by Lee Bezotte
The man wore a ragged shirt that exposed his muscular arms. He was covered in soil, and a line of black paint ran down his face. He stood silently and expressionless with his blade ready to take the woman’s life.
“What do you want?” the man from the north asked with curled lip and squinting eyes. He gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, and his mind began to design a quick and skilled execution of the strange man.
There was only eerie silence in response as the man stood so still that he hardly seemed to be breathing.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT?” he asked again, drawing his sword back as he took a step closer.
There was another whisper in the breeze and, from what seemed like nowhere, similar-looking men stepped into the clearing from all sides. They were brandishing knives and hatchets of various sizes. Dulnear swallowed and froze in his tracks.
“It’s not wise to challenge the Malitae,” said a voice from behind the northerner.
The familiar scent of musk filled Dulnear’s nostrils. He looked over his shoulder and watched as Tcharron stepped into the clearing and stood between the man from the north and his captive friend.
“These are the warriors of the southern islands? I thought they served no master,” Dulnear observed with disdain in his voice.
“Everyone has a price,” the slaver replied. “And this woman still has some value to me.”
“By the way you were treating her in the pub, I would have guessed she was worth nothing,” the man from the north retorted.
“Let’s just say that my reputation is important to me, and no one runs off without paying for it,” Tcharron snorted arrogantly. He was then flanked by two other well-dressed slavers, one of them carrying shackles.
As the three men turned to place the shackles on Faymia, Dulnear raised his sword above his head. As he did, the mercenary holding onto the woman tightened his grip and she let out a muffled shriek. Just then three more Malitae stepped in front of the man from the north. They each held weapons and took a fighting posture.
The hair on Dulnear’s neck stood on end and he growled quietly as he locked eyes with the warrior who held Faymia.
“Don’t make things worse, northerner!” Tcharron yelled. “I’m just here to collect my property, and these men are here to make sure you don’t get in the way.” He then rolled his eyes and condescendingly shook his head at Dulnear.
The tall northerner lowered his sword. With grit in his eyes, he stared at the slavers as they locked the irons onto his friend’s hands and feet. “Very well then,” he conceded. He knew that he was out-armed and out-manned. His only option was to wait for an opportunity to make a move.
The three slavers began to lead the woman out of the clearing while the warriors from the southern islands stayed in place. A sense of loss and injustice began to wrap itself around Dulnear. He clenched his jaw and once again thought, I’m already a dead man.
The man from the north slashed upward, cutting off the left arm of the Malitae warrior to his right. In a single motion he withdrew a second, smaller sword from inside his coat and used it to slash across the chest of the second warrior. He then cut down the third—but not before the man could plunge a knife into Dulnear’s side.
The fur-clad man growled as he dropped his second sword, removed the knife from his side and threw it at the nearest slaver, lodging it in his back and dropping him to the ground. Tcharron and the surviving slaver threw Faymia to the ground and began running toward the road. “Kill them both!” the slave master ordered as he ran to escape the northerner’s wrath.
Blades of all shapes and sizes began to whoosh through the air. With incredible accuracy, Dulnear used his sword to keep many of them from striking him as he ran toward Faymia. He scooped her up and held her close, using himself and his heavy coat to shield her from the onslaught.
There was shouting in a language that was unfamiliar to the man from the north and, before he could fully stand with the woman in his arms, a man was attached to his back with a long knife. He dropped Faymia and reached back, but the southern warrior evaded his grasp and swiped at him with his blade. Noticing a tree just a couple paces behind him, Dulnear lurched backward, crushing the man against it.
As soon as the southern warrior dropped to the ground, Dulnear regathered his companion, turned north, and raced as fast as he could, picking up the sword he’d dropped along the way. Since his arms were being used to hold Faymia, he could only use his swords to guard his face and head as he lowered his shoulder and plowed through any Malitae that got in his way.
The warriors from the southern islands pursued him with frightening howls and skillfully aimed hatchets, several of them striking the man from the north, penetrating his heavy coat. Through the pain, and realization that he might not survive the day, he willed his body to keep moving at full speed. He had no other options, and he had to keep his friend alive.
Through the terrible chase, Dulnear could hear Faymia cry out, “Dulnear, the cliff!”
“Hold your breath, my friend,” the man answered.
Weaving through trees like a hunted animal, staying only a few paces ahead of the bloodthirsty mercenaries, Dulnear reached the cliff over the Fuar River. He did not slow down or look over his shoulder. He ran hard and purposefully over the edge, plunging into the deep, wild, frigid waters below.
CHAPTER SIX
THE COLD FORCE
The cold water felt like thousands of needles penetrating Dulnear’s skin. It was as if the water had a will, and its desire was to hold the man under. As the frigid Fuar carried him downstream, he shed his sword belt and coat while keeping his breath held. His sole focus was on getting himself and Faymia to the surface before the water forced its way into their lungs.
Like a rag doll, he was flung about by the wild, angry river. He held onto the woman’s waist, hoping that her ribs would not break under the pressure. When he finally reached air, he did his best to keep her head above water while he desperately searched for something he could grab ahold of.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a fallen pine tree extending from the north bank. With all of his strength, he maneuvered his body so that the current would carry him toward it. Just in time, he was able to grab the top of the tree before being rushed further downstream.
The weight of the two travelers almost caused the dead tree to dislodge from the bank, and the man from the north knew he had to make it to shore before that happened.
“Can you grab the tree?” the man asked his companion over the roaring of the Fuar.
There was no response. Faymia was completely limp. The warrior hadn’t noticed before, since his limbs were numb from the cold. He hefted her onto the pine tree and began to make his way up its trunk. He made it to the shallows, stumbling over his own frozen feet. When he finally arrived at the shore, he dislodged the tree and carefully pulled it onto land, making sure Faymia stayed out of the water.
Dulnear dropped the log and ran to the woman. He had very little feeling in his arms and legs and it was a labor to use them as he dragged her further ashore. When he turned his friend over, he saw that her face was blue and she wasn’t breathing. Panic and regret were quickly replacing the numbness as he prayed under his breath for her life.
“Faymia!” he called out. “Faymia!!”
There was no response.
Dulnear raised his friend’s cold, wet form into a sitting position and began slapping her on the back. His heart beat faster, and a tightness in his chest accentuated his panic. “Faymia!” he called out again.
A gurgling cough emitted from the woman, with a modest amount of river water. The man from the north laid her back down, turned her on her side, and patted her on the back as gently as he could, considering the loss of feeling in his hands. When she began to cough some more, vomiting up the rest of the water, a feeling of relief washed over him.
“That is it,” Dulnear encouraged. “Get it all out. Breathe slowly.”
Faymia laid there, stunned. Sh
e started breathing quickly and aggressively, with eyes still closed. “Can’t feel…” she said before her voice became too faint to hear.
“Hold on!” the warrior urged, and then ran to retrieve some dry wood.
Keeping one eye on his companion, he quickly built a fire a little further up the bank, away from the spray of the river. It was a difficult task to perform with numb hands, but he managed. When the flame no longer required his attention, he ran back to the woman and picked her up in both arms. “It is okay,” he tried to reassure her, holding back a look of concern, and a tear. “I have you. It is going to be all right.”
He carried her back to the fire and set her down close to it. She sat, hunched over, facing the heat, and began to shiver. With each passing moment, the shivering became more intense until she looked up helplessly at Dulnear.
The man from the north continued coaching, “Keep breathing. We need to get that cloak and that tunic off of you.” Then, realizing that the woman still had chains on her ankles, he collected a couple of large river rocks and used them to fracture the chains and set her free.
Once free, Faymia’s hands were trembling too violently to untie her cloak, so Dulnear knelt to help. His own clumsy, feeling-less hands weren’t much better, but he managed. He took the cloak and tunic and hung them from a nearby tree to dry. When he returned, he sat down close to the woman, encouraging her to move closer to the fire.
As sensitivity began to return to the warrior’s arms, he noticed that the numbness was being replaced by pain. He looked down and saw that his hands and forearms were covered in cuts and gashes of various sizes, and blood was now trickling down his arms. The temporary loss of feeling caused him to forget about the injuries he’d received from the Malitae. He had also received several scratches and scrapes from moving the tree and gathering wood.
“You’re b-bleeding!” Faymia exclaimed through her shivers.
“It looks worse than it is,” he assured her, and went to the river to rinse the blood from his arms. As he washed, he surveyed the southern cliffs for pursuing Malitae. Seeing no one, he thought that the river must have washed them further west than he originally believed.
When Dulnear returned to the fire, he sat down and asked, “How do you feel?”
Still shivering some, she answered, “N-n-never better.”
Relieved by her playful answer, the man from the north smiled with his eyes and said, “Good. Let us take these boots off and dry your feet. We need to get you warm and dry as soon as possible.”
“What about you?” Faymia replied.
“It is okay,” he answered as he carefully removed the woman’s boots. “I have been swimming in frigid waters since I was a boy.”
“You’re not even shivering,” the woman observed.
“Not at all,” he said as he set the boots by the fire. “It is the fingers and toes that get to me. They go numb in the cold water, and I get as clumsy as a bear wearing mittens.”
“A bear wearing mittens?” the woman chuckled. “Well, that would be a sight to see.” She then paused for a moment and asked, “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
It suddenly struck Dulnear that the sword he had been carrying since his coming-of-age ceremony was at the bottom of the Fuar, as well as all of his other weapons. His coat was gone too, and he’d left his bag of supplies at the campsite when he escaped the Malitae. All that he had was the clothes he was wearing and a hunting knife that was attached to his belt. A feeling of nakedness came over him. His sword and coat had been with him for as long as he could remember. He answered as confidently as he could, “I will be fine.”
As the shivers subsided and feeling returned to her hands and feet, Faymia watched the man from the north as he stood near the river’s edge, scanning the tops of the cliffs on the other side once again. The shirt he wore had no sleeves, and she couldn’t help but notice the many scars on his arms and the blood that occasionally trickled from his fresh wounds.
She replayed the events of the morning many times in her mind, remembering how it felt to be held captive by the Malitae warrior, and the feeling of dread when she saw Tcharron. She also remembered how it felt when she was being whisked off under the protection of Dulnear. It was a new feeling and she couldn’t quite identify it. No man had ever shown concern for her safety before, let alone fought for her. She swelled with gratitude for the warrior and, under these dangerous circumstances, she was especially glad that they hadn’t parted ways yet.
“I do not see any sign of them!” the man from the north called out.
Lost in thought, it took a moment for Faymia to realize she was being spoken to. “Maybe they think we’re dead,” she answered.
“It is possible,” Dulnear said as he walked back to the fire. “But the Malitae like to keep souvenirs from their fallen opponents. They may be searching for our bodies.”
The thought of the strange fighting men from the southern islands looking for her drowned corpse sent shivers down the woman’s spine. She leaned closer toward the fire and rubbed her arms. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she said, catching his eyes with hers.
The vigilant warrior sat beside her and said, “You are most welcome.” He had a look of concentration as he stared into the fire and continued, “There is a very good chance that this is not over with yet. I want you to be safe, but I do not know how much longer I can protect you.”
Dulnear’s words were curious to Faymia. Ever since she had joined him, he had spoken about parting ways when they reached the north, but never mentioned why. A feeling of sadness settled in her stomach as she pondered what the man was not saying. “I understand,” she replied, though she really didn’t.
The woman looked down at her feet. They were cold, but feeling had returned, as well as the awareness that her socks were soaking wet. She removed them, grabbed a nearby stick, and used it to dangle them over the fire. As she was drying them, she looked around and noticed a circle of blood growing on the side of Dulnear’s shirt. “Your side!” she exclaimed.
The man looked down and recalled, “The Malitae’s knife. Fortunately, my coat absorbed most of the blade.” Then he lifted his shirt to examine the wound. It was a deep, clean cut that expelled a small but steady trickle of blood.
“What can I do to help?” she offered.
“It is nothing,” Dulnear bravely stated as he gently attempted to push the laceration closed.
“It’s not nothing,” Faymia insisted. “It’s still bleeding!”
“Okay,” the man conceded with a half-smile. “Take my knife. The tree on which your cloak is hanging has a large scar on the north side of the trunk. Collect some resin with the knife and bring it here.”
The woman set her socks down, took the knife, and briskly walked over to the tree, being mindful not to hurt her cold, bare feet. She followed the man’s instructions and carefully cut off a large piece of the hard, golden resin from the tree trunk, and returned promptly. When she gave the knife back to Dulnear, he warmed it, with the sap, over the fire. He then smeared the softened, sticky substance over his wound. He also spread some over the cuts on his arms and shoulders. Faymia was impressed that the man hardly seemed fazed by things that would have had other men reeling in pain.
The northerner raised his elbow up and down to make sure that the cut on his side did not reopen. “There, good as new,” he assured her with a smile.
The two sat quietly for a while as Faymia resumed hanging her socks over the fire. Eventually, the man from the north stood up and walked over to the cloak and tunic that were hanging from the nearby tree. “They are almost dry,” he said. “We need to put out the fire and move off of the bank as soon as possible.”
“Where will we go?” Faymia asked.
“Into the woods,” he answered. “The longer we stay here, the more we risk the Malitae seeing us from the other side.”
“And then?” the woman probed as she put the warm, dry socks back on her feet.
“It is a th
ree-day journey through the forest. After that, we reach farmland and open fields.” Dulnear paused and took a deep breath. “I will take you to my estate in Tuas-arum. There I can give you what you need, and then we will have to say goodbye.”
Faymia didn’t know what he meant by that. She didn’t know what the man intended to give her. She only knew that she could trust the kindness in his eyes when he said it. “Okay,” she answered, putting on her boots.
The man from the north handed her the dry outer garments. As she put them on, she watched him smooth over their tracks, put out the fire, and toss the burned logs into the river. “This forest can be quite dangerous,” he warned. “We have to stay vigilant.”
“I’ll do my best,” she said with concerned eyes. The uneasy feeling she had earlier was beginning to return, but she was determined to stay the course with Dulnear.
“I do not mean to frighten you,” her companion continued. “It is only that the wildlife here can be quite aggressive. There is also a chance we have southern warriors following us, and, if we run into other northern folk, they may attack first and ask questions later.”
Faymia swallowed. The anxious feeling intensified as she weighed the man’s warning. “I will keep both eyes open,” she promised, and the two of them walked away from the riverbank and into the woods together.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HOWLS IN THE NIGHT
The two travelers walked through the woods for several hours. It was challenging, since there were no trails to walk upon and the forest was dense. Late in the afternoon, they found a clearing just big enough to make a small fire and camp for the evening. Faymia was glad to be able to take off her still-damp boots and place them by the fire.
“Would you like something to eat?” Dulnear asked her as she warmed her feet.
“That sounds grand,” she answered.
“I’ll fetch us something,” he said. He then withdrew his knife and disappeared beyond the clearing.