by C. Greenwood
“What kept you, man?” Master Borlan demanded. “The arrangements were made for dawn and we’ve been waiting half the morning. I was near to giving up and going back home.”
The elderly wagon driver showed no remorse. “On a day like this, you can thank the fates I came at all,” he said. “Bad weather for traveling.” He cast an eye toward the cloudy skies and the light drizzle raining steadily down.
The gray mare hitched to the front of the wagon curved her neck around to regard us with a long, lazy stare mirroring that of her master.
“You’ve the money?” the old peddler questioned, extending an upturned palm.
He had a bony hand, which shook slightly, though whether from age or overindulgence in the cheap spirits he reeked of, it was impossible to tell. When Master Borlan dug into his purse and deposited a few shiny coins in the peddler’s hand, the old man snatched the money greedily and pocketed it with haste.
Only then did he show any curiosity toward me. The brim of his hat was bent downward beneath the weight of the rainwater collected atop it and he had to tilt his head back to view me from beneath.
“This is the child, then?” he asked, his gaze critical. “Looks pale and skinny to me. You’re sure she hasn’t been touched by the plague?”
“The child is healthy enough,” Master Borlan said evenly, “and she had better be still when she arrives in the next province. I’m entrusting her to your safekeeping.”
“Aye, I’ll look after her right enough,” the peddler snapped defensively. “Gave my word, didn’t I? But it’s a powerful risk you’re asking of me. If I’m caught smuggling a young magicker over the border—”
“You’ve been well paid for your risk,” Master Borlan interrupted. “Plenty of children around here have the silver hair and pale skin of Skeltai ancestry, so no one should give this one a second look. Just deposit her in a safe magicker settlement in Cros and your duty will be discharged.”
The peddler grunted reluctant agreement.
Master Borlan lifted me up, setting me on the slippery wooden seat beside the old man, and tugging the hood of my cloak down to shield my head from the rain. It was too late for that. My hair was already slicked to my skull and I was shivering like a wet pup.
Master Borlan said to me, “You understand what is happening, child? You’re being taken to a place where you can be with more of your kind, a place where you'll be safe from the Praetor’s soldiers. All you must do is conceal your magic until you arrive there.”
I nodded but was suddenly afraid at the prospect of leaving this last familiar face behind me.
“Why don’t you take me there?” I asked.
He looked uncomfortable and it came to me in a flash that this large, strong man was afraid. Afraid the red-cloaked horsemen would come and murder him as they had my family and the other magickers in our village. Even now, none of us were safe.
A shadow seemed to fall over the day, and I shuddered beneath my cloak.
Observing the motion, Master Borlan squeezed my shoulder with a heavy, work-roughened hand. “You’ll be all right, girl,” he said briskly, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes as he pressed something cold into my hand. “You were holding this the night…”
I knew he wanted to say the night Mama and Da died.
For the first time, I really looked at the object my mother had given me on that last terrible parting. It was a big, fine looking brooch of the type a man might use to fasten his clothing and was made of hammered metal, inlaid with copper and amber colored stones.
Master Borlan said, “You spoke of your mother wanting you to keep it with you, so here it is. Only pin it to the inside of your waistband, where it won’t be lost or seen. I don’t know how your mother came about such a trinket, but there’re desperate folk who’d do you a harm for items of less value than this.”
I noticed he dropped his voice as he said so and cast a wary eye on Wim, but this appeared unnecessary as the peddler paid us no mind at all.
Once I pinned the brooch into my waistband, as instructed, I became teary and Master Borlan tried to sooth me. “Now you mustn’t cry,” he said. “Master Wim doesn’t want a wailing little girl on his hands all the way to Cros. Do you, Wim?”
“There’s plague about. Don’t touch me; don’t breathe on me,” was the peddler’s only response.
“I won’t cry,” I promised Master Borlan and he nodded approvingly in a way that reminded me of Da.
“Can we be off now?” Wim demanded. “I’ve delayed long enough and the weather’s not gettin’ any better.”
Master Borlan stepped down from the wagon and backed away. “Just you mind your word, Wim Erlin,” he warned. “I’ll hold you responsible if any harm befalls the child.”
“Right, right,” the peddler said impatiently. He snapped the reins and called to his horse, “Whitelegs, let’s be off.”
As the wagon started forward, I clung to the rattling seat. The peddler’s old mare was faster than she looked and having never ridden in anything higher than our rickety farm cart, I was afraid of being thrown from my seat and run over beneath the tall wheels. By the time I screwed up the courage to lean over and peer around the side of the wagon, Master Borlan, standing beside the road, was already fading into the distance.
***
The wagon wheels splashed through pools of filthy water as we lurched down the rutted road. The driving rain had ended hours ago, but left its evidence in the deep mud and sodden leaves strewn across our path. The wind hadn’t abated and I flinched each time I heard it stirring through the tree branches overhead, knowing another shower of cold droplets was about to be shaken loose to patter down on us. Occasionally, a ray of golden sunlight would peek from behind a thick layer of clouds and fall across our path, as if to taunt us with its promised warmth, but as suddenly as it appeared, it would be snatched away again, leaving us in this depressing world of gray.
The winding road we followed soon twisted and led us into a forest of firs and elder trees. Here, thick-trunked sentinels loomed over our path, hedging us in like rabbits in a snare, so that I had an uncomfortable desire to turn and head back out into the open. But if the peddler shared my unease, he kept it to himself as our wagon rolled steadily onward, until the grassy meadowland behind was lost from view.
The wood was still and heavy with shadows. Only small patches of overcast sky revealed themselves through the green canopy overhead and nothing stirred the foliage on either side of the road. There was a sameness to the passing scenery, and every towering tree, every splintered trunk or thick stand of ferns looked like the one before it.
I shivered, scarcely feeling my frozen fingers and toes, and wished Master Wim would stop and build a fire to warm us. But he never gave any indication he noticed the weather, and he appeared perfectly comfortable in his heavy cloak and sturdy boots. Perhaps he didn’t feel the bite of the wind through the strips of wool twined about his hands.
I was surreptitious in my studying of the peddler because he made it plain early on that he wanted nothing to do with me. I wasn’t to chatter or ask foolish questions such as when we would arrive at our destination or when we could eat. I had been ordered not to shift in my seat or to stand, as it would make the horse nervous.
Seeming all but oblivious to my presence now, the old man kept his gaze fixed on the road. He had one foot propped atop the wooden board at our feet and I noticed a crooked bend to that knee, which might have caused him to limp awkwardly when on foot. From time to time, he dropped a hand to massage the damaged joint and when he did, a grimace would spread across his features. They weren’t particularly attractive features even without the scowl. His closely set eyes were a frosty shade of blue-grey, like ice over a winter pond, and his long nose bent sharply downward at the tip. His skin was like a faded map, with wrinkles for pathways and moles and age spots sprinkled around generously, like markers.
I was so intent on examining my companion’s flaws that I noticed immediately when his brow furro
wed in concern. Snapping my attention to the road ahead, I was met with an unexpected sight. We had just rounded a bend and we suddenly found ourselves facing an obstacle. A thick tree lay fallen on its side, covering the full width of our path and blocking any traffic that might have passed. The trunk was so wide a large man couldn’t have reached both arms around its base, let alone have a hope of shifting it an inch to either side.
But the tree didn’t hold my gaze long, for my attention was swiftly drawn to the collection of rough-looking men clustered around it. There were half a dozen of them, dressed mostly in ragged clothing of dappled brown or green. A few were outfitted in mismatching pieces of leather armor or chainmail and here and there, daggers or short swords were in evidence. The men lacking blades were armed with quarterstaffs or cudgels and many of them carried bows. They were a lean and ragged looking lot, and even at a distance, menace was clearly written across their hard faces. Small as I was, I had the sense to be afraid.
Wim cried, “Brigands!”
He slapped the mare with his reins, urging her to speed. The frightened animal charged ahead, and I clung tight to the edge of my seat as we shot forward. The road was rocky and pitted and the wagon lurched alarmingly from side to side, and as we drew nearer to the obstacle ahead, I didn’t know which danger was greater, that we would plow full-speed into the felled tree or that our wagon might tip before we reached that point and both of us would be crushed beneath it. Cold fear dug its claws into my belly and I squeezed my eyes shut.
Wim must have realized the disaster we drove toward, for at the last possible instant, he hauled back on the reins. Even braced as I was, I was nearly thrown from the wagon as we jolted to a sudden halt. I had been desperately wedging my toes against the footboard while bracing my back against the seat behind me, but neither precaution prevented my being slung sideways. My head smacked loudly against the back of the seat and I couldn’t help crying out. Beside me, Wim seemed to have been jarred by the stop as well.
“Don’t think about turning that rickety cart around,” an unfamiliar voice warned us. “We chose this spot for the narrowness of the path.”
I gaped at the speaker, an immense mountain of a man with a mane of wild, half-braided red hair that flowed to his waist. He towered at least a foot taller than an ordinary man and, with hands massive enough for uprooting saplings, looked as impassive a barrier as the fallen tree he stood atop. The men flanking him appeared to be awaiting a signal from this giant, but instead of giving one, he leapt down and strode toward us.
Wim glanced back the way we’d come and tightened his grip on the reins, but the big stranger was right. There was no room for turning our wagon around and the peddler must have been reluctant to leap to the ground and dash for escape. A man of his age had little hope of outrunning anyone, even without his crooked knee.
The giant seemed to follow Wim’s thinking, too. “A wise decision, old bones,” he said. “You wouldn’t get far before my friends shot you down. They’re always eager for some live target practice, although I fear you would make poor sport with that twisted leg.”
Coming to lean easily against the side of the wagon, he tapped Wim’s bad knee for emphasis. His height was even more impressive at this proximity and I noticed now the series of long, ridged scars slashed at an angle across his face, lending a hard look to features that might otherwise have been cheerful.
Ignoring my perusal, the big man said to Wim, “Now then, old man. Suppose we come to an agreement that will mutually benefit both of us and speed you on your way.”
“You speak of robbery,” Wim snarled.
“Not at all. Think of it, instead, as a much needed donation to the favorite cause of our band’s captain.”
“And what noble cause would that be?”
“Why, that of feeding himself and his good followers, of course,” said the giant. “I can see you’re a compassionate man who would never deny a handful of hungry strangers the coin to purchase a decent meal.”
“Would it do any good to refuse what you’ve already decided to take from me?” Wim asked, glaring darkly.
“That’s the spirit, good fellow,” said the giant. “Now empty your pockets into this little bag and be quick. My companions and I are wet, weary, and not our usual, patient selves today.”
He produced a worn sack, which he extended with a little flourish, but Wim ignored the offering.
“The Praetor has no use for thieves in his province,” he warned the big stranger. “Steal from an honest peddler today if it pleases you. But I warn you, soon enough you’ll all be hunted down and hung.”
“I won’t argue with you, old man. I’ve advised you to pay the toll. If you lack sufficient coin, we won’t mind helping ourselves to the goods in your wagon. No need to make a fuss. No one will be hurt so long as you cooperate, and I feel sure you’ll have the wisdom to do just that.”
But Wim, no longer cowed, said, “You vermin will see no coin from me and you’ll keep your filthy hands off my wagon. I’ll report you to the Praetor when I reach Selbius and see the lot of you arrested. I see many of you already bear a thieves brand, so the second offense means death.”
He smiled grimly, as if already witnessing the lot of them swinging from a gallows.
One of the listening outlaws, a wiry man with a cudgel, showed his teeth. “Maybe we’re too desperate to care,” he said. “Maybe we’re hungry enough to eat skinny old peddlers before they go running to the Praetor.”
Wim licked his lips as if realizing he may have spoken too vehemently and his hand disappeared inside his cloak.
The giant broke in with, “Enough talk. Let’s see some coin.”
“Never,” said Wim.
The big man shrugged and stepped back, saying, “Very well then. I fear we won’t part on kindly terms.” He nodded to his companions. “Fellows, see what you can do to persuade this old fool to change his mind, without killing him. Murders only make the way patrol more vigilant.”
He settled himself on a nearby tree stump, as if preparing to watch some form of entertainment, while his companions closed in. In a flash, a burly man with a beard and shaved head seized me roughly by the neck of my cloak and tried to remove me from his way. Instinctively, I sank my teeth into his arm and, as the brigand thrashed, attempting to shake me loose, I was dragged out of the wagon and hit the ground headfirst. The pain stunned me and a fuzzy blackness ringed the edge of my vision. Dizzily, I tried to summon the inner flame of magic I had touched so effortlessly once before, but I couldn’t find it.
When the world stopped turning and the pain and darkness receded, I remembered Wim. One brigand had grabbed the old man and was attempting to drag him down from his perch on the wagon seat. The peddler struggled and I saw the glint of steel as he retrieved a short knife from inside his cloak. He was about to plunge it into his attacker when the other man stabbed him first. I stared, horrified, as the old man’s lifeless body fell forward, landing heavily near me. A pool of crimson blood quickly pooled around him.
If I was frozen with shock, no one else was. The red-haired giant swooped in and struck the face of the man who had done the killing, shouting at him about disobeying orders, while the other brigands ignored the arguing men and swarmed over the wagon, quickly emptying it of anything of value. Although I was distantly aware of these activities, my mind scarcely took them in. I couldn’t tear my gaze away from Wim’s wide eyes, staring unseeing toward the treetops.
Someone came to stand over me. He was speaking, but I didn’t respond, and when he waved a hand before my face, I ignored that as well, keeping my gaze fixed on Wim. Had my Mama’s eyes stared blankly like that when she was dead? Had Da’s?
“What have you there, Brig?” asked the redheaded giant, joining the man beside me.
“I don’t know,” the first one said. “A vicious little cur, I think. Bites like one, at least.” He knelt and, with surprisingly gentle hands, turned my face away from Wim’s corpse, asking, “Where are you from, c
hild? Do you live nearby?” I recognized him as the man with the shaved head, whom I had bitten.
When I held my tongue, he tried again. “Do you have a name? What’s your father’s name?”
Again I refused to answer and the bald man frowned, saying to the giant, “I don’t know about this one, Dradac. What are we to do with it?”
The giant shrugged. “I think it is female—a little girl, to be exact. As to what’s to be done with her, I suggest we leave her right here. She’s no concern of ours.”
“But she’s only a wee one, isn’t she? What if she dies or comes to some hurt?”
The giant said, “Don’t care if she does. Children are a cursed plague. But I imagine someone will pass this way and find her in a day or so. If you’re concerned, put her up on the mare and send her back the way she came.”
It’s a long ride to the nearest village,” the bald man pointed out. “Do you think she’s big enough to stay on the horse and keep it to the road?”
“How should I know? I’m not the one with children. Maybe we could tie her onto the horse?” As he spoke, the giant stooped to examine me more closely and winced, evidently unimpressed with what he saw. “Ugly little critter, isn’t she? If we do save her, I don’t think any future sweethearts will be thanking us. What’s she got on her mouth?”
“My blood. She took a chunk out of my hand earlier. Look at it.”
“A revolting sight. Let’s leave the little biter to fend for herself.”
“I don’t feel I can do that.”
“Then she’s your problem,” the giant said. “The rest of us are moving out. But a word of advice. If you’re considering doing anything stupid, like bringing her back to camp, think again. Rideon would have both our hides.”
The bald man was silent a moment before apparently coming to the same conclusion. He rose and turned away, following the other brigands as they tramped off into the underbrush.