by Sever Bronny
Bridget pushed the wooden bowl at him. “Perhaps you should have some soup, Father.”
Thomas only waved it off and lay himself down on the bearskin rug, near the fire. He wrapped the blanket tightly around himself. Bridget watched him, her face a mask of concern.
The trapper finished his ale. “It be late, I best turn in. You may clean off that there stew, just be sure to feed the fire before you sleep.” He climbed the squeaky ladder, soon disappearing from sight. The attic creaked for a while as the big man settled in.
They finished the rich stew. Mya tried to get the prince to have some more but he coughed and only shook his head. They also helped themselves to some of the contents of the rucksack, finishing the jam, a bag of nuts, and a Leyan orange. Augum then stirred the hearth and lay himself down beside the gently crackling fire. He drew his hood and let his great-grandfather’s raspy breathing shepherd him to his dreams.
The Sacrifice
Augum woke up with a start to Catcher licking his face. He fought off the mastiff and pushed himself up, forehead prickled with sweat. He had dreamed of being chased by some grotesquely thin creature that had mauled everyone but him. He was relieved to find them curled near the hearth.
Catcher whined a little and then settled beside Leera, who sneezed, rolled over, and fell back asleep.
The fire blazed away, recently tended to. The others were still snoozing, all but Bridget, who watched him from within her hood, cinnamon hair splayed out on the bear rug.
“How’d you sleep?” he whispered, stretching. He was grateful for the bearskin, much better than sleeping on bare planks, something he’d had to do a lot back at the Penderson farm.
“Barely did,” she said, eyes ringed with dark circles. “Couldn’t stop thinking about your great-grandfather. Look at him.”
He glanced over and felt a jolt. Thomas’ wrinkled head was matted with wisps of gray hair that definitely weren’t there before. His neck was heavily lined, the skin saggy and pockmarked, and his breathing was labored, as if his lungs struggled for air.
“He knew this was going to happen,” Bridget murmured, eyes glassy. “I don’t know how long he’ll last …”
He stared at the frail body of his great-grandfather. Judging by the speed at which he aged, he guessed he might last another day or two. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen at all—they were supposed to be with Nana, training in Ley, Thomas helping. The boards creaked above as the trapper smacked his lips and stretched noisily. Bridget glanced up before gently covering Thomas’ head with the blanket, so the trapper would not see what was going on.
Sydo moaned before being seized by a vicious coughing fit.
Bridget felt his forehead. “He’s unwell, and I think Mya is coming down with something too. We’ll need to keep them warm and give them plenty of soup. What do we have left in the old pantry?”
Augum dragged the rucksack over. Some Leyan potatoes, a couple Leyan pears, and a black apple. “Not much.”
“How are we going to find food?”
“I’ll have to hunt,” he said with a shrug, trying to boost her morale by making it seem like it was no big deal. In reality, he always had trouble hunting in the winter.
Bridget reached out. “I’ll make us some soup. Mind melting snow?”
He grabbed a small cauldron, opened the door a bit, and scooped some snow, which had accumulated up to his waist overnight. He set the cauldron over the fire while the trapper waddled his way down the ladder, wheezing.
“Ah, up with the roosters, are ye?” he boomed. Sydo groaned, Mya stirred, while Leera bolted upright, looking about wildly. “Ugh, slept horribly,” she said. ”Mutt kept licking my face.”
The trapper chuckled. “Aye, he likes a lass’ face like any other.” He poured himself a tankard of ale.
When the trapper turned his back on them and scratched himself, Bridget mouthed to Leera, “Maybe it was him.”
A disgusted look came over Leera as she glanced at the trapper, who happened to burp after finishing his ale in one swig.
Bridget snickered while trying to duck away from the pinecone Leera was threatening to throw at her.
“Sir, where exactly are we?” Augum asked.
“Well, like I be saying last night, you be a days’ walk west of Tornvale, and about a four day walk north of Wellsguard Keep and the Central Spires.”
Augum had heard of the Spires—a treacherous set of sharp peaks that served as the boundary between Canterra and Solia, often patrolled by brigands.
“Now if you be heading north like you be saying, you’d be wise to hike the Summerwine. It’s just west o’ here and would take you to Candledale in four day and some, though you’d have to walk through Blackwood. And you best be on your guard in the ‘wood—doggone haunted, if you ask me, not even Catcher like it in there. So as I says, if you continue yonder up the Summerwine, it’d take you as far up as Blackhaven.”
“So we’re in southern Solia,” Augum muttered. It was a long way from the northern peaks … and a long way from Mrs. Stone.
“What’s that, boy?”
“Oh, just wondering if the Summerwine was a road.”
The trapper wheezed with laughter. “My bedeviled boots, son—it’s a flea-bitten river! You really ain’t from these here parts now, are ye?” Catcher hopped up on his hind legs and pawed at the trapper, nearly knocking over his ale. “Whoa there, you be wanting your meat, eh, boy? Eh? Soon, boy, soon.” He rubbed up its fur with his hammy hands, before turning back to the group.
“I be sitting in me cot last night thinking of me pops, who once says to me, ‘You done share as much as you can, boy, just be sure you save your hide first.’ So I reckon I’d let you know I put down the horse a whiles back. Now it might not be your usual fancy fare, but I have a whole heap of meat left over sitting in the barrel outside. It’s rightly frozen through and through by now, so you be needing the axe to free it. And don’t you worry about it going sour or nothing, I salted the old girl down before stuffing her in there.” He boomed a laugh and took another swig.
“Thank you,” Bridget mumbled, a horrified look on her face.
Augum, however, knew they might just have to get at that barrel if the hunting goes poorly. He added the potatoes into the boiling water. “Sir, could I borrow one of your bows and some arrows?”
“Fixing to take yourself a rabbit, eh, boy? Rightly so—be the man of the house, as me pop always says. Aye, you may use the ashwood there.” He pointed to a small bow hanging by a boar head. “And the quiver and shafts and the like are here.” He pointed at a wrapped bundle. “Can you feather arrows, boy?”
“I can, sir.” Sir Westwood had taught him how to make arrows even before letting him shoot a bow.
“Good, ‘cause you ain’t allowed to take me arrows, I be needing them for the long haul, you understand. But you needn’t be worrying, ‘cause I traded me a white bearskin for a whole heap of arrowheads to them Nodians a whiles back. And in that there sack you’ll find sinew and turkey feathers. Now they ain’t free, mind you, I’ll make you a deal for the use of them. For every one you make yourself, you have to make one for me.”
Augum took the wrapped bundle. “That sounds fair. You wouldn’t happen to have an extra fur coat, would you, sir?”
The trapper wheezed a laugh. “Oh, aye, ‘cause me bastards love to visit their crooked pop and don me coat in the mean—course I don’t have no extra coat! At least none I be willing to part with. I traded all me furs in town for food and the like.”
“Ah. Thanks anyway.”
The trapper downed his ale and watched Augum for a moment. “Oh, all right then, bunch of sorry lumps you are … here!” and he reached up behind him and dragged down six ragged wolf pelts. “Useless to me anyway, full of them holes and such. You all would have to sew it yourself, mind you.”
“I can do that!” Leera said, snagging the pelts from Augum.
“Me too,” threw in Bridget, taking three pelts from Leera.
“I can help too,” he said.
Leera gave him a wry look. “Absolutely not. Since neither of us can hunt, that’ll be your job. Besides, you’ve got arrows to make.”
“Yeah, let us do our part, brother,” Bridget said with a wink.
He couldn’t help but smile as he turned to give the potatoes a stir. “What would I do without you two?”
Leera snorted. “Go mad—”
“Get captured—” Bridget said.
“Maybe even starve—” Leera added.
He waved them off with a grin, glad they were in good spirits as there was plenty to worry about.
“Your sisters be taking good care of you, boy, as they rightly should.” The trapper donned his massive fur coat and bear cap. “I’m a going to do me rounds with the traps. Mind the old place for me while I’m gone, would ye? Come on there, Catcher, ready to sniff out some game? That’s a good boy.”
Frankie grabbed a large black bow, a quiver full of arrows, an axe, and herded the barking mastiff out the door, plowing through the snow like an ox.
After searching about, the girls found some needle and thread in a rusted tin and began sewing hunting garments for Augum. Bridget started a coat, Leera a pair of pants. Augum, meanwhile, started on the arrows, a meticulous process that required patience and dexterity. He even contemplated casting Centarro, but considering the side effects, thought better of it. When it came time to size the initial cuts for the garments, there was no end of teasing from the girls, but he took it all in stride, grateful for their efforts. Meanwhile, the watery soup was served alongside chamomile tea snagged from Mya’s stash and boiled in the trapper’s giant kettle.
When Augum laid eyes on Mya’s pale face, he had to resist putting a cloth to it. She was too weak to sit up, feverish, and shivering. Sydo fared worse, unable to stop his teeth from chattering, eyes closed and puffy. The trio bundled them in what blankets they could scrounge and settled them near the fire, which was always kept at a bright burn.
When Thomas finally sat up, the trio stopped what they were doing. What was once the body of a muscled thirty-year-old now appeared to be that of a withered seventy-year-old. Augum offered him a bowl of soup. The Leyan took it with shaking hands.
“Mr. Stone, why are you doing this?” Bridget asked quietly, a pained look on her face. “Why don’t you go back to Ley so you can get better?”
“You must all witness what becomes of us should we leave Ley.”
Augum took the bowl from him and replaced it with a mug of tea. “I don’t understand, you could have just told us that leaving Ley … does this kind of thing.”
“I have lived a long time, Augum Stone—borrowed time. I am simply giving it back, in my own way. Telling you is not enough, you must believe it through and through. You must all see it with your own eyes.”
“You mean to show us that Sparkstone’s quest for Leyan eternal life is futile,” Bridget said. ”That he can’t bring it back into this world, that he can’t be immortal here!”
“Most astute, Bridget Burns. There are some causes greater than ourselves—” A coughing fit suddenly overtook him. Augum withdrew the tea and replaced it with a cloth. When Thomas put it to his mouth, it came away stained with blood. Bridget and Augum exchanged fearful looks. As the fit subsided, Augum gave his great-grandfather back his tea.
“My life is a tiny price to pay to pass on this knowledge, and mercy knows some sharing is long overdue. It only pains me I am able to give this gift but once.”
They fell silent. Even Sydo and Mya, both bundled deep in blankets, ceased their troubled coughing.
“My poor feet,” Thomas said, giving them a rub. “Perhaps it was unwise of me to have worn sandals. I take comfort these mortal sufferings are fleeting. This part of being mortal I did not miss.”
“Please, Mr. Stone, place them near the fire,” Bridget said. She helped the old man shift his position.
Thomas allowed her to help him. “I am aging quicker than I expected. I am sorry, but you will have to manage finding Anna on your own. I will be with you only a short time longer, perhaps a day or so. Please do not be sad, I have lived a long and full life. This is what I want. It is important to me that you all see with your own eyes that the only real things one can take from Ley are gifts bestowed by the Leyans, and knowledge is the most precious of them all.”
The morning passed with the trio taking turns caring for Sydo, Mya and Thomas, the former two seeming to get worse by the hour, while the latter aged before their eyes. When they weren’t taking care of someone, they were sewing, cooking, or fletching. Mya, being the only healer there, gave instructions when she could on how to best look after them, while Thomas said not to concern themselves with him, instead choosing to spend his time and energies lecturing on the intricacies of the Centarro spell. He also spoke about the Shield spell and the subtle nuances involved in casting it. It was knowledge accumulated from many years of living, condensed into short, powerful phrases in between coughing attacks. As before, Thomas was an excellent teacher. It pained Augum immeasurably knowing these would be his last lessons. He longed for more time together as there was still much to learn, questions to ask.
“… as for your 2nd degree elemental spell, I regret I will not be able to teach it to you as Anna would have wanted. Neither of us foresaw how closed-minded the elders had become.”
Augum nodded somberly, wishing he knew some kind of arcanery that would extend his great-grandfather’s life a little longer.
As the afternoon came and went, he prepared the last of their food for supper, realizing he would have to go hunting immediately after in order for them to eat something other than horseflesh. Sydo, Mya and Thomas slept while Bridget and Leera neared completion on his hunting outfit. Meanwhile, he fletched the last of ten arrows, five of which would go to the trapper.
“Done,” Bridget said, turning over the coat in her hands, inspecting the seams. “How about you, Lee?”
“Just one … more … there. Try them on,” Leera said, throwing the pants to him, needle in her mouth. The girls giggled and looked away so he could pull the pants on under his robe and don the coat.
“The only thing is we didn’t have enough hide for mitts,” Bridget said when he finished.
“I’ll manage. Um, thanks, sisters.”
“You’re welcome,” Bridget and Leera chorused, beaming proudly. He wished one of them could come along, but neither of them knew how to hunt and would only scare away the game. More critically, neither of them had cold-weather garments. That was another thing they’d have to figure out besides the food situation—clothing for the continued journey.
One thing at a time, he told himself.
He looked over to the three stricken people on the floor. His gaze lingered on Thomas the longest. Will he still be alive upon his return? The old Leyan was doing this for them and Augum would not let him die in vain. The thought made him recall the vow he took with Bridget and Leera back in castle Arinthian, their hands clasped over Mrs. Stone’s blue book on arcaneology. The words came back as if spoken only moments ago, and something made him whisper them aloud. “I solemnly swear, on the ghosts of my mother, Sir Westwood, and on those that my father has slain, that I will learn the arcane tongue. Their deaths will not have been in vain.” He glanced at his two friends, both of whom stood up.
They repeated it together one more time in a quiet whisper, before coming together in a tight embrace.
“I haven’t forgotten it,” Leera said.
Bridget smiled. “Nor I.”
“I never will.” Augum let go, attached Burden’s Edge to his waist, and slung the bow and quiver of newly-fletched arrows over his shoulders. He felt thoroughly prepared.
“Oh, and we have something for you—” Bridget reached into the rucksack and withdrew their very last item of food—the black Leyan apple. “Catch.”
&nb
sp; Augum caught it. They were giving him the last of their food. In a year and a few months, he will be sixteen-years-old and a man in the eyes of the world, yet he needed to be one now. He needed to come through. He needed to find game.
Leera punched him on the shoulder. “Get us a big ‘un,” and with those words, he departed.
Sticks in the Snow
Augum pushed through powdery waist-high snow, periodically stopping to listen. Other than the soft pitter-patter of fat snowflakes, there was the kind of stillness that could only come from a forest entombed in winter. Gray clouds hung low, the cold bitter, freezing his breath. The wolf coat provided excellent protection for all but his hands. He also had to keep his hood off in order to hear, even though his ears stung with frost.
He marched west, taking note of the trees as he passed, remembering the blinding power of the blizzard at Hangman’s Rock. What he wanted to spot were deer tracks, but he’d settle for rabbit or even squirrel. Movement was slow and tedious and he found himself wishing there was an arcane way to hunt.
He soon heard the distant ripple of the Summerwine. He pushed on, stumbling across thin gouges in the snow. At first, he thought they were just marks from felled branches, until he spotted the sweeps between each hole, as if sticks had walked by.
He froze, listening to the murmur of the river, concluding that it had to be some kind of tall-legged bird. Upon closer inspection, there was a drag line on top of the snow, as if someone trailed string or a piece of cloth. Maybe it was a heron with a fish?
He followed the meandering tracks northward for a good hour before he heard the sound of clacking. He ducked, unslung his bow, and prowled forward.
The shape of a person moved beyond the branches ahead, wandering as if lost. Back in Willowbrook, he might have called out, but this was southern Solia, unfamiliar land. The longer he watched the way it moved, the more reservations he had. It seemed to sway back and forth, a shadow beyond the trees, like some sort of deranged person.
Suddenly it stopped clacking and froze.