Dream by the Fire: Winter Magic

by Editor: Michelle Puffer

  He released her arm abruptly. “I've heard more than enough, thank you.”

  Marta gladly retreated. She hurried to gather a basket of bread and fruit and a tankard of ale for the hunter. Let him eat his fill and be gone, before the little ones saw him. She could not turn him out, not on Solstice Night, but even the holiday could not stop her from wishing him away.

  * * *

  Eric ate slowly. The innkeeper’s wife was an excellent cook. Behind him, the family chattered and laughed like a riot of magpies. Fools, every one of them, he thought. Sharing old stories as if they mattered. Better to let the past be dead and forgotten. If he turned around and walked over there he’d give them something to talk about for years to come. And there would be no laughter in the tale. One night a hideous beast came to our Solstice, it would begin.

  He could feel how badly the woman wanted him gone. It made his slow meal that much more delectable. But, finally, he could eat no more. He turned his shoulder to hide his hands from the family table then spread his napkin open in his lap. Swiftly, he dropped the last of the meat into it then added the remnants of the crusty bread and two apples, tied up the little bundle and stuffed it into his shirt.

  He took out his change purse. Inside lay four copper pieces. He left three beside his plate and tucked the other back into his innermost pocket. Then he wrapped his scarf over his face again and took up his bow. Carrying all his wealth in the world, Eric stepped onto the snowy streets and headed for the moors.

  * * *

  At the place where the grasslands ended and the heart of the moors began, Liesel paused and pulled her cloak tighter. The wind drove straight from the North, and the snow stung her cheeks. When she'd started out, the snow had floated down in fluffy white balls. Now half ice, it flew straight along the ground. But she had seen the blizzard coming; she had planned on it. The snow was her ally. It would slow her pursuers and cover her tracks.

  Resolutely, she stepped onto the moors. The ice beneath her snapped, plunging her foot into a puddle of brackish ice water. Liesel pulled free and went on. It was too late to go back, even if she'd wanted to. She'd be frozen to death before she reached shelter in town. Her only choice was onward, to the ruins of her childhood home.

  The thought of her goal warmed her heart, if not her fingers and toes, and she moved more briskly. Soon she would be there, and then let the lord send whom he would. He paid well, but no amount of gold would tempt the villagers to venture onto the moors in this storm. And none would dare enter the ruins they said were haunted.

  Liesel had no fear of the ghosts, for if there were any in the ruins, they would be those of her murdered parents and they would not harm her.

  * * *

  Eric strode across the grasslands stoically, ignoring the snow and the cold that stung the old wound even through his scarf. No matter. He would catch this runaway, collect his reward and live very well on the lord's money, at least for a time. Nothing as trivial as a blizzard would stop him.

  The wind left no tracks for him to follow, but he had learned from the watchtower guard that his quarry would make straight for the ruins at the center of the moors. To get there, he only had to keep his face to the fierce north wind.

  He wondered about the girl he pursued. Liesel. Funny name, old-fashioned. The villagers seemed very fond of her. But what was she to the lord, that he would pay so much for her return? And if she had run away before, why didn't he have her in chains? From what he could gather, she was nothing more than a bondswoman, practically a slave. No slave was worth so much trouble and expense.

  Perhaps she was very beautiful. Eric laughed harshly into the wind. If the lord was so befuddled by the beauty of a woman, he deserved to lose his money. Or more. A beautiful woman brought only misery to any man fool enough to fall under her spell.

  The wind brought a lonely wailing sound—wolves, howling. Startled, Eric touched the hilt of his sword. Wolves did not live in grasslands and not in this region. Still, he knew wolves well. Timid creatures, they attacked only the sick and the weak. Even a starving wolf would run away from an upright man. They posed no danger. He shifted his grip on his hilt and went on.

  * * *

  Liesel heard the cry of the wolves. She stopped, frightened. Could they still be here, after all these years? They were between her and the ruins, and they sounded very close. She shook her head at the bitter irony. The wolves had been called to protect her, and now they stood between her and safety.

  She reached for calm. Just for a moment, she did not hear the wind or the wolves and she did not feel the cold. She laid her mind on the power and held it like a burning coal in her thoughts. The warmth suffused her body. Slowly, gently, she turned it towards the wolves in the darkness. The coal burned brighter, warmer. Visions came. Dark, cruel hunger, teeth and claws, shivering, gray black fur, icy wet. Carefully, she turned the coal again, turning the visions with it. A sweet warm cave, a pack of pups sleeping all askew of each other, mother just outside, safety and warmth, the comfort of the pack…

  When the vision was complete, Liesel shook herself. She was very tired. The wind billowed her cloak out behind her. She gathered it close and went on.

  Thirty paces ahead, she crept through the pack of sleeping wolves. The snow collected on their dark backs. If she did not wake them soon, they would freeze to death where they lay. Once past them, she ran as well as she could on the uneven ground, until at last the ruins loomed dark in the snow before her. She stopped again, gathered the glow quickly and sent it back to the wolves. The wolves yipped and growled in confusion as they woke. Liesel stumbled down the icy stone staircase to the cellar, the only chamber that remained whole. Snow blocked the big door. She heaved her whole weight against it, then again, and it opened enough to let her slide in sideways.

  Liesel pushed the door closed with her back, then leaned there to catch her breath. The dark cellar still smelled of dust and old, old fruit. She heard a rat scuttle in the quiet. Bowing her head, she made a small fire on the dirt floor. By its light, she gathered boards that had once been pantry shelves and fed the blaze. It crackled higher, spreading light first and then warmth. She sat down in the dirt next to it, wrapped her cloak tight around her, and hugged her knees. As the warmth slowly seeped into her body, she put her head down and dozed.

  Finally warm and rested, she sat up and fed the fire again. Liesel looked around the ruined cellar, remembering when the shelves had bowed under the weight of wines and jellies, dried fruit and smoked meat. Now there was nothing to quiet her aching hunger. The lord had killed her parents and razed the house; scavengers, both bold humans and animals, had taken all that remained.

  Liesel shrugged. She was hungry, but safe. When the storm cleared, she would go to the village north of the moors and find food. Perhaps the lord would not send his hunters that far after her.

  The fire burned merrily in the stillness of the ruin. Liesel stared into it sleepily, letting her mind wander. Solstice Night. The longest night of the year. Families would be gathered together, feasting, laughing, telling old stories. Safe inside against the night, safe together against the long darkness.

  She would never have a family. She was too plain and too odd. No man would ever love her. A cold truth for a young woman, cold and bitter…

  …bitter cold, the old ache in the scar now sharp. Tripping and falling, getting up, stumbling on, mindless of the cold—surprise. Wolves. Growing nearer. No, dogs. Must be dogs, wolves did not attack men—there! Moving in the snow, shadows. Wolves, yes, but wolves would not…circling, closer, bolder…wolves would…sword in hand, good, familiar weight, frozen metal and bare skin. Wolf body there, racing from the darkness, close, too close—there! Dead weight on the sword. Shake it free. Blood streaming. The other waiting. Wolves would not, should not attack a man—

  Liesel shook herself. It was not a dream. Someone else walked the moors, and the wolves were after him. She bowed her head at once, reached for the power inside, but then she lifted her face t
o the fire again. A man on the moors tonight could only be the lord's hunter. If the wolves killed him, there would be one less…

  She felt the touch of her mother. She had been taught too well. A healer may not harm. A healer may not let others come to harm through inaction.

  But he'll take me back, she thought desperately. I cannot go back.

  A healer who wounds cannot heal.

  Liesel sighed. She put aside her bitterness towards the man who would capture her, bent her head once again, and reached out.

  The wolves, aroused and on the attack, would not sleep. But they dropped away in confusion. She sensed surprise and relief in the man's thoughts and then disappointment. She urged him to walk. He resisted. She felt the pain in his face, the old wound throbbing in the cold. He was fearless. He only longed to fight well and die in the snow.

  Liesel pushed at the coal of her power, and finally, reluctantly, he began to walk.

  She thought then of misdirecting him. She could easily let him walk right past the ruin and on across the moors. But she read the dangerous numbness in his arms and legs, the frozen set of his face. He would die if he tried to go further. And so, resignedly, she drew him to her.

  Liesel felt the pain in the man more deeply as he approached. It had to do with the scar on his face, but that wasn't the whole wound. Something worse, something bitter and dead dwelt in him.

  She heard him on the stairs. Shaking off the last of the trance, Liesel hurried to the door. It had frozen shut, and she could not pull it open. Something crashed against the outside, probably his shoulder, and it gave a few inches. The man put his face to the crack. Liesel stepped away, horrified. Beads of ice covered him, and tiny icicles hung from his eyelashes. He snarled horribly—or so it seemed, until she realized that his lips had been cut and had healed in that expression.

  He threw himself against the door again, and it burst open. The warm cellar flooded with cold air and blowing snow. He stepped inside and stared at her, sneering vacantly. He swayed. Liesel reached out to steady him, but he jerked away from her touch. "You are my prisoner," he announced thickly.

  Then he pitched face-first to the dirt floor.

  Liesel smiled grimly. "As you say, sir."

  With some effort, she rolled the unconscious man over. His face looked like a death mask, blue-gray and bloodless. His chest rose and fell steadily, if not as deeply as she would have liked. She lifted his hand, pushed up his sleeve. His arm was blue nearly to the elbow, and she could find no heartbeat in his wrist.

  Tugging his arm, she dragged him closer to the fire, but not too close. She took two old bowls from the shelves, scooped them full of snow, and then struggled to push the door closed. The fire strove to re-warm the cellar as she put the snow near it to melt.

  Liesel knelt next to the hunter and laid his cloak back. She took off his sword belt, his boots and his stockings. Next, she loosened his shirt and cuffs. She found the bundle of food and set it aside with his bow and quiver. He did not stir.

  The snow in the bowls had melted. Liesel tore the bottom strip off her underskirt and ripped it into strips. After setting one strip aside, she soaked the rest in the still-cold water. She wrapped each of the man's extremities in a chilly rag. With another, she wiped his frozen face, easing some of the bits of ice free. She did not pull or tug, as that would damage the brittle skin. When she finished, she touched his chest. His heartbeat felt a little stronger.

  Liesel waited then, taking time to release the entranced wolves. When the water was a little warmer, she re-soaked the wraps and re-wrapped his hands and feet. Again she sat back to wait. The first treatment for frostbite, she had learned from her mother, and the most difficult, was patience.

  He had been a handsome man once. His chin was strong, his nose of good proportion. His dark hair began to curl as it dried. But the scar had disfigured him badly. He had been cut from his right ear to the left side of his chin, splitting both lips. The wound had healed very badly, with his lips grotesquely twisted. Liesel shook her head in disapproval. Such scars, once set, could never be made right.

  She wrapped and re-wrapped his limbs seven more times. It was a tedious process, but she kept at it diligently. Faster, and the delicate tissue would die. At last the man's fingers and toes grew pink and warm. His cheeks were burned red by the wind, but she had no salve for them. She touched his chest again, and also felt for his heart in his wrists and ankles. Nodding in satisfaction, she removed the rags and wrapped his cloak around him. He slept deeply, breathing evenly. She guessed he would sleep until dawn.

  Then she took the young man's sword and the rag she had put aside. Bending near the fire, she wiped away the half-frozen gore, scrubbing at the rust beneath it. The sword had not been cleaned in some time. She set to work with the same patient diligence she had given to the hunter’s care.

  * * *

  "What are you doing?" Eric demanded harshly.

  The young woman turned swiftly with the sword in her two hands. "I'm cleaning your sword," she answered simply.

  "Give it to me.” He struggled to sit up.

  Carefully, she handed him the heavy blade. He inspected it critically and dropped it behind him. "You're the girl? Liesel?"

  "Yes. And your name?"

  "My name doesn't matter. I'm taking you back to your lord. If he's wise," he went on, "he'll put you in chains this time."

  Liesel bowed her head. "So he has said he would do."

  Eric stared at her in consternation. He’d been sure she would be a ravishing beauty. Instead, Liesel was as plain as the moors he'd followed her onto. Her brown hair was scraggily, tangled from the harsh wind and damp from melting snow. Her figure seemed entirely average, under dark and unflattering clothes. Just a common chicken, this one. Nothing about her would induce a rich man to pay ten gold pieces for her. At least, nothing obvious.

  He shrugged. It was none of his affair, so long as he was paid.

  He looked around the large, dim cellar. He could not remember how he got there, but he knew there was no house above. He remembered the wolves coming at him, remembered his surprise, remembered killing the first one. And something had called him, directed him. He had wanted to fight and die in the snow, but something had made him walk on. And then the stairs, treacherous with ice, and the door would not open—

  Eric looked at the young woman more closely, suspicion dawning in him. "Are you a sorceress? Have you bewitched the lord somehow?"

  Liesel would not answer, nor even look at him. He was used to that. People often looked away from his scarred face.

  She had called him. He was certain of it. When he wanted only to die, she had called him here. Something warm and soft stirred in the center of his chest, something very small. She had saved his life.

  He snarled out loud. "Why does he want you back so badly?" he barked. "Tell me!"

  "It does not matter to you," she answered softly.

  "Not a bit,” he agreed, “so long as I get paid."

  Liesel glanced at him. "Even if I had a good reason to run away? Even if he was misusing me?"

  "That's not my problem.” Eric found his stockings, still damp, and pulled them on.

  "Even though I saved your life?"

  He did not look at her. "You did no such thing."

  "I brought you here. I warmed you."

  He laughed harshly. "I got myself here, girl. And as for warming me—if you weren't so damn plain, I'd make you do it properly before I took you back."

  She blushed and looked away.

  Eric leaned back and discovered the bundle of food behind him. He opened it suspiciously. His prisoner had taken nothing. His stomach growled and he gnawed on the cold meat.

  He glanced up and caught the girl staring at the meat. She looked away. He continued to chew, more slowly. She seemed hungry. If she asks, he thought, I'll give it to her. But she did not speak.

  The cellar remained silent except for the soft crackling of the fire. The woman looked so miserable and so p
roud. All women, in the hunter's opinion, were too proud for their own good. Let her starve. And yet…

  "Here," he said. She looked up and caught the remnants of the meat he tossed to her. “Eat it. You’ll need your strength. Then get your things together.”

  “What?”

  “Get your things together,” he repeated with exaggerated slowness. “There’s a reward waiting for me in town, and I’m eager to collect it.” He wiped his fingers on his shirt and reached for his boots.

  Liesel shook her head. “We can’t go out there. We’ll die in this storm.”

  “We got here, didn’t we?”

  “You nearly didn’t.”

  Eric snorted. “Listen, girl, I’ve got a warm bath and a clean bed waiting, and I don’t plan to spend the night huddled in some drafty hole with a witching wench.”

  “Are you so afraid of me?” Liesel challenged.

  He stood up and buckled on his sword belt. “I’m afraid of nothing.”

  “Then you’re a fool.”

  “Get ready,” he snapped.

  “You’re a fool and a liar. For I say you are afraid of me.” He saw her recognize the anger in his eyes. But still she spoke. “You fear me because I’m a woman.”

  Eric flinched. Then he snarled, turned away and rummaged in his pack. “You’re not much of a woman.”

  “I’m woman enough that you’d die in a blizzard sooner than spend a night alone with me.”

  “Shut up!” He whirled on her and grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise it. His voice echoed around the stone cellar. “Damn it all,” he shouted, “just shut up!”

  Liesel struggled, but he was far stronger. He looped the rope around her wrist, then grabbed the other and tied it, too, so that her hands were bound in front of her. He left a short length to lead her by. “There,” he said. “On a leash, like the silly little bitch you are.”

  “Let me go!” Liesel begged. “Please, you don’t understand!”