The woodlands are free to roam by the generosity of our Lord Marshal, so you are welcome share and use as you will.”
Nervously Nicholas walked to his pack, and took out his own clothes; his fingers touching the throwing knife.
The woodcutter spoke again. “I am not a man who hides his questions, so mine to you is this, are you the one they at the bridge seek?”
“What manner of person is it that?” Nicholas replied, his fingers closing around the handle.
The woodcutter spoke as he went about casually adding timber to the fire. “O come friend. Do me the kindness in replying in truth for you surely know that they seek a foul murderer of ten or more people, including his own family? And then would you believe posing as a respected member of the Marshals own guard no less.”
Nicholas saw that the man had not moved the uniform, and that the flames had almost consumed the outer layers. “And what if you had found the one they seek?” said Nicholas. He was dressed now, the knife held comfortably close to his hand, but hidden from the woodcutter.
“But as I have just made clear to say, the man they seek wears the uniform of the guard.” The woodcutter said as he deliberately prodded the bundle towards the center of the flames. “And I can see for myself that you do not. But if by happen you were, then I would ask if that uniform had been taken from one of your ten victims. Yes: that would be my question.” The voice held no fear, and even a trace of humour.
Nicholas sat opposite the woodcutter. “Then If I was that person I would reply that it was from my only victim; and an action not taken lightly.”
“Then let us suppose: if you were that person that you would deny guilt for the others; and say it is a fabrication?”
“I would, and I would also say that others have died because of me, but not ten. My honored and admired father; my dear mother and my adored elder brother, all three lay beneath the earth we as a family labored and loved, and where also but by the intervention of fate, I should be too.”
“Then by the death of this guard, is revenge taken?”
“No; it was an accident. Though sometimes… if I was that person, I wish vengeance had been sated, as the blame truly lies with those above him. It is possible; nay likely that I should join my family before retribution is finally paid?”
“Then… if you were that person my wishes of a long life would be yours.”
Nicholas shrugged. “The truth is that I am that man, and though to this time I have had a wonderful life, I now feel dead inside; so death itself holds no fear for me. If that is my future I only ask that before that time, I can repay the wrong against my family.”
“I truly offer my sympathy and friendship, for I have no love of the guard; they and their minions treat the people of my village bitterly.” The tone of his voice had changed. “Come, sit; to slay on such a scale as is claimed you have done would make any man tired and hungry.”
Nicholas relaxed a little, but still slipped the knife into his waistband under his shirt. It felt good to be wearing clothes of his own again.
The woodcutter had opened his pack, and taken some fruit from it. “I am not a rich man, but I have sufficient food to share, and I ask you to share it with me.”
“Thank you but I do not need all charity. In my pack I have flour to bake, and a flagon of ale.”
“Then I envy the life of a fugitive, for together we shall have a feast fit for a prince of the old royal houses,” he was laughing now, and Nicholas could not help himself but to join him. “Mark; of the family Gamboll: of Athernway,” he introduced himself. “At your service.”
“Nicholas of the family Day: lately from distant Boramulla; although now I am the last of that line, at yours.”
“It is said that something shared is something halved, so share your sorry tale with me if you will; if the pain of telling not be too great.”
Nicholas told Mark of all that had happened while the bread baked, and they drank the ale. He said nothing of his capture by the mob, or of the terrible wounds which he received at their hands; or of Reigel, and his healing powers. This part of his tale was too strange, still even to him. At the end he felt as if a small part of his sorrow had gone.
“It is a sad story, but not one that I am unaccustomed to hearing.” Mark said softly. “I have met many travelers while about my work, and tales of false accusations and treachery many do tell. Times past I did not believe, and thought these men with a grudge against the guard, and all they protect.” He became quiet, as one who remembers a time of heartbreak will often do. Then he spoke again. “Two seasons ago, my village was accused of supplying the rebels when they came down from the mountain. Rather betrayed, I should say, for the accusation was true. The guard came in with the Veldt at their side, and when none would step forward to answer for this so called crime they made a ballot of families from the village; and from that they picked ten, and killed them all: man, woman and child: young and old. And when their creatures complained that the women were killed with their husbands, brothers and son’s instead of taken as booty for them, the guards picked five others for their pleasure. My young wife was one. I have not seen her since, and am now but a shell.”
Nicholas had lost his appetite as he listened to the man’s recollections.
Mark looked up at Nick. “What a melancholy tale I tell,” he smiled a sad smile. “Truth is there are no more tears left, but if some day I may help the hand that strikes where I could not, then I would rest in my grave with pleasure.”
Nicholas wanted to say something comforting, but there were no words that expressed the empathy he felt for Mark. “You speak of rebels?” He said: anxious to change the subject, as much as to have information. “Do you know more?”
“Not a great deal: they never asked again for assistance, though if they had I for one would have given it freely. But I hear now and again that they are still above the snow line.”
“You said two years ago. Did you see any of these rebels?” He thought of Simeon.
“No. I regret that at that time I had no care to be a part of any rebellion. I already had all that a man could have needed. But if you seek sanctuary with them, and I suspect that is your intention. I know of one thing that I have told no other. The track behind...” He looked to the side of Nick. “Across the river it leads into the mountain, that way was not cut by me or by anyone I know; though to those without that knowledge it appears it has. Follow it and it may lead you where you wish to go?”
The conversation trailed off as both men retreated to their own dreams and memories.
Suddenly Nicholas stood. “Mark time passes, it will be dark soon and I did promise myself to bathe this day, and even though you; as a good host may not have spoken of it, I believe I have an odor greater than the horse I have ridden.”
Mark smiled. “I was loath to mention such, but now you have brought it to the conversation.”
Nick was laughing to himself as he walked over to the falls. He stripped again, and stepped under the chill water. It was as if a thousand icy needles punctured his skin. His body shook in shock but he called out loudly. “Aye. I needed this.”
Mark replied with a smile. The sun had set below the trees and though darkness was encroaching the clearing rapidly, the campfire lit up his face clearly; and all that happened from that moment.
The horse heard, or sensed it first, its head rearing upwards in an uneasy way. Mark apparently second, as he halted his rolling out his bedroll. Finally the noise penetrated the roar of the waterfall. It was a low whining sound that rapidly grew stronger.
Nicholas stood still, his mind trying to make sense of the sound when the fire reflected off something shiny as a mirror in the sky, just above the treetops. Suddenly the campsite was illuminated in a brilliant light. Mark stood; his arms and hand over his eyes against the brilliance. Without warning a thin line of red light shone from the sky to him. He screamed in agony, and fell to the ground.
The scene remained lit for a few moments more; then it wa
s dark and all was still again: except for one small light as like a window, through it an image of a man walking away hung in the sky for a moment longer; before the noise faded away.
Nicholas stood looking at the campfire, torrential water still pouring over him, but he had lost all recollection or feeling of it.
More Quone-Loc-Sie, and other novels and stories by John Stevenson can be found by visiting
www.caelin-day.com
www.Australianstoryteller.com
www.Australianstorywriter.com
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