[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers

by Morgan Howell

  On one such stretch, Hommy left the wagon to join Yim. “It’s nice to have protection,” said Hommy. “You must feel safe traveling with a Sarf.”

  “I do,” replied Yim.

  “And he’s so fond of you.”

  Yim blushed. “What makes you say that?”

  “Any woman could tell,” said Hommy. “It’s the way he looks at you.”

  Is it so obvious? Yim wondered, disappointed to have her conclusion confirmed. Again, she felt foolish for not seeing it earlier.

  “Mayhap,” said Hommy, giving Yim an earthy look, “you’d like the wagon to yourselves tonight.”

  “No,” said Yim a little too quickly. “I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

  “’Tis na problem. Really.”

  “No,” said Yim in a tone she hoped conveyed finality. “I wouldn’t think of it. You’re with child, and you’ve been kind enough already.”

  “You can always change your mind.”

  “Will this be your first trip to Bremven?” asked Yim, eager to change the subject.

  “Aye. I can hardly wait to see it.”

  “I, too,” said Yim. “I’m eager to visit the temple.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “Peaceful,” replied Yim. “There’s a garden in its center with a pond and a rock near the shore. That rock’s my favorite place. It’s very calming there.” Yim acted wistful, as if Honus’s memory were her own.

  “Tell me more about Bremven.”

  “I won’t spoil its surprises,” said Yim. “It’s more fun to discover them yourself.”

  “Hamin says we’ll be there in two days,” said Hommy excitedly. “There’s a whole quarter filled with Averen folk, with a large, fine inn where we’ll be welcome. Hamin says they’ll treat me like a princess.”

  “You certainly deserve it.”

  Hommy beamed. “That’s what Hamin says, too.”

  The two women continued to walk behind the wagon while Yim plied Hommy with questions about Averen. Her curiosity was genuine, and the subject was a safe one. From Hommy’s answers, Yim began to envision a rugged highland not unlike her own homeland, folded by many low mountains and populated by hardy, independent folk. Hommy spoke of lakes hidden within steep-sided valleys; of fierce, snowy winters and brief summers painted with wildflowers; of snug huts tucked among the trees of isolated hollows. Yim perceived Averen’s mark on Hommy and Hamin, as she had on Cara and Cronin—a reserve of inner warmth to counter the harshness of the land.

  Hommy and Yim talked pleasantly until they approached a small village. There, the enmity that Yim had sensed earlier returned with renewed force. Hostile stares and scornful words soon drove them to the refuge of the wagon. Hommy sat stiffly on the wool, her face anxious and troubled. Yim hugged her and felt her tremble. “It’s all right,” she cooed. “You’re safe. My Sarf is here.”

  Sitting with Hamin at the front of the wagon, Honus noted the villagers’ hostility. He turned to his host and said in a low voice, “When we camp tonight, it should be far from here.” Hamin nodded in agreement.

  The wagon rolled on through the village. Once Yim and Hommy were hidden from view, the onlookers became silent. None had the courage to harangue a Sarf. Instead, they stared balefully. At the far edge of the settlement stood a tavern. Three rough-looking men sat outside, taking their ale in the afternoon sun. They followed the wagon with hard eyes, and as it passed, they muttered angrily among themselves. They continued their discussion until the travelers were out of sight. Then they gathered their weapons and trailed the wagon.

  THIRTY-THREE

  HAMIN DROVE his horses for as long as he could, but was forced to stop when evening approached. It would be a dark night. Thick clouds filled the sky, and he knew his team could not find their way on a moonless road. While light still remained, he guided them into a small wood between two large estates. There, he set up camp.

  Honus helped tend the horses while Yim and Hommy prepared dinner. Though Hommy wanted Yim to behave as a guest, Yim wouldn’t hear of it. After a brief battle of wills, Hommy relented and admitted she was glad for the help. Yim gathered firewood and wild herbs. Afterward, the two women cooked while discussing the merits of various plants for flavoring. Hamin smiled as he watched them. “Somehow,” he said to Honus, “I expected a holy person to be different. More distant, perhaps a little cold.”

  Honus gazed at Yim and smiled also. “A caring heart best serves the goddess.”

  “I see that now,” replied Hamin.

  The men joined the women at the campfire. A stew was simmering in the kettle while Hommy stirred it. Yim placed another branch in the fire, then rose. “I think I’ll get more wood while there’s still light.”

  The clearing where the wagon stood was surrounded by trees that further dimmed the twilight. As Yim tramped through the undergrowth, she found it increasingly hard to see. Then she heard a furtive noise. Yim stopped and listened. The darkening woods were silent. Just a squirrel, she thought. She waited a long moment, but the sound didn’t return. Yim hurriedly collected a few more branches and headed for the fire, for the sun had long set and the woods had grown gloomy.

  Returning to the circle of light, she found Hamin telling Hommy about the marvels of Bremven. “…and wine,” he said. “You’ve never tasted such wine.”

  “I’ve never tasted any wine,” said Hommy.

  “Well, soon you will,” replied Hamin lovingly. “There is a special kind with bubbles in it. We’ll get some at the inn.”

  “Bubbles in wine!” said Hommy. “Is it sorcery?”

  “I do na know,” replied Hamin. “Perhaps. If so, it’s pleasant magic.”

  Honus turned to his host. “When you go to Bremven, perhaps you might deal with Commodus on the Street of Looms. He’s an old friend of mine.”

  “I know of him,” said Hamin. “He has a name for honest dealing, but he buys cloth, na raw wool.”

  “Well, that shows how much a Sarf knows about trade,” said Honus. “Commodus is a good man. I thought he might help you.”

  “He may yet,” said Hamin. “Hommy is gifted at the loom. Perhaps, next year, I’ll have cloth to sell.” He beamed at his wife. “A few bolts of her plaids would be worth more than a wagonload of wool—and far easier to carry.”

  “You’ll have me work my fingers numb,” teased Hommy.

  Hamin seized her hand and kissed her fingertips with clumsy earnestness. “Never, Dearest. You’re my true treasure. Besides,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “our daughter will help you soon enough.”

  Yim watched Hommy basking in Hamin’s love and envied her uncomplicated life. Soon she’ll be drinking wine with bubbles, while I… An inexplicable chill came over Yim. She fought to dispel it, concentrating on the present. The warmth of the fire, the aroma of the stew, and her hosts’ good natures gradually calmed her. Yim’s fears for the future faded, leaving only an echo of unease.

  Dinner was festive and relaxed. Honus and Hamin regaled Hommy with tales of Bremven’s wonders until the young woman’s eyes shone with excitement and expectation. Yim listened with equal wonder, though she tried to hide it. Eventually, the fire burned to embers and the soft wool beckoned. Everyone entered the wagon and dropped off to sleep.

  Something struck the wagon’s wooden side, disturbing Yim’s sleep, but it was Honus’s reaction that waked her. He leapt from the wagon, drew his sword, and disappeared into the night. Yim sat up and peered about. A pale, flickering light illuminated the campsite for a moment, then suddenly went out. She heard movement through the undergrowth around the camp. Yim cautiously poked her head out the back of the wagon to peer into the darkness. She could see nothing. Behind her, she heard Hommy and Hamin stirring.

  A flame arched out of the woods like a tiny comet. It struck the side of the wagon and remained there. Yim saw it was an arrow with its shaft wrapped in a burning rag. “Someone’s trying to set us on fire!” she exclaimed. “Quick! Hand me the water skin!” Yim felt
the water skin being thrust into her hands. She grabbed it and descended to the ground.

  The arrow was too high to reach. Yim thought she might climb to the wagon’s roof and douse the flames from above. As she looked for a means to ascend, she heard other arrows—unlit and invisible—strike the ground and wagon. Then someone crashed into her, sent her sprawling, and landed atop her back. Yim was knocked breathless, and as she gasped for air, the person seized her and rolled until they both lay beneath the wagon. Then Yim heard Honus’s urgent whisper, “Stay in the shadow. Don’t move! The flaming arrows are for lighting targets.” Before Yim could respond, Honus rolled from safety and sprang to his feet.

  Honus severed the burning arrow’s shaft with his sword, caught it midair, and threw it into the dark. The flame died out, but not before it illuminated the figure of a man among the horses. Honus sped in his direction. He crouched low as he advanced, for it was so dark that only things silhouetted against the night sky were visible. There was the sound of stamping hooves and the uneasy neighing of the skittish steeds. Honus advanced toward the sound. He saw the dark shapes of the two horses and also a smaller shape in front of them. He stabbed at it and felt the resistance of flesh. Someone moaned and struggled at the end of his blade. The struggling ceased, and what had been a man became only a dead weight. Honus pulled his sword free. There was a soft thud. Honus groped for the body in the darkness. He touched a leg and quickly felt his way up to the neck. He hacked it, just to be sure.

  As quickly as that was done, he scanned about for the flame that had lit the arrow. He knew a covered lantern hid the fire. Such lanterns were not entirely invisible; they required air holes to feed the flame. Honus saw a row of faint red points in the darkness. They weren’t close. Cautiously, he advanced toward the tiny lights. Both he and the archer—or archers—were blind in the dark. That meant the people around the wagon were safe. Honus listened. He could hear no sounds of retreat. That foretold another attack.

  As Honus quietly approached the dull glow, it blossomed into a yellow flame as the lantern was opened and an arrow lit. Its light revealed two men. They stood in thick undergrowth. The burning arrow arched into the campsite and the enemy was cloaked again in darkness. Honus had fixed the men’s position in his mind and charged toward it. He could hear bowstrings twang in the night. Then, Honus was upon his quarry, slashing at shadows. He groped as much as he attacked with his blade. It was fighting blindly—clumsy and desperate. Honus crouched near the ground and swung his sword like a scythe. He felt weeds and saplings part against his blade before it struck something more substantial. A man screamed, and Honus swung in the direction of the sound. The sword struck flesh and bone. A second cry resounded, one that mingled fear with pain. Another blow cut the scream short. It was followed by the noise of the second man blundering off into the darkness.

  Retreat was Honus’s safest option, but he had Hommy and Hamin to consider. He doubted they would abandon their wagonload of goods. But if they remained, they would be vulnerable to the surviving archer. He need only kill their horses to render them immobile. Then, at the very least, they would suffer ruin. Honus realized he had to track down the last attacker.

  He moved toward the sound of the fleeing man as quietly as he could, feeling the way with his bare feet as well as his hands. As he feared, his foe soon stopped moving. Honus stopped also and strained to hear any noise that might betray his enemy’s position. Ahead, he detected the metallic sound of a sword being slipped from its scabbard. He moved in its direction.

  From the campsite came a cry of despair that set Honus’s heart pounding. For a moment, he was torn between rushing to the campsite and continuing his hunt. Then his training asserted itself, and he concentrated on his quarry. Honus heard snickering in the dark and thought of a ploy to flush out his foe.

  “If the Devourer loves power,” Honus said, “then he loves me. I’ve slain two of you.” As soon as he spoke, Honus quietly changed his position.

  “I’ve bagged prizes also,” said a voice. Honus moved toward the sound.

  “That was no real fighting.”

  “I’m not done yet. The bitches were only target practice.”

  Honus’s heart froze, and he found himself straining to hear Yim’s voice coming from the campsite. All he could hear were Hamin’s sobs. Honus struggled with his despair and fury. He took a deep breath, suppressed all emotion, and focused on the task at hand.

  “Women are always easy prey,” said Honus.

  “That doesn’t diminish the fun,” returned the voice.

  With the last reply, Honus gained a general notion of where his opponent was. He painstakingly moved in that direction by an indirect route, taking care to be silent. His toes touched a short, stout branch. Honus picked it up and continued his slow advance. As time passed, Honus’s silence began to unnerve his foe. “Did you care for one of the whores?” he asked. Honus didn’t reply. “Was it the fat one or the slender one? Not that it matters. I got them both.”

  Honus closed in on the taunting voice. He tossed the branch so it crashed into the undergrowth behind where he thought the man hid. The invisible man slashed the bushes where the branch had landed. Quickly and lethally, Honus attacked. It was over in two blows.

  Once the man was dead, Honus rushed to the campsite and was greeted by a stark scene. Hamin sat upon the ground, illuminated by a burning arrow. His face was a mask of disbelief and sorrow. Hommy lay before him, an arrow sprouting from her chest like an evil weed. She bore an expression of surprise as she stared blankly at the starless sky.

  Yim knelt close by, facing away from Honus. A broad bloodstain was spreading over the back of her tunic. She seemed oblivious of it and everything else except the dead woman before her.

  “Yim!” cried Honus.

  Hamin seemed barely aware of Honus’s arrival, but Yim turned at the sound of her name. Her grief nearly matched Hamin’s. In a flat voice she said, “She left the wagon. Before I could warn her to get down, she was…was…” Yim began to sob.

  “Do you know you’re wounded?”

  Yim appeared confused. “I am?”

  Honus pulled up her tunic to reveal where an arrowhead had grazed her, leaving a long, ugly gash beneath her shoulder blade. Honus lowered the tunic. “I’ll need to take care of that.”

  “Why?”

  “So it’ll heal.”

  “No,” said Yim. “Why Hommy?”

  Honus stood mute, but the mention of Hommy’s name roused Hamin like a slap across the face. He stared at Yim with such intensity that she shrank from his gaze. “You blessed my child!” he said. “Is this how Karm shows her favor?”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ONLY YIM’S sobbing broke the awkward silence following Hamin’s outburst. In the stillness, Honus ministered to the living with the sangfroid of one accustomed to violent death. First, he rekindled the campfire. From his pack he took a leather pouch and his small brass pot. He filled the pot with water and set it on the fire. Then he turned to Yim. “When this boils, I’ll make medicines to tend your wound.” Yim simply nodded.

  Then Honus sat beside Hamin, who had ceased glaring at Yim. “Hamin, I’m truly sorry. The men who did this are slain.”

  “It will na bring her back.”

  “No, it won’t.” Honus paused. “Shall I pull the arrow from her?”

  “That would be good of you. I can na bear to do it.”

  Honus drew his dagger. “You should look away.” The arrow had pierced Hommy’s sternum and he feared its head would have to be cut out. This was necessary because Averen folk believed that spirits could not travel westward while iron remained in the body. Honus made quick work of the gruesome task and tossed the arrow into the flames.

  “Hommy will rest on wool,” said Hamin. “She liked that. I’ll get her blanket. Then could you help me lift her into the wagon?”

  “Aren’t you going to bury her?” asked Honus.

  “Nay. I said I’d take her to Bremven, and that I’ll do
. The coins that would have bought her wine will pay for her funeral instead.” Hamin went into the wagon and returned with a plaid blanket to be his wife’s shroud. Even by firelight, Honus could tell it was skillfully woven, and he wondered if it was Hommy’s work. Hamin closed his wife’s eyes, tenderly kissed her, and began to weep again. Then, with Honus’s help, he wrapped her body and placed it in the wagon.

  Honus returned from the wagon alone, carrying a blanket and two cups. He found Yim staring at the fire with a distraught expression, tears freely flowing down her face. She seemed almost as hurt by Hamin’s outburst as by her wound. But with Honus’s arrival, her injury seized her attention. “Blood’s flowing down my back,” she said in a frightened voice.

  Knowing that being unable to see her injury fed Yim’s fears, Honus replied as calmly as possible. “It’s a graze, not a gaping hole.” Then, as Hamin’s sobs broke the night’s stillness, Honus spread the blanket on the ground near the fire. “Take off your tunic and lie so your back’s lit by the fire,” said Honus. “I’ll need light to tend your wound.”

  Yim complied, and Honus covered her with the blanket so only her back was exposed. Yim lay quietly, but clearly apprehensive, while Honus set to work. From the leather pouch, he took two vials. One contained dried herbs and the other a dark powder. He put some herbs in one cup and a pinch of the powder in the other, then filled both with boiling water. He cut a strip of cloth from the hem of Yim’s tunic and put it in the pot, which he refilled with water and set back on the fire. “After this boils,” he said, “I’ll clean your wound.”

  “Is…is it bad?” asked Yim.

  “No, but it’ll need stitches.”

  “Stitches!”

  “Calm yourself,” said Honus. “I was taught more skills than killing. I’ve sewn many a wound, even some of my own.” He gently rubbed Yim’s back, keeping well away from the oozing gash. “The herbs make a drink to ease the pain. It’ll be ready soon.”