Randall’s fingers closed on the leather-wrapped hilt of the weapon, which had already come mostly unbound leaving some of the hilt’s cold metal exposed. He gripped it and pulled upward with all the strength he had remaining and pulled it free from whatever it had been stuck into—which was in all likelihood the carcass of the rat.
Bringing the sword up in front of himself, he lunged upward with every last bit of strength his legs could offer and almost broke the surface of the water—but not quite. In a last-ditch, desperate attempt to save himself he drove the sword’s tip into the soft, spongy edge of the bog and felt it thunk into something hard. Needing no further encouragement, he levered himself upward with the newfound anchor point and crested the water, sucking in a deep, painful breath as he did so. Propping himself up with the sword, he gasped several more breaths before slowly dragging himself—and the sword—out of what had nearly become his watery grave.
When he finally reached a section of solid ground, he rolled over onto his side and coughed violently trying to expel the disgusting swamp-water from his lungs. When he was certain he could do no more good in that regard he gripped the sword’s now fully-exposed, bare metal grip and clutched it to his chest.
“Thank you…thank you,” he breathed as he pulled the weapon closer to himself.
You are welcome, he heard a soft, distant voice reply almost immediately.
Sitting bolt upright, Randall looked around frantically as he prepared himself for yet another battle.
Upon seeing nothing for what seemed like several minutes, he realized that his scalp was numb yet again—the second time that day, with the first being prior to the attack of the unusually large rat. When he saw no one else present, he stood to his still-quivering legs and held the sword out in front of himself defensively. “Who’s there?” he demanded in his most authoritative voice—which he was certain sounded far less intimidating than he would have liked.
There was no reply, so he looked around warily. I must be insane…I’ve finally cracked, that’s what it is, he concluded silently. It’s a good thing I left Yordi and El behind when I did; who knows what I might to do next?
He had heard rumors (which he had dismissed as Federation propaganda) about young Ghaevlian/human hybrids of first, second, third or fourth generations abruptly experiencing episodes where they became delusional and then gone on to bring great harm down on those around them. Of course, these people were immediately rounded up and taken to some sort of treatment facility where they could receive ‘care’ and ‘protection from themselves’ by Federation healers.
Randall had always thought it was just another way the Feds kept the ‘dirty half-elven’ populace in line, but his recent experiences had made him considerably less certain.
“Well if I’m to end up a gibbering fool wandering the streets and begging for scraps, at least my friends won’t have to see me that way,” he muttered, actually thankful for the tiny shred of solace he took from his own words
He felt the numbness on his scalp intensify and it was almost as though he detected a sound at the very edge of his hearing, but it was too faint to make out.
Shaking his head when nothing untoward happened, and growing increasingly certain that he had actually experienced some sort of episode from which there was no recovery, he took out what little Redroot he had as he went about the task of binding his wound and trying to stop the bleeding as quickly as possible. The pain was actually less than he expected it to be—although if he was a pureblood human, he was certain that he would require immediate attention from a skilled healer to avoid a deadly infection.
When he had stopped the bleeding and done the best he was able to do with his wound, he gathered up his belongings—most of which had thankfully avoided a trip into the bog, including his still-dry rations—and began to trudge across the mucky bog once again.
He knew his disguise was ruined after having his face smeared by the unusually-sized rodent’s foul fur, as well as thrashing against the bog’s decomposing vegetation, so Randall searched for a way out of the swamp.
Eventually he found a path which led up and out of the marshy lowlands, and was more grateful than he had ever been when the last crescent of the sun finally winked out.
Leaving the path temporarily as darkness fell, Randall decided it was time to reapply his disguise make-up. He felt foolish using the expensive materials when he was actively avoiding contact with pureblood humans, but he didn’t want to risk discovery as a half-elf with an unlicensed weapon—and a clearly magical weapon at that.
When he had checked his dark mask of pigment and found it satisfactory, he took off his outer layer of clothing in the hope of removing some of the putrid smell. Unfortunately he had little luck in improving the burden on his olfactory system, and he reluctantly put down for the night to let his arm have a chance to heal.
Chapter X: Civilization? I’ll Stay Right Here…
Early morning, 25-12-5-659
Another week of trudging through the wilderness brought Randall near a few more buildings and houses, all of which were rural residences from what he could tell but he managed to skirt each of them without attracting attention. There was one near-scare when he was certain that a farmer had spotted him, but the man had not approached or otherwise engaged him so Randall had continued on his way.
He was making good progress, even though he had needed to sleep at night now in order to heal his wound, and was actually feeling cheerier than usual when the first rays of dawn streamed down from the sky above. His wounds had begun to heal quite nicely after his encounter with the unusually large swamp rat, and Randall was more than a little relieved to find them so.
Taking a deep, cleansing breath as the first light of the day fell on his face he was more than a little alarmed when he opened his eyes to see a plume of smoke rising up from behind a distant hill.
He had seen his share of chimney plumes during his journey toward the mountains—which themselves still seemed very, very far away—but this was clearly not a chimney plume. There was obviously a much larger fire burning beneath this particularly large, heavy cloud of black smoke.
So he quickened his pace and situated the sword for a quick draw, even though he knew the only half-reasonable result he had achieved with the weapon was a lucky shot against the huge swamp rat.
As he crested the hill he looked down and saw a farmhouse below. There appeared to be a ruined animal pen of some kind which was empty, and both the barn and farmhouse of whoever lived there were burning. The farmhouse had clearly burned to the ground sometime during the night, but the barn looked to have caught fire sometime later than the house and was still a roaring inferno.
Lowering himself to the ground, Randall scanned from left to right, trying to catch sight of whoever had destroyed the structures but he was unable to find any evidence. Deciding he needed to check and see if there were any injured people who needed help, he rose to his feet and saw that the sword was already in his hand.
Strange, he thought, I don’t remember pulling this out. But he pushed the thought from his mind as he made his way down the hill. Arriving near the nearly disintegrated farmhouse, he saw that little remained of the structure but its hardened mud chimney which was itself cracked and beginning to crumble.
Randall found the tracks of several animals leading away from the ruined farmstead and he concluded that they belonged to horses. He never had learned anything of animal tracking, but he’d seen plenty of metal-shod hoof-prints in the muddy streets of the Rickety.
After a thorough survey he did not find any people present. He decided it was worth a try calling out, so he took a breath and shouted, “Is there anyone here? I’m not here to hurt you; I just want to help.”
Silence greeted him, punctuated by the collapse of a supporting beam in the barn as what remained of that building’s roof collapsed and threw a small cloud of ash billowing outward before resuming its slow destruction of the structure.
“Anyone?”
he asked again, knowing that to do so was likely futile. Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility that there was a child somewhere in the surrounding fields who might need help. But again, he received only silence in reply.
He stood there in thought for several long moments, trying to convince himself that he could walk on by and forget the entire scene. After all, he was no warrior, or scout, or wizard, or anyone possessing abilities which might prove helpful to any potentially endangered farmers.
Then he heard a sound from somewhere at the edge of the field and he turned just in time to see a small pair of eyes look back at him before disappearing into the neatly-arranged rows of what appeared to be corn.
“It’s okay,” he called out, “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to help,” he said unthinkingly, immediately cursing himself for knowing literally nothing about the situation and simply assuming that the first person he saw would be one of the victims.
He clamped his teeth together and noticed that both of his hands were now gripping the hilt of the weapon tightly enough to cause a not-inconsequential amount of pain in his hands. He forcibly relaxed himself and lowered the weapon slightly as he continued in a raised, even voice, “I just want to help. I’m not from around here, and if you’re all alone I’d like to help you find some friends of yours…or your parents.”
If his hearing had been any less acute, Randall would have missed the cessation of the faintly rustling cornstalks. Thinking that the child—or whoever it was—had stopped running away, he walked slowly forward with the sword held low before himself, “I know there’s no reason for you to trust me…and your parents probably told you not to trust strangers, so I’m not going to make you come out.”
He looked around and remembered that the last farmhouse he passed was nearly two days’ travel to the south. The fresh horse-tracks were heading off to the west, so he decided he would proceed to the northeast much as he had done.
“I’m traveling toward the mountains; I’m all alone and I’d like some company, but if you prefer you can follow from a distance,” he explained as he sheathed the sword, after which he splayed his hands and began to move in the direction he had indicated.
After just a few hundred feet he was able to hear footsteps fairly close behind, and after a few minutes he heard a diminutive sneeze. A smile crept across his lips and he called playfully over his shoulder, “A farmer that gets hayfever? I don’t believe it.”
“I don’t have hayfever,” retorted a young boy’s voice. “Mama says it’s the night winds and if I’d come in for dinner on time it wouldn’t happen so much!”
Randall stopped in his tracks and turned slowly with his hands held out before himself. “Your mom’s probably right,” he admitted as he finally caught sight of the young boy. He looked to be no older than six, and he was a half-elf!
“You’re a half-elf?” Randall asked in surprise.
The boy folded his arms across his chest crossly. “Mama says my sons won’t look like this,” he said defiantly. “But Papa says he wishes he looked like me, even though he’s a pure human.” Randall nodded slowly as he knelt down. The boy caught sight of the arm that was wounded in the fight with the swamp rat and his eyes got big. “You need a healer, Citizen,” he said, pointing at the wound.
Looking down at his arm, Randall nodded in agreement. “The truth is I’ve always been good with that kind of thing,” he lied, “but you’re right; I do need to see a healer when I can. Do you know where we can find one?”
The boy shrugged and pointed almost due east. “Ol’ Minnie the Mad’s next to Corey’s Brook. She’s got herbs and stuff.”
“How far is Corey’s Brook?” Randall asked.
The boy shrugged again, “You might make it by noon if you leave now.”
Randall nodded, allowing a contemplative expression to come over his face. “Do you think you could show me the way? I really have no idea where Corey’s Brook is, after all,” he said hesitantly.
The boy looked torn. “Mama says if there’s ever a problem at the farm that I should wait until Papa comes back…”
It was similar advice to what Randall had received as a child, so he nodded knowingly. “Do you know where your Papa was last night?”
The boy looked down at his toes sheepishly. “Papa was in the house with Mama,” he explained as his face took on a guilty look, “but I was playing down at the apple orchard and lost track of time. I’d been playing on the swing, see?” he explained defensively. “I got tired and took a nap up at the top branch of the Green Apple Tree—the one Papa put the swing on—and when I woke up it was dark.”
Despite knowing that there was a strong possibility that this boy’s family had been murdered during the night, the fact that his truancy was the only thing that had spared his own life was enough to draw a lopsided grin from Randall’s lips.
“My name is Ra—“ Randall began but he coughed emphatically as soon as he realized his error. It was possible, however unlikely, that the Federation had put out an arrest warrant for him so it was better if he assumed a false identity for the time being.
“You got a cough, Citizen?” asked the kid skeptically, taking a wary step back. “Gramps got a cough…and he died.”
Randall shook his head. “No, it’s just my throat—I’m a little thirsty, is all,” he explained hastily, and at least the last part was true. He thought for a few moments before deciding on a false name, after which he stuck his hand out toward the boy even though at least thirty feet separated them. “My name’s Marion,” he said, choosing to use the name of an uncle he had known as a small boy.
The boy stepped forward skeptically but when he was close enough to do so, he thrust his own hand out, “Mine’s Timmy—or ‘Timothy,’ if Mama’s mad at me,” he explained, mimicking an annoyed tone as he repeated his full name.
Randall shook the young boy’s hand and nodded agreeably. “Well, Timmy, how about we see if we can find Minnie the Mad?”
Timmy had been correct in his travel time estimate, and they arrived at the abode of ‘Minnie the Mad’ just as the sun reached its peak. The shack itself, set against a rocky hillside, was tiny—far too small to be anyone’s full-time residence—but Randall followed Timmy to the rickety-looking doorway where the young boy knocked three times before stepping back.
“She’s a witch,” Timmy explained as he gave a knowing look and Randall nodded agreeably, doing his best to give the appearance of knowing what the boy had implied.
When the door opened Randall saw an old, half-elven woman dressed in simple, homespun clothing.
“Timmy,” she said, her voice filled with sympathy as her eyes immediately landed on the young boy, “come inside, dear.”
Timmy looked hesitant but he did as she instructed, leaving the two adults standing at the open doorway.
“And you…” she said in a hard, commanding voice after the young boy was behind her, “what part have you in this tragedy?”
Randall’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I, uh…I just came across a burning farm and found Timmy hiding in the field,” he explained. “He said you lived out this way, and not being from here I thought it best to find the closest neighbor.”
Minnie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “The Foulchen’s nearest neighbors are but half the time you took coming to me,” she said dubiously, her voice still threaded with iron. “Why did you come here? Be quick about your answer,” she said in a warning tone.
Randall shook his head in confusion until he remembered Timmy mentioning his need for a healer, and he unconsciously turned to hide his damaged limb. “I…thought he might need a healer,” he lied after a brief pause.
The woman clucked her tongue as her eyes flicked down to his partially-concealed arm. Then a look of understanding came over her face and she shook her head angrily. “Best you work on your lies, boy,” she said in a low voice. “That wound’s near a week old and you’ve not a lick of fever, nor the smell of running pus. Any human would have
already contracted gangrene by now without the proper attention, which you clearly have yet to receive.” Randall felt himself flush and made to protest, but Minnie held up a finger irritably. “Don’t bother with more lies; you’ll merely insult me. You’ve done well enough for the boy, so it’s no concern of mine what problems you run from—as long as you don’t bring them to my doorstep. Are we clear?”
Randall thought about lying, but his shoulders slumped and he nodded in resignation. The very first person I encounter sees through my deception in less than a minute, he lamented silently.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” she cackled as she went inside her tiny shack, “I am a witch after all. Come in for a spell; I’ve just started some midday stew.”
More than a little unnerved, Randall stepped inside the woman’s ‘home,’ and was more than a little shocked at what he saw. At first it seemed that the shack was twenty times the size on the inside as it looked on the outside!
But after a moment’s appraisal, he felt himself turn red again beneath his mask of dark pigments. The woman’s ‘house’ was actually a cave, and the ‘shack’ he had seen was nothing but her entryway.
“You’re not the first to be taken aback, I assure you,” she said dismissively as she moved to a large, iron pot set over a small fire. Timmy was sitting on a small bench beside what was probably the kitchen table, and he was playing with some sort of a stuffed blackbird. “Timmy,” Minnie snapped, and the boy put the bird down so quickly he almost dropped it on the floor. “That’s a good boy,” she said in a croaking voice which was much more suited to her appearance than the strong, commanding one Randall had heard at the doorway.
The woman took a small slip of paper from the cluttered tabletop and tore a narrow section the length and breadth of a finger from it before scribbling a message of some kind.
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 13