to move about so without waking him. “What is the occasion?” he asked as he reached for the coffee.
“We should be reaching the Fuar today,” she answered. “I thought it would be nice to share a full breakfast together before we parted ways.” She then tore off a small section of the squirrel for herself and handed the rest to Dulnear.
“I see. Thank you,” he answered as he sank his teeth into the meat. He then took a sip of the coffee and admitted, “I will miss having a traveling companion.”
Faymia looked down and smiled. “I will miss traveling with you as well. Thank you for listening to my woes. I have not been able to share them with anyone for a very long time.”
“It is my pleasure. I mean, I am glad I could offer you a listening ear,” Dulnear assured.
The woman smiled and observed, “Perhaps you northerners aren’t as cold and mean as the rumors say you are.”
The man from the north chuckled and said, “I am afraid the rumors do not go far enough. We are far worse than they say.”
“Then I’m glad I happened upon this northerner,” Faymia said as she took a sip of her coffee.
Dulnear sat up and ate the rest of his portion of squirrel, taking time to savor each bite. He also sipped at his coffee, making no effort to hurry through his meal. The two of them enjoyed their breakfast together and their conversation was easy, discussing things like the nearby flora and the chill in the weather as of late.
When they were done eating, they gathered their things and headed back to the road. The man from the north walked a little slower than usual so Faymia wouldn’t have to work so hard to keep up with him. He was not eager to reach the Fuar River, since it meant parting company. However, by late afternoon, they reached the Brink Road, the road running east and west along the river. It was bordered by grassy fields to the south and was thick with trees to the north. The distance between the road and the cliffs that bordered the southern edge of the river was a morning’s walk and was covered in dense forest.
As they stood where the two roads met, the man from the north pointed out, “The river is just on the other side of the woods.” He then looked at Faymia and confessed, “I am glad that we were able to travel together.”
“As am I,” the woman said with a sad expression. “It’s been years since I’ve felt safe around anyone. Thank you for being such an honorable man.”
Dulnear felt encouraged by her compliment. He asked, “Do you know where you will go from here?”
“West, I suppose, maybe all the way to the sea,” she answered.
The tall warrior looked westward down the road. There was a nervousness growing in his chest. He looked down at his feet, swallowed, and said, “The Contuent Bridge is a couple days’ walk west. It would be much safer for me to cross the river there.”
Faymia bounced lightly on her toes and her eyebrows raised. “Well, I would be happy to accompany you to the bridge, if you’d like me to.”
Dulnear’s eyes smiled and a warmth filled his cheeks. There was something about knowing that he didn’t have to say goodbye just yet that set him at ease. “Very well then,” he said. “But we will definitely have to say goodbye at the bridge.”
“I understand,” she replied, and they walked east together along the Brink Road.
As the afternoon light began to fade, Dulnear decided it would be good to veer off of the north side of the road to find a place to camp for the night. They walked for a way into the woods until they found a small clearing among the pines. The ground was uneven and hard, but it would do.
“We’ll stay here,” he said as he unslung his bag from his shoulder and dropped it to the ground with a thud.
Faymia seemed to be at ease in a way the man from the north had never noticed before. She set her bag down as well. “Looks good to me!” she exclaimed, and began to collect sticks and twigs for a fire.
Dulnear interrupted her chore by saying, “Come for a short walk with me, I would like to show you something.”
The woman set the wood down in the clearing and the two of them walked north through the trees until they reached a steep cliff overlooking the Fuar River. High above the river they could see across to the northern bank, which was a gradual slope covered in lush forest. It was much different from the tall cliffs of the southern bank they stood on.
“There is my homeland,” Dulnear shared with mixed feelings. “Beyond the forest lies rolling hills that turn into majestic mountains.” After a pause, he added, “’Tis a shame such a beautiful place has to be filled with such bitter, petty people.”
“What are those?” Faymia asked as she pointed to a cluster of dark trees in the distance.
“They are the black pines,” the warrior answered. “They have sharp needles as black as night, and they only grow in the north.”
The woman stared across the river with a look of awe. “I’m glad you decided to cross at the Contuent,” she said. “It looks awfully dangerous here.”
“And cold,” Dulnear added. “East of here, there are large rocks and a shallow bed. I have crossed there in the past; but here, the river is deep and wild.” He then took a deep breath and inhaled the misty air rising from the rushing waters below.
Faymia looked at the warrior and asked, “What is your home like?”
“It is a fine estate nestled in the rolling hills of Tuas-arum,” he said as he gazed into the northern horizon. He looked proud, and continued, “The largest oaks you have ever seen grow there, as big as a house and as strong as a boulder.” Then, as the reality of his journey returned to his mind, his shoulders sank and he closed his eyes for a moment before looking at Faymia and suggesting, “I suppose we should make a fire before it gets too dark.”
“Okay,” she answered, and the two of them slowly headed back to the clearing.
After gathering more wood, building up the fire, and nibbling on some wild carrot, Dulnear situated himself on the ground to go to sleep for the night. On the other side of the fire, Faymia was curled up under her cloak, using her bag for a pillow. Without her awareness, he looked at her lying there one last time before laying his head down.
The powerful man gazed silently into the somber night sky. Now that he had stood and looked upon the north, a greater sense of angst and uncertainty was sinking into him. Temptation to run, and avoid making restitution, filled him. He imagined taking Faymia to Laor and reuniting with Son and Maren. He thought perhaps he could elude Tromdel’s family and still have the life he wanted. It was a wish that seemed too good to ever be true.
While pondering these things, something else came over Dulnear. It was a feeling that something wasn’t right. It was a feeling he experienced often, and had learned to pay heed to it, for it was seldom wrong. He exposed the hilt of his sword and rested his hand on the grip. He listened carefully, but could only hear the sound of the river in the distance, the crackling of the dying fire, and the heavy breathing of the woman sleeping nearby. It was a long time before he fell asleep and, when he did, his dreams were filled with blood and steel.
CHAPTER FIVE
BESIEGED
Dulnear sat up quickly with his sword drawn. He sprang to his feet and tried to peer through the morning mist. Faymia was still sleeping, but he was convinced that he heard whispers, like ghosts in the woods.
The skilled warrior walked slowly and quietly past the southern edge of the clearing, straining to hear through the sounds of the nearby river and the morning songs of birds. Perhaps I am hearing things, he thought to himself. After surveying the area, he returned to the clearing. When he did, he felt his stomach sink and his temples tighten as he saw a man standing in the middle of his camp. He was restraining Faymia with one arm, and with the other, he held a dagger to her throat.