by T. A. White
Shea’s shoulders tightened and her back became even more rigid. “You’ve been told in the past that pathfinders are rare and in high demand. Your village is too small and too new to warrant more than one.”
“Too new? We’ve lived here for more than eighty years. More like we’re being punished,” one of the men muttered.
Shea took a deep breath and bit her tongue. She had to do that a lot while she was in Birdon Leaf. Sometimes she was amazed there wasn’t a hole in it.
The simplest explanation was that there just weren’t enough pathfinders to go round and none who wanted to destroy a promising career by coming to this backcountry village.
No. Shea was the one to receive that privilege.
“What village did they go to?”
If Shea was lucky they had chosen one of the more stable villages. Though just as dangerous as the rest, they usually had a reason before they went bat shit crazy.
“Edgecomb.”
She sucked in a breath. Well, then.
Edgecomb was crazier than most. They did not like outsiders and were very easy to insult.
“We had reports earlier,” another elder said gruffly. “Mist is rolling down from the eastern border. It’ll cover this place in less than two days. They’ll be cut off.”
Mist. Damn. That complicated things.
She’d had a feeling it was coming. It was one of the reasons she pushed the men so hard going up Garylow’s pass. They were overdue.
Pointing out just how foolish these people were would be a waste of breath and cover the same ground as previous arguments. Shea decided not to address the issue. But she wanted to. Boy, did she ever.
“I’ll need four men if we hope to recover them.”
“Can’t you do it by yourself?” a man sitting next to Zrakovi asked.
“No.”
“You’re a pathfinder. Isn’t that your job?”
The rest of the men spoke over each other to voice their agreement about how this was impossible.
Shea didn’t bother listening, instead tuning them out while she went over her packing list. She’d need at least five days rations for five people, best-case scenario. Her field pack was still packed, but she’d have to replenish some of the items used on her last journey. Hopefully, she had clean underwear and socks in her cottage. Hmm. When did she last do laundry? A week ago? Two? She could live in the same clothes if she had clean socks and undergarments.
“Are you even paying attention, girl?” Elder Zrakovi asked.
Shea brought her attention back to the matter at hand. “My contract stipulates that I may request help from the local population if I think it’s necessary.” She looked each man in the eye as she continued, “If your men are still alive, I will have to rescue them, and I can’t do that alone. You will give me four able-bodied men accustomed to trail work and able to keep up on the distances we will be required to travel.”
“We may not be able to spare that many men,” Zrakovi said. “The tali will be flowering in a few days and if the mist holds off long enough, we’ll need all the people we can get to bring in the yield.”
The tali was a flowering vine that grew all through the rocks and mountains near the village and was a primary staple of the village’s diet. Its stalk could be used in weaving and cloth production, while the fruit could be dried out or eaten raw. It was used in nearly every dish they made. It only flowered twice a year and during that time every man, woman, and child helped with the harvest.
“I’m not asking, elder. If you don’t give me the men I require, I won’t be going out after your son.”
Shea knew harvesting the tali fruit was important. Without it the villagers faced the possibility of starvation, but she wasn’t about to venture into the Lowlands by herself. It would be suicide. The elders had been warned of the dangers. If they couldn’t supply the men, they could accept the consequences of ignoring sound advice.
The five conferred among themselves while Shea waited. Finally, they sat back.
“I can’t give you four,” Zrakovi said.
Shea nodded and turned to go.
“I can’t give you four,” he reiterated, raising his voice. “But I can give you two. It’s all I can spare during the harvest.”
Shea waited a beat. To be safe she needed four, but she’d known from the start the elders wouldn’t spare the manpower. The contract’s wording said she could refuse since they hadn’t provided the necessary resources.
Doing so would mean death for the two men. If they weren’t already dead.
Despite what the villagers thought of her, she didn’t make her requests to make their lives difficult. James, the elder’s son, was one of the few who didn’t try to make her feel like a hindrance. He was a decent sort who had a smile for everybody. When she needed assistance on some of her more dangerous jaunts, he would sometimes volunteer.
She needed four, but she could make do with two.
“Tell them to be at the front gate at midday.”
Relief filled the chamber. A few looks were traded back and forth, and several men nodded.
“Good.” Zrakovi turned his back on Shea and took another drink. As she turned to go, he said, “I’ll be sending a missive requesting a new pathfinder be assigned to replace you in Birdon Leaf.”
“If that’s what you feel is best.” Shea inclined her head and strode away without a backward glance.
It would be the third such request since she arrived. The first two had elicited a carefully worded refusal that politely told all parties to suck it up and figure out a way to make it work.
As soon as she was outside, she put all thoughts of the elders and their barely concealed disapproval out of her head. There was a lot to get done in two short hours. Edgecomb was a two-day journey if they traveled fast and took few breaks. Depending on who they gave her, she might be able to cut that time down even more.
That wasn’t what worried her though. Last time she had scouted the route she’d noticed several of the more dangerous beasts had nested in some of the cliffs. This wouldn’t be a problem under normal circumstances because she could detour around the nests. This time, however, the quickest route skirted right along the edge of their territory.
She spent most of the next two hours securing supplies for her journey. Since they had to carry their own packs and would be on foot, every item had to be absolutely necessary. That meant no more food than necessary and just enough water to get them to the next watering hole. It was a delicate balancing act that required Shea to draw from previous experience as well as intuition.
Her last stop was her cottage, the only other stone building in the village. In many respects, it reminded Shea of the older ruins found deep in the Highland’s heart. It just had that feel to it. The kind of feeling that said it had been forgotten by time and man.
It was small. A grown woman could barely stand inside without bumping her head. The walls were close and cramped. Nature had threaded twisting vines through its stone walls in an attempt to reclaim the structure. In spring, it looked as if a blanket patterned with pinks, purples and blues had been wrapped around it as flowers bloomed on those vines. In winter, the unpatched holes gave little protection against the cold.
Shea loved it. Even when it was colder than a witch’s tit. Despite the neglect of humans, it persevered and even managed to be beautiful while existing in symbiosis with the land around it.
Nobody knew its past purpose. Regarding it with deep suspicion, the villagers allowed it to fade from their collective memory. Pretending it didn’t exist was easy as it was located at the rear of the village, close to the wall.
They gave it to Shea when she arrived because nobody wanted to live here and because, as an outsider, she was regarded with the same level of suspicion.
Shea held up a sixth pair of socks. Did she really need them? The route they were taking was relatively clear of any water. The weather had cooled as summer loosened its grip, and fall took its place. Still, it was
vital to keep feet dry during a long journey and would be much more comfortable besides.
An extra pair of socks in her bag wouldn’t really make a difference but as packing progressed those little extras really added up.
The supplies ready and her bag packed, Shea slipped her arms through the two loops and lifted it onto her back. Bending forward, she tugged on the bottom of the straps, tightening the pack until it hugged her back and wouldn’t flop around while she was running.
She grabbed one of her maps off her desk and headed out the door. As always it took a few steps to get used to having a pack’s weight, but by the time she reached the front gate she was able to ignore it to focus on other matters.
She arrived at the front gate carrying her sack of supplies, mostly food, but some odds and ends. Two men watched her approach. One had taken a seat on an overturned bucket and was using his knife to peal a piece of fruit. The years had carved crow’s feet in the corner of his eyes and grooves around his mouth. His skin was leathery, and his brown hair was pulled back away from his face.
His companion was much younger, probably a little younger than Shea, with curly reddish-blond hair that barely reached his ears. His forehead was broad over sky blue eyes that made the girls in the village swoon every time he smiled at them.
“Witt. Dane.” Shea gave a respectful nod as she stopped in front of them. “You know why you’re here?”
Witt, the elder of the two, nodded and flicked a peel off his knife. Dane smiled at her, his eyes twinkling merrily. She’d worked with both before. Witt wasn’t so bad. Just surly. But he listened when she had something to say and was handy in a fight.
Dane might be a problem. He tended to flirt his way out of work and was under the impression that he knew more than he did. Too bad she couldn’t leave him behind this time. Unfortunately, he was good with a boomer and the only man in the village able to use one. She would need that if they ran into trouble.
“Good.” She set the supply sack on the ground and withdrew some rations, handing each man his share.
“This is barely a day’s worth of food,” Dane complained, holding up the meat wrapped in loaves of bread. “It’s not enough.”
“It is,” Shea corrected him. She held out two canteens of water to him and gave Witt the other two. “You’ll have to ration your supplies. There are several pieces of fruit in that bag as well as dried meat that you can eat while on the road. We’re traveling light this trip. We can’t afford any extra weight if we want to get to Edgecomb before mist fall.”
“What route are we taking?” Witt asked.
Shea pulled out her map and unrolled it carefully on the bucket Witt had just vacated. It was made from a sturdy stock of paper and drawn with a careful hand and an eye for detail. The geography of the land was done in blue, red and black ink with several closely drawn lines signaling elevation and further spaced lines meaning flatter land. It had been treated with a kind of oil to ensure the marks didn’t fade over time. Shea could still make corrections, but the treatment meant those could be erased with a bit of spit and elbow grease. It made it handy to make notes on various trails without permanently damaging the integrity of the map.
“This trail would get us to Edgecomb quickest,” Shea said, running her finger along the path in question. “But the last time I was up that way I noticed some signs that beasts had settled close to there.”
“What kind?”
“Red backs.”
Witt nodded grimly without taking his eyes from the map.
Red backs were a beast that walked on all fours for the most part. However, when killing, they rose onto their hind legs, and would tower over the tallest man in Birdon Leaf by several arm lengths. There were always two, usually mates, and they had claws that could cleave a man’s head clear off his shoulders. They were named for the red fur on their backs. The fur on the rest of their body was usually grey. Once they moved into a territory, they usually didn’t travel out of it unless prey became scarce.
“Who cares if there are red backs?” Dane said with the food still in his hands. “You just said we have to get to Edgecomb as fast as possible. If we run into any problems, we’ll just kill them. Their pelt fetches a nice price in the Lowlands.”
“Maybe you could flirt them to death, puppy,” Witt drawled, giving Dane a dismissive glance. Shea hid a grin. “Red backs are incredibly difficult to kill. A boomer’s lead won’t penetrate their hide. You have to get close, with knives or swords, and cut them open.” Witt stood and mimed a slash in demonstration. “They’re bigger than us, faster than us and one hit will crush your chest until you’re exhaling blood.”
Dane held Witt’s gaze, his mouth set in a disgruntled line before bending and picking up his pack. Shea kept her gaze focused on the map while Dane busied himself fussing with its straps.
Witt squatted down next to her. “I’d like to say the boy is entirely wrong, but if James and Cam were taken by Edgecomb, they don’t have a lot of time.”
Shea nodded and rolled the map up before sticking it in her pack. “No, they don’t. A day or two at most.”
“How long would the detour take?”
Shea quirked her mouth and shook her head slightly. “Depending on the trail sign, anywhere from a couple hours to half a day.”
“You’re the pathfinder so we’ll follow your lead.”
Witt stood and walked to his pack where he finished arranging the last of his supplies.
“I am the pathfinder.”
All that meant was that if she made the wrong decision, she would be the one with blood on her hands. She scrubbed a hand over her face and turned to the other two as they settled their packs on their backs. The long barrel of a boomer stuck up over Dane’s head from where it was attached to his pack. Witt’s weapons consisted of two short swords on either hip.
Looked like everybody was ready.
“Pathfinder.”
Shea turned to see Elder Zrakovi watching her sourly. Taller than her by a few inches, he was a burly man whose muscle was just beginning to turn to fat with age. She knew it must bother him to have his son’s fate resting in the hands of a woman he’d done his best to get rid of since she arrived.
“I trust that, despite our differences, you’ll do your job and bring my son back.”
She nodded shortly. The gate was raised just high enough for her group to walk under it.
“Don’t screw this up,” Zrakovi said as she passed under the gate.
She raised a hand in acknowledgement and adjusted her pack one last time before lengthening her stride to catch up with the other two.
There was one thing the elders had gotten right. Shea’s presence here was a punishment. But, it wasn’t them who was being punished.
Chapter Two
Shea quickly took the lead and set a punishing pace as the other two fell in single file behind her, Witt bringing up the rear. They had a lot of ground to cover before nightfall. It would take the rest of the day to reach the stretch of cliffs that marked the Highland border.
Reaching them would be a test of the group’s stamina and endurance. In essence, it would be a gut check. Doable, but not fun.
The cliffs, often referred to as Bearan’s Fault, spanned nearly the entire border. Most of it so steep it was as if a god had lifted the Highlands up onto a shelf, setting them above their neighbors. They were the reason people called everything above the cliffs the Highlands.
Not exactly original, but descriptive.
Approaching them always felt like walking off the edge of the world.
Located on the most southwestern edge of the Highlands, Birdon Leaf claimed some of the only habitable land in a mountainous territory pitted with ravines, steep hills and granite monoliths. To live up here, one had to be stubborn. And maybe a little crazy.
Not many had the sheer bone headedness to settle out here on the edge.
Food was scarce and company even more so. Unless you could do for yourself, well, it didn’t get don
e. People here were independent, hard headed and convinced that the only way to do something was the way their grandfather’s grandfather had done it. As a result, they didn’t welcome strangers. Even ones they asked to be here, like Shea.
The first leg of the journey was easy enough. They were lucky Birdon Leaf was situated on rolling hills. To the north was a pair of mountain ranges so high that snow covered the tops nine out of the twelve months. To the west, deep ravines bit into the land, creating a spidery network of valleys and ridges throughout the Highlands.
One of the reasons pathfinders existed was because it was so easy to get lost up here. It was as if the land itself didn’t take kindly to outsiders and tried to push out any it sensed didn’t belong here.
People’s sense of direction tended to go screwy and the distances played mean mind games. Sometimes you traveled further than you intended, and other times it was as if you’d barely moved.
There was a crash, and Dane rocketed past Shea’s narrow perch. He grunted as he caught himself on a particularly hard boulder.
“Is there no other way besides falling down these infernal hills?” he growled. “No, you can’t even call them that since they’re nearly as steep as the cliffs.”
“Going down a cliff would be easier,” Witt said as he slid past, snagging an exposed tree root before he could careen out of control. “At least then, we could simply secure a rope to something and slide down.”
Shea stepped off her perch to slide to her next target.
“This is the path we’re taking,” she informed them once she had stopped.
“Even uphill would be better,” Dane muttered. With a vexed groan, he leapt, then slid, to his next tree. He crashed into it and nearly bounced off before grabbing hold.
“If you have time to gripe, you have time to move faster,” Shea returned.
Internally, she echoed their frustration and agreed, the only thing worse than having to climb up a mountain was having to find the way down it.