by Wight, Will
His sword flashed again, and the woman’s red-marked hand fell away. She gasped. Her other hand followed, and then the sword slid into her chest.
As the yellow-haired woman fell onto her face, she seemed surprised, not as frightened as Simon would have expected.
Not as frightened as he felt in that moment.
The scarred man did not shout or roar, or beg for his life. Instead, he calmly gestured, and the mist wrapped around the swordsman just as it had done to Simon’s mother. Not just one tendril stood up from the ground, though, but half a dozen, weaving up and climbing over the hooded man.
But this man just walked through the mist as if it were...well, as if it were mist.
The scarred man’s eyes widened, and he turned to run.
“If I had been frightened, that much mist might have killed me,” the hooded man said. “Maybe even driven me insane. I hear the Mists of Asphodel have that effect on some people. But guess what?”
Again, the swordsman moved so fast that Simon couldn’t see him. Then he was right behind the running man, and his chipped sword stuck into the other man’s back and out into the rain.
He was far enough away now that Simon almost didn’t hear what he said next. “I’m not afraid,” he said. Then he stepped back, pulling his sword with him.
The body of the big, scarred man joined the others on the ground.
Simon tried to be quiet, so the man wouldn’t notice and kill him next, but the hooded man didn’t even look at the cart. He knelt beside Simon’s father, holding two fingers to his neck and staring into his face.
Then the man sighed, shook his head, and walked over to Simon’s mother.
At some point the invisible rope holding her up had been cut, and she lay sprawled on the ground. At first, Simon was afraid she was dead, but as he watched she twitched like a dog having a bad dream.
The hooded man bent and scooped Simon’s mother up in both arms like she weighed no more than a pillow. He carried her over and tucked her gently into the back of the cart, next to Simon, pulling a corner of the tarp over her to keep her dry.
Simon latched onto his mother, pulling her away from the hooded stranger.
“Are you the Forest Demon?” he whispered through his tears.
The man flashed him another smile from within his dark hood. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
But he hadn’t said he wasn’t the Demon, so Simon kept crying.
“What’s your name?” the hooded man asked.
“Simon, son of Kalman.”
“Very pleased to meet you,” he said. “And this is your mother?”
Simon nodded.
The hooded man shook his head again. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do for her. If it was just the body...but Asphodel attacks the mind. The spirit. It will be years before she recovers, if ever.”
A fresh wave of tears overwhelmed Simon, and he sobbed again. “I couldn’t do anything,” he said. “I just wanted to help, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t move.”
The hooded man hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “It’s not your fault, Simon. Not at all. But you can do something now, all right? I need you to take care of your mother for me. Can you do that?”
Simon nodded again.
“All right. Now, where do you live?”
“Myria village,” Simon responded, trying to clean his face off with the back of his sleeve.
“Myria village,” the man repeated. “That’s...a day or two northwest, I think. I can make it.” He glanced back at Simon and said, “I’ll make it.”
He didn’t seem to be talking to Simon, so Simon didn’t say anything.
Somehow the hooded man got the donkey moving, and Simon clung to his mother’s sleeping form as the cart rattled down the road. Simon had pulled the tarp off the goods, laying it over his mother and himself, keeping them as dry and warm as he could.
“Once you get a little older,” the hooded man called from the driver’s seat, “you should come back to the Forest, if you can. I’ll teach you how to make it so that Travelers never bother you again.”
“They were Travelers, then,” Simon said. He had hoped he was wrong.
“Yes.”
“Why did they hurt us?” Simon asked. He could feel a fresh batch of tears leaking out, and he sniffed, trying to hold back. He had to be strong now, to take care of his mother. Strong men didn’t cry.
“Nothing you did,” the hooded man said, “I promise you that. They were...looking for something. When we reach Myria, I’ll do what I can for you, help you take care of your mother as best I can. For a little while. But I can’t leave my forest undefended for long. Not now.”
Simon clutched his mother tighter. “It’s okay. I can take care of her.”
“I know you can,” the hooded man said.
I will take care of her, he promised himself. He had been useless tonight, he knew that, but next time he wouldn’t be.
Next time, he would keep his family safe.
CHAPTER TWO:
SACRIFICES
358th Year of the Damascan Calendar
24th Year in the Reign of King Zakareth VI
51 Days Until Midsummer
Eight years later, Simon shoved his sword into the bottom of the cabinet, desperate to keep it hidden. He didn’t have much time.
His mother was waking up.
He had secretly bartered for the sword almost five years ago, trading a few old pots and a bottle of wine to a desperate Badari trader. It was a good deal, even for a sword as worn and poorly forged as this one, but his mother could never find out. He couldn’t trust her with it.
Edina screamed, thrashing around in her blankets, and he rushed over to keep her shoulders pressed against the ground.
He held her there, keeping his full weight against her body, as she screamed and cursed and spat into his face. It took a good ten minutes for her to settle down and her breathing to return to normal. Finally, after murmuring a few more times, she opened her eyes.
“Good morning,” Simon said. “How are you feeling?”
His mother coughed, reaching out to the side. Her hand groped blindly on the ground.
Simon moved the wineskin into her grasping hand. She seized it, raising it to her mouth and drinking thirstily.
After a moment, Simon put a hand on the wineskin. “Go easy,” he said.
With her other hand she had grabbed her walking stick, and she swung it now into the side of Simon’s head. Pain flared in his head, and he cried out.
“Who are you?” Edina croaked. Beneath her wild, matted hair, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. When she spoke, her voice creaked like a dungeon door. “Are you you? You look like my son, but are you? Are any of you who you are?”
Simon blinked the pain in his head away, gently taking the wine from her mouth. She was worse than usual today, which meant she would drink more, which would make her even worse. He would have to take care of her while she was still conscious and reasonably sane. “Why don’t we get you some dinner first?” he said gently.
She glared at him. “Breakfast,” she said.
“It’s almost sunset,” Simon pointed out. If she was interested in food at all, though, that was a good sign. Usually she insisted she wasn’t hungry right up until she shouted that Simon was trying to starve her.
“I’m not hungry anyway,” she whispered. Simon sighed.
His mother burrowed back into her blankets, clutching the wineskin to her chest like a little girl’s stuffed doll.
“Good night,” Simon said.
He had considered trying to keep her awake, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort. She would undoubtedly wake him up in the middle of the night anyway, and he could just as easily feed her then.
He glanced at the cabinet, where his sword waited for him. He debated taking it back out; he had only had a scarce fifteen minutes of practice today before his moth
er began thrashing and screaming. Not even long enough to break a sweat. Maybe he could head back out to his spot behind the village woodshed for some more practice; out there, it was close enough that he could hear his mother shout, but secluded enough that no one would notice the fact that he had a sword.
Behind him, the door creaked open. He turned to see Leah, daughter of Kelia, standing in his doorway holding a basket. She kept the door propped open with her shoulder as she slid inside.
“Eggs for you,” she said, without greeting him or asking permission to enter. “And a head of cabbage. Boez had some extra pins, so those are in there, and my aunt sewed you an extra shirt. There’s some bread, too, but I don’t know who sent it. You’ll have to return the basket, though.”
“Leah, I don’t need gifts.” He rose stiffly to meet her eye to eye. She was an inch or two taller than he, though, which stung his pride. His father had never had to look up to anyone.
“Thank you, but I can earn what we need,” Simon said.
Leah arched one eyebrow at him. Though she had the same tan skin and dark hair as everyone else in Myria, her eyes were a bright blue. She was only the second person Simon had seen with blue eyes; everyone else he knew, including Simon himself, had brown. But blue eyes somehow made her look even older, like she was a grown woman and Simon just a little boy who had stepped out of line.
“This is payment for the wood last week,” she said. “And an advance payment for fixing her door.” Leah walked by him, setting the basket down on top of his cabinet and beginning to unpack.
“I haven’t done enough work for this,” Simon protested. “This is too much.”
Leah shrugged without turning around as she folded his shirt and tucked it away into the cabinet. “I remembered who baked you the bread, by the way. My sister.”
“Sister?” He only vaguely remembered that Leah had a sister.
She gave him an amused glance out of the corner of her eye. “Rutha.”
“Right, right, Rutha.” A plain girl, quiet, Rutha usually followed in Leah’s shadow and said little. Simon had trouble picturing her. Leah had gotten all the good looks in that family.
“You can thank her, and everyone, tonight at the fires. Something’s happening. The Mayor and most of the men have left, and nobody told us why.”
“Really?” Simon felt a surge of irritation that no one had asked him to come along, but he quickly squashed the feeling. He would have refused anyway, to take care of his mother, and everyone knew it.
“Really,” Leah said. Task done, she brushed off her hands and picked the basket back up. She smiled at him on her way out and held the door open for him. “Are you coming?”
Simon glanced back at his mother before following Leah out. He couldn’t be around all the time. If Edina woke up, she would just have to fend for herself.
***
Alin’s voice, strong and confident, carried across the whole crowd. Simon had heard the story before, but he still found himself listening intently.
“Three doors, each identical, two guarded by ferocious creatures from the depths of Naraka. The Lost Badarin knew that only one would lead to the highest room of the tallest tower, where the princess waited. He had only one chance. So he turned to the owl in the golden cage.
‘What will happen if I enter the door on the left?’ the Badarin asked.
‘Feed me a mouse and I shall tell you,’ the owl said. So the Lost Badarin caught a mouse and fed it to the owl.
‘I see you enter the door on the left. You are torn, limb from limb, by creatures hungrier and more terrible than lions.’ ”
A little boy, seated on a log next to his mother, gasped. A few of the adults chuckled. There must have been thirty or forty people there, most seated on logs that encircled a huge bonfire. This had been the tradition as long as Simon could remember: the women and children sat on logs around the bonfire, trading stories, while the men stood in groups outside the firelight and pretended not to listen. Simon would have stood with the men, not sat with the children, had Leah not insisted he join them.
“The Lost Badarin searched and searched, then he finally found another mouse. He fed it to the owl.
‘What about the door in the center?’ he asked.
‘I see you enter the door in the center, and leave scarcely an hour later…in a dustpan,’ the owl said.
“Well, knowing what lay beyond two of the doors, the Lost Badarin entered the third. And very soon he knew he was in the right place, for the staircase seemed to never end. For a whole day and a whole night he walked up the stairs, heading for the highest room of the tallest tower of the evil Traveler’s entire castle.
“He finally reached the top of the tower, exhausted and out of breath. But he was glad, because he knew that he had finally reached the princess. He threw open the door…and to his horror, came face-to-face with the evil Traveler himself!
“The Lost Badarin had never seen anyone as hideous as this Traveler. He wore dirty robes, covered in mud and blood and other, stranger stains. His eyes were solid black, like rocks, and his hands were old and twisted. His beard reached almost to his knees, and it crawled with spiders and earthworms.
“The Traveler laughed, a cruel and evil laugh, and he began to speak horrible words, summoning unspeakable creatures to swallow the Badarin whole…”
Everyone was silent, even Simon, each of them hanging on Alin’s words.
“…but that is a story for tomorrow night,” Alin said, and everyone laughed.
Alin smiled and swept a bow, and all the women around the fire burst into applause. Simon shook his head and stirred up the fire with a stick. Alin might not have been the best storyteller in Myria, but he was certainly enthusiastic. Even some of the older men, who were not strictly supposed to listen to fire-ring stories any longer, clapped along with good grace from the edge of the fire’s light.
Storytelling had never been Simon’s gift, but whenever he watched Alin he wished it were otherwise. Story done, Alin sat down on a log next to Leah, who was one of the only girls present around his age. And, incidentally, the prettiest. Leah’s sister—what was her name again? Ruth? Rutha? Ruthie—sat on her other side, and she said something as Alin sat down that made him laugh.
Simon missed it, squatting as he was two logs away. He poked at the coals again.
There were a dozen similar fires all around the village of Myria, each inside—but well away from—the head-high wooden walls that encircled the entire village. The walls were mostly sharp sticks shoved into the ground and tied together, but they kept out most of the wild beasts that wandered down from the desert. They should even do a little to keep out heretics marching from Enosh in the west, but fortunately that theory had never been tested.
A horn-call drifted over from the gate, signaling riders returning. Several people around the fire gave each other relieved smiles, and Simon heard more than a few sighs as tension released.
The Mayor and most of his advisors had ridden out only a few hours before, taking many of the grown men with them, and they hadn’t told anyone why. It was enough to keep everyone left behind on edge, but now the trumpet call said they had returned. Everything would be all right.
The horn warbled and cut off before the end of the note, as if whoever was on watch-duty had dropped the horn. A few of the older women looked up in concern, but Simon wasn’t worried. It had probably been one of the younger boys on watch, and he would get what he deserved later for dropping the valuable horn in the sand.
“It looks like somebody kept the good wine for watch duty,” Alin said lightly, earning him several chuckles. Even Simon would admit he was good-looking: tall, strong, and vibrant, with hair of dark gold instead of the usual brown. More than that, he had an aura of radiant confidence that he carried with him like a torch. He never had to do his chores alone; one or another of the young villagers would always help him get his work done.
On the other side of the coin, Si
mon preferred working quietly, by himself, with as few others involved as possible. It was easier that way.
“Ladies, it’s been a pleasure,” Alin said, rising to his feet. “But if the riders are coming in, I should go meet them. Would anyone like to come with me? Leah?” He extended a hand to her. She blushed and took it, leading to some cackling from the rest of the circle.
Alin turned to Simon. “Simon? How about you?” That took Simon off guard. Why would Alin want him along on what could be time alone with Leah? He couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say, so he just tossed his stick into the fire and rose to join the other two.
With another wave to the circle in general, Alin set off, keeping Leah’s hand in his. Simon trailed awkwardly after.
They wound through the tangled mass of houses that formed the center of Myria, picking their way carefully over casks, tools, and sleeping dogs concealed by the dim light just before moonrise. The houses pushed and jostled together, most made of wood or baked clay bricks, no two alike. In places the homes were so close together that Simon had to turn sideways to squeeze between, but he barely noticed; he had grown up here, and he could find his way through this maze of houses hobbled and blindfolded.
“You had better be careful around my aunt,” Leah said to Alin, as soon as they were far enough away from the fire ring. “Soon she’ll have you married and settled, whether you like it or not.”
Alin laughed. “And what about you? You’ve got the whole village eating out of your hand.”
Great Maker above, Simon thought. If they’re just going to flatter each other all night, I’m leaving.
Alin was right, as far as it went: Leah really did have the whole village eating out of her hand, or near enough. She had come from Bel Calem only two years before, moving in with her aunt in the village. It was whispered that her mother had gotten herself killed, maybe even murdered by some criminal from the city. The bracelet Leah wore—silver, with a clear white crystal dangling from the chain—was supposed to be a memento of her mother’s. Simon didn’t know whether that was true, but it was a generally accepted fact that she never took it off, not even to sleep.