by Liz McCraine
He was still upset with her, as was apparent in the way he forced himself to turn in her direction, a look of annoyance on his face at being delayed from whatever task he had been about. He was too well-mannered to ignore her comment.
“Why is that?” he asked, impatiently. “My men dine on little more than meat and bread on every journey they make. Fresh produce is a treat.”
“But they shouldn’t eat them,” she pressed.
“Listen,” he said, forcefully. “I don’t know what you’ve got against the berries. You can plainly see they are enjoyable. And we’re not so ignorant that we don’t know that the sweet berries are good to eat, while the bitter ones are poisonous. These are obviously very sweet.” He nodded his head towards the scout who held a bag of the large, round, purple berries in his hands. Knights were grabbing handfuls of the produce, clearly enjoying the fruit as they went about setting up camp.
“Whatever issues you’ve got at the moment,” he continued, “I don’t appreciate you taking them out on my men. They’ve been traveling long and hard, and miss the taste of good cooking, no thanks to you.” He looked pointedly at her. “Don’t begrudge them a bit of pleasure.”
“It’s not that I doubt they are sweet, or that your men feel the need for them after being on the road for so long. It’s just that I’ve made a life of studying plants and their properties as part of my trade. I’ve never seen a berry like that.”
“And this affects the situation, how?”
“I just don’t want your men to get sick. Different sometimes means dangerous.”
“You’ve given your warning, but forgive me if I pay no attention to it. I have more important things to see to, and my men will eat what they like.” He dismissed her.
Lara watched him approach a knight who was busy replacing a lost shoe on one of the horses. Does he have to be so arrogant? she wondered.
Maybe she’d misjudged the berries. From the distance of the wagon, they looked not only oddly large and too deeply purple to be a normal berry from the area, but their unique roundness made them appear almost similar to Signon’s foolsberries—a berry native to the kingdom of Signon that simulated tasty, healthy fruit, but was in actuality a noxious weed and produced brief but severe cramping and sickness. Foolsberries would be unfamiliar to anyone who hadn’t either traveled to Signon or intently studied plants, which Larra had.
It had been a long day. She’d spent it recalling recipes for potions and tonics, how to apply poultices so that they didn’t leave a rash, and naming useful herbs alphabetically—whatever it took to keep her mind off of her future, and off the tall, dark man she couldn’t seem to ignore. No doubt the berries were a figment of her imagination brought on by sheer exhaustion. She hoped that someone would come soon to take her to the river. It was getting dark now, and she desperately wanted to wash the cobwebs from her mind.
Christoff wondered why the pang in his heart was resurrected every time he looked at her. Different sometimes means dangerous. How well he knew. Had he ever confronted anything as dangerous as this one girl, who was so different from any other? He’d spent the day spinning her lies and Smithen’s errant actions around in his head like a windmill, trying to make sense of them. But he kept coming to the same conclusion he’d reached at the river two nights before: they were working together. They were partners. Deceivers.
How ironic that despite knowing she was lying to him, he still couldn’t seem to help the attraction he felt for her.
The day had been too long, and he was dirty, sweaty and weary. In the two days since he’d suspected that Larra and Smithen were partners, he had been on constant watch to prevent any escape attempt. To help matters, he had kept Smithen on scout duty each day.
Scouts were very important. Christoff always sent two men to ride a short distance ahead of the group, keeping their eyes out for potential problems along the trail such as wild beasts, road blockage, or robbers. The scouts also carried a horn and sounded it if there was an issue. Two blows of a horn signaled a non-threatening problem, three blows signaled an attack. As the sun began to set, the scouts were also responsible for selecting the best location to make camp. Once they found an area, they would wait for the rest of the group to catch up.
Just as Christoff rotated various tasks among his men, scouting was no different. But Christoff felt no qualms about dispensing with tradition and keeping Smithen on the assignment. It was a win-win situation. It relieved Christoff of some of the pressure he felt trying to keep the soldier and witch separated, and it let some of his more trustworthy knights, who would have otherwise taken a turn to scout, stay with the group. The scouts were not disposable, but there was certainly a higher risk in riding ahead into parts unknown. Not that Christoff wished any harm to come to the soldier. After all, he considered himself a fair man, and Smithen had done nothing obvious—yet. And of course there was a second scout with him, one of Christoff’s knights that he liked and wouldn’t want to see harmed.
As predicted, the day had gone smoothly; the scouts found a good spot for camp, moderately clear and flat and not many yards from the river. And even better, they had found some berry bushes in the vicinity of the camp. The same berries Larra was now warning him to not eat.
The sickness began soon after the men finished rolling out their bedrolls. They had not yet eaten dinner, Smithen and another man having just returned with two of the wolfhounds and a couple of fat pheasants. Again, Christoff had solved some of his most immediate problems by sending Smithen away from the camp as soon as he had finished scouting. Why let the man wander around the camp while everyone was busy unsaddling and clearing the ground, possibly getting into contact with the witch when he could instead be out hunting for their supper?
It seemed the minute Smithen returned, fresh kill held in his hand by their tail feathers, that the others began to complain of stomach cramps. One by one they dropped like flies, clutching their bellies as if to keep them from turning inside out. Some threw up, running to the bushes just in the nick of time, and all were laid low and incapable of even the slightest defense.
The men, strong, well-developed fighting men, had been turned into helpless babies in a matter of minutes. He prayed there would be no danger from the woods. Should they be attacked by an enemy or beast, they would be dead men. Luckily, carnies did not travel this close to the river, or the stench of sickness would have drawn them in large numbers and they would have feasted on the sick like starving men at a banquet.
Christoff went from one man to the next, checking for fever and pushing away swords so they wouldn’t roll over the sharp blades in their hurry to spit out the vile berries that were undoubtedly causing their pain. It seemed the only ones unaffected by the illness were Smithen, Larra, and himself. Smithen hadn’t had opportunity to eat the fruit, as he had been hunting. Larra had refused, based on her doubts of the plant itself, and Christoff simply hadn’t taken the time to try them for himself, partly because he had been busy issuing orders, and partly, he admitted with some shame, because the girl’s warning had casted doubts, however unwillingly received, into the backmost portion of his mind.
“Smithen!” he yelled at the returning man. “These men are all ill. Get down to the river immediately and haul back as much water as you can. We’ve got to get them cooled down.” He quickly began removing armor and boots from the men, trying to get as much of the cool evening air flowing over their skin as possible. The downside of being a knight was that the armor they wore was heavy and not at all breathable. Luckily, some of the men had already removed theirs when they’d dismounted.
Making his way around the camp, he decided that in this particular instance it would be wise to abandon Lucien’s warnings and request help from the witch. Larra was, after all, a healer. Witch or no, she’d been living with her grandmother and had been raised to help people with all matter of sicknesses. She must know something that could help speed the men’s recovery without having to use her magic. She had known about the b
erries, so it was likely she would know a remedy. He could even offer her something, a trade of some sort, to sway her to aid the men. Perhaps he could offer to purchase her a pair of shoes when they reached the city, or send a note to her grandmother on her behalf.
He looked up from the man he was helping and toward the cage where she had been tied, waiting for her chance to go to the river. Then he went deathly still.
She was not there.
He looked again, glancing to both sides of the wagon, darting his gaze below the axle. Where had she gone?
Suddenly, he knew.
Smithen!
Panic filled her, verging on full-blown hysteria. The beefy arm wrapped around her neck was choking her as it dragged her through the undergrowth of the forest and to the river. Not five minutes earlier, Larra had wished desperately to touch that fresh, flowing water and wash the trail dust away. Now she could barely think for the fear that had overcome her. Her hands pulled desperately at the iron grip around her neck, fingernails scratching at skin and pulling hairs, but to no avail. She couldn’t breathe, much less yell for help.
Smithen had grabbed her quickly, cutting her bonds while the captain was looking after his men. Without a second glance, he had jerked her away from the wagon and began rapidly moving towards the river. Larra knew what would happen when they got there.
She tried kicking, her legs swinging wildly around him like the branches of a willow tree in a hurricane. They struck blindly at the giant dragging her toward her death, but without result.
He didn’t say anything until they reached the water, which looked blurry through the tears of desperation in her eyes. She assumed his silence was to keep the captain from hearing them as they left. But now that they were far enough from the camp, he had no reason to keep quiet.
“It was pure luck that I found those berries during my scouting. Good thing I’m a native of Signon or I wouldn’t have known about their spectacular little qualities. Unfortunately, I don’t have as much time as I’d hoped for. What a pity; this could have been much more enjoyable. Now it’ll just have to be quick.”
Even as he spoke, she felt the earth tilt about her and she found herself crashing down into the water. Strong hands grasped either side of her shoulders, pinning her arms and holding her below the surface. Her last thought before she blacked out was that she wished she could have done more with her life.
Christoff knew he would find them faster on foot than if he had taken the time to saddle a horse. The dogs caught the trail immediately, heading toward the river, and Christoff ran after them. His single most important duty was to return the girl to his father, and he would not fail. Honor and obedience above all else. At the moment, both were clouded by anger.
Had they set this up? As he ran, he thought of Smithen and wondered if the soldier had known the berries were poisonous, if this was part of his plan to get Larra away from camp. It seemed so unlikely, yet the evidence was starting to point in that direction. It was even possible that Larra had used her magic to make the berries poisonous. He had a dozen sick men, most of whom were good friends, lying sick and helpless in an open clearing in the woods. They could be attacked by anything and they would not survive. How dare she bring his men into such danger! How dare she use her magic! Beauty or no, seemingly innocent or not, he would mete out the appropriate punishment when he found her. What a fool he was to have come to like her, respect her, when all the while she was planning to escape.
The hounds howled, acknowledging that their target was close at hand. Christoff could make out the glitter of the setting sun on water through the trees and burst ahead through the branches, only to stop dead in his tracks.
There was Smithen, standing waist deep in the river, the veins bulging from his arms as he held his captive down under the water. He saw the thrashing of limbs and the heavy cling of wet, purple fabric to the front of Smithen’s body. Tips of long, dark hair were surfacing above the silky depths of the river where his arms were buried.
It didn’t take long for Christoff to take in the scene, and he felt his stomach drop and fear stab through his chest like a sharp knife. Then he was running again, his feet searching for balance along the stone-scattered bank.
His dogs would reach Smithen first, he knew. Their large paws were better for running over ground made slippery by wet rocks. The soldier wasn’t aware of their ever-quickening approach, so intent was he on drowning the girl in his hands that he didn’t even hear the barking.
As if in slow motion, Christoff watched as one of the hounds leapt into the air, water dripping from its stomach and legs as it hurled itself onto the bulky shoulders of the murderous brute. Smithen was thrown off balance, releasing his grasp on Larra to defend himself against the teeth-baring beast. Dog and man both crashed into the water as Smithen lost his footing, splashing the second dog that spun up and down the bank, watching and waiting for the enemy to break away.
“Retrieve!” Christoff shouted. The dog from the bank ran into the water, grasping at a limb and helping to pull the man ashore. Two attacking beasts were far more than Smithen could handle, and he was soon on his back on the rocky bank, one dog holding his throat and the other his leg by the time Christoff arrived.
“Hold!” he commanded. He didn’t want this man dead, not yet; though he certainly felt no guilt over the blood seeping from teeth wounds at his shoulder, neck and legs. His dogs were well trained and would keep the man held down for however long Christoff required. And they would have to keep him for some time, because Christoff had a more pressing matter to attend to.
Christoff swiftly approached the floating mass of purple fabric and dark hair. With both arms, he grabbed Larra’s limp body and jerked her out of the water. Pale white skin peeked between the clumps of dark hair webbed about her face, and Christoff felt an overwhelming sense of hopelessness that not only had he failed in his duty to bring the girl to his father, but failed to fulfill a deeper, more important duty. A duty to keep this beautiful creature alive and safe.
He pushed aside his grief and strode to a patch of long grass at the edge of the bank. He knelt onto the grass, Larra’s body cradled in his arms, and placed her face down over his lap so that her torso was covering his bended legs. He placed both hands roughly to her back and began a hard, rhythmic pressure up and down, pushing her against the tops of his thighs. The pressure forced the water to expel from her filled lungs and within moments she began coughing.
At that hoarse, desperate sound, Christoff’s despair gave way to a great wave of relief, leaving him exhausted and lightheaded. He leaned back, his head tipping up to the sky as he uttered a silent prayer of thanks. Then, reaching for the gasping girl, he pulled her up from across his lap and into his strong arms, pressing her tight against his chest. She was cold and wet and trembling, yet he had never held anything so precious in all his life.
Self-disgust rapidly replaced relief now that he knew she had never conspired with Smithen, as he’d assumed. Rather, she had been fearful for her very life, scared day and night, not only of what might come at the end of her journey, but of the real threat of a murderer. He had so quickly doubted her, doubted the truthtelling of a gnome about her innocence, all because he had been getting too close. He must have unconsciously wanted to find a way to keep himself from falling for her, and so had believed the worst of her. Because it was easier to believe the worst than to believe the truth: that he was very capable of falling in love with this beautiful, innocent witch.
He pressed his face to her neck, oblivious of the damp hair that tangled in the bristles of his evening beard. One arm reached up, his hand unknowingly cupping the back of her head, and supported it against his own. So great was his relief and his guilt that he not only forgot about the sick men back at camp, but about the bloodied man lying captive not ten feet away. All that mattered was that Larra was alive, and she was everything he ever wanted.
Chapter 15
Larra’s lungs felt like they had been caught in a vic
e. They burned from the inside out, spreading a raw, searing pain throughout her entire chest. The breaths of fresh air that were heaving into her body were like food to a starved person. The blackness that had enveloped her mind was slowly beginning to fade and she became aware of an extreme cold racking her body, completely in contrast to the fire in her lungs. Where her chest felt on fire, her shoulder, legs, arms, hands and feet all felt as though they had been stuck in a glacier for the duration of a long, harsh winter. She struggled to open her eyes, but was shaking too badly to accomplish the simple act. What had happened?
Gradually, a comforting warmth began to envelop her, like a warm blanket. The heat slowly dissolved the ice and a feeling of languidness overcame her, the fire from her chest easing, the cold dissipating from her limbs. She felt protected, loved, cared for. A hand had come up to cradle her head and she felt herself embraced with tender care.
Slowly, her eyes opened. She saw the edge of an old forest, the blacks and browns and greens of overgrown vegetation making a deep, dark world in the fading sun. She was just outside the trees, the vegetation giving way to grasses and then a rocky bank that dipped gracefully into a slowly flowing river that…
River!
A sudden image of being dragged through that same forest and pushed beneath the surface of the water burst to mind, and suddenly she was in the past, fighting Smithen for her life.
She thrashed against her restraints, and when they didn’t loosen, she reared back, her head ramming into her assailant’s chin.
“Larra, stop that!”
The voice didn’t register; neither did the words. In her sluggish mind, she was still fighting her murderer.
“Larra—Larra stop!”
The arms banded even more tightly around her. She couldn’t move, could hardly breathe.
Slowly, the words began to penetrate.
“Easy, Larra, easy! I’m not going to hurt you,” the words were softly spoken, at odds with the rock hard embrace. She finally recognized the captain’s voice, and as he continued to speak soft words in a low, soothing tone, she found herself able to calm down enough to notice that it was his arms wrapped around her, not Smithen’s. She was lying against his chest, his hand stroking the back of her head, his arms a cocoon of safety. He continued to speak meaningless phrases of comfort as he rocked her back and forth like a parent consoling a fearful child.