by J. K. Barber
The innkeeper walked over to Jared’s table, his apron stained and dirty from the night’s meals. When Jared had first met the man, the woodsman had noticed the man’s girth and took it as a good sign regarding the food at the Dancing Griffon. “Never trust a man that doesn’t eat his own cooking,” Sirus had said. As in most things, Jared’s old mentor was once again proven right.
“Greetings, Jared,” the corpulent man said. “What can I get for you?” Jugger looked up from Jared’s lap at the sound of the man’s voice. The innkeeper smiled oddly at the mastiff. “I’ll never get over how that dog has taken such a liking to you. It’s the strangest thing.” The large canine sighed and put his head back into Jared’s lap.
“Kindred spirits I guess,” Jared replied, looking down at the dog. “We’re both hunters at heart.” Jugger made no response at the implied brotherhood, and Jared simply smiled. The woodsman returned his gaze to the innkeeper as the man ran his thick fingers through his wavy red hair. “You have any of that venison stew left?” Jared asked.
“Actually, I just made a fresh pot with some deer I bought off the Traders.” Carl nodded his head towards the large group of men sitting around the fire drinking and smoking their pipes. “It won’t be ready for another quarter hour or so. Can I bring you something to drink in the mean time?”
“Ale would be great, thanks.” Jared continued to observe the Traders. One, an older man with just a touch of grey at his temples seemed to be in the middle of a tale that had most of the other men entranced. “What’s going on over there?” Jared motioned with his head towards the fireplace.
Carl looked over towards the fire and then back again. “Oh, that. It seems that there was an attack of some sort on one of the towns in the mountains. Apparently, that Trader was there spending the winter and couldn’t wait to leave. I haven’t really listened, but he keeps saying something about an army of ice orcs and creatures of darkness. It’s nonsense if you ask me, but the younger Traders are fascinated.” Jared nodded his head in agreement. The other Traders barely noticed their mugs, as they sat listening raptly.
“When that stew is ready,” Jared said, returning to the original topic, “bring me two bowls, one for me and one for my stalwart companion here.” The woodsman looked down at Jugger, intensifying the scratching for a moment. The large dog closed his eyes in contentment. “Oh and one more thing,” he said as the innkeeper was turning to go. “Send that man,” Jared nodded discretely at the older Trader, “another ale, and let him know I’d be interested in hearing his story in full when he has the chance. Let him know there could be another drink in it for him if I like the tale.” Carl headed back to the bar and spoke with his daughter, the chambermaid who had drawn Jared’s bath the night before last, and inclined his head towards the woodsman. The young woman nodded and smiled in Jared’s direction. However, Jared did not notice the barmaid’s lingering look as he studied the man by the fire.
Chapter 8
It had been almost a week before Sasha could leave Snowhaven. There had been many repairs to be done after the fight and the dead to lie to rest upon the pyres. Sasha had refused to leave her duty as a soldier until the town was, at least, somewhat in order. The mysterious knight and his army were nowhere to be found, not that anyone had strayed too far from the town anyway. With the high dead toll, the battle had scared everyone, and townsfolk had since stayed safely behind Snowhaven’s walls, as much as possible.
Ever since her sister’s kidnapping, Sasha’s dreams had been dark and her body weak with a constant nausea. Pulling her fur cloak tighter about her, Sasha rode her horse into the slush and ice that was the mouth of the southern pass. Mistress Mala had given her the great gray beast on which she now rode, saying she had never gotten along with it anyway.
“Her name is Hoarfrost. May she be kinder to you than she was me and bear you and your sister safely home,” Mala had said over her usual mug of hot cider, as she saw Sasha off from the doorway of her student’s house. Mistress Mala had wrapped Katya’s staff and Sasha’s sword together in a tight bundle of skins that would protect them from the elements and lashed the parcel to the clydesdale’s side. The Master Swordswoman had been careful to leave the hilt of the young warrior’s sword under a loose flap, so it could be drawn quickly if there was cause to do so.
Mala had hugged Sasha and kissed her on the forehead. “Travel well and stick to the roads once you exit the pass. Bandits are not uncommon on the Tradeways, but you might find a caravan to travel with. I often earned a few coins in the past as a guard for trade wagons, before the Fighter School appealed to me. Well... and I missed your mother.” The swordmistress’ eyes held a brief youthful twinkle, as she remembered her younger days. “I wish you luck.”
Parting from her parents had been the hardest. Sasha’s father was going to have his hands full with Dara and the forge, but he would manage he had assured her. Sasha had sat by her mother most of the night, holding the older woman’s weak hand in her strong one. The young woman feared that she might never see her mother again, as sick as she was, and that thought made her heart ache with doubt. I will keep it together, Sasha thought. I will be strong for my family.
Sitting with them, Branden’s grip on Dara’s other hand was quite firm from years working the forge. “You bring Katya home, you hear me?” he had said. “May the Great Mother quickly bring you both back again.”
As Sasha prepared to leave the next morning, Branden had hugged his daughter tightly then clasped forearms with her. “Be safe and fight well. Take this with you. I made it for you last night.” He had handed her a beautifully wrought, curved dagger and the accompanying sheath. Sasha had thanked him and strapped it to her belt at once. Looking into his tired eyes, she could tell that he had not slept at all the previous evening. Worry etched his features like wind beaten stone. He had also given her a small leather pouch of coins.
“Father, I can’t take this,” she had said, knowing by the weight that it was at least two weeks of forge pay.
“Don’t you worry. You just bring your sister home. Now off with you.” Her father had turned away, his eyes moist, which was a rare sight indeed.
The two guardian peaks on either side of the pass loomed over her and disappeared into the clouds. The horse whinnied and went stiff with fear in the shadow of the World’s Edge Mountains. Sasha patted Hoarfrost on the neck to reassure her. The morning sun was slowly breaking its way through the clouds. She stopped for lunch halfway through the pass, tying Hoarfrost’s reins to a bush and letting her nibble at the little sprouts of green that had pushed up through the snow. Sasha took her time eating a small meal of bread, cheese and a strip of dried meat.
Despite the nourishment, the young warrior still felt physically weak. Her stomach churned uncomfortably and she almost retched. Thoughts of Katya urgently tugged at her like an unrelenting storm. Sitting for a moment on a nearby rock, Sasha cast her hood off, and let the sun shine on her face. The warmth helped a little, but soon the sickness returned. She took a few sips from her water skin and mounted Hoarfrost. The queasiness lessened as she continued south, the movement of the horse below her lulling her stomach to sleep. The swordswoman made a mental note to stop at the first town and see a healer or herbalist.
The second day had been difficult on the pass. Sasha had been guiding Hoarfrost between the frozen ruts of a recent caravan that she had seen leave Snowhaven four days after the raid. The warrior had been thankful the caravan had cleared the trail, but Hoarfrost had slipped twice into the icy wheel ruts, blooding her ankles on the jagged ice and rocks. Sasha wrapped the horse’s lower legs in strips of cloth and was forced to lead the beast on foot for the rest of the day.
The third day was easier. When they finally hit the southern foothills after lunch, Sasha was able to ride. She camped that night at the Trade Star, where the five main Tradeways came together at an obelisk of solid granite. There was no one to be seen. It was still early spring, so the place wouldn’t be packed with camping car
avans for at least another month. It seemed that she’d have the place to herself for the evening. Her stomach had settled but her headache still pounded dully in the back of her skull. She slept restlessly, awakening frequently from dark dreams.
Upon the dawn of the fourth day the warrior saddled Hoarfrost, lightly washed the great animal’s ankles, and then wrapped them again in clean cloth. Sasha shaded her eyes and peered up at the great stone marker. She felt her sister to the southeast now. Out of the five arrows pointing in five directions, the carved arrow on the obelisk that pointed southeast had Binford’s Bluff inscribed next to it. Sasha patted Hoarfrost’s white nose gently.
“Well it looks like we are going to Binford’s Bluff,” Sasha murmured, looking back at the pass to the north. She had never traveled past the Trade Star before, and a nervousness came over her.
Hoarfrost whinnied softly and rubbed her head on Sasha’s arm, almost pushing the girl over.
“Hey!” Sasha laughed and hugged the horse’s neck. The warrior woman’s gaze fixed on the southeast Tradeway. “Well let’s get going. We can’t stand around here all day.” Swinging up into the saddle, Sasha reined Hoarfrost towards Binford’s Bluff at a slow trot.
At the end of the day, Sasha dismounted with exhaustion plain upon her face. The sun had beaten down on her on the open Tradeway, and the warrior missed the shade and cool of the mountains. There were few trees, so she tied Hoarfrost’s reins to a scraggly bush by a small stream. She knelt and drank deeply. Refilling her waterskin, she unsaddled Hoarfrost and set out to search for firewood.
The sun was setting, shading the sky in deep oranges and reds. The sheer openness of the foothills was disturbing to Sasha. Her guardian mountains were now dark giants on the horizon, too far away to shelter her. Spotting a small clump of trees, she headed toward them hoping to find a better place to camp.
On the edge of the tiny wood, she stopped short, crouched low and drew her long dagger. Barely visible between the trees was a small camp fire. Sasha’s sharp gaze scanned the area. Mistress Mala’s warning of bandits flared panic in her mind, but her years of training quieted her fear. She listened for voices or footsteps. Perhaps it is my sister, she thought. I have to know who is camping here.
After a few minutes she heard nothing and moved closer to the fire. The camp seemed empty for the moment. A worn leather pack and curved sword leaned against a tree by the fire. Sasha moved into the camp. An unstrung long bow leaned against the other side of the small tree next to the sword.
A shadow passed on the ground next to hers and she spun around. A man in dark clothing slammed into her, sending them both rolling across the ground and jarring Sasha’s dagger from her hand. The gleam of another blade flashed in the firelight, and Sasha’s eyes widened. Using the momentum of their tumble, she brought her knee up into the man’s ribs, hearing a satisfying grunt as the air fled his lungs. She stood, quickly scooping up her knife, only to have her feet kicked out from under her. She fell to the ground with a thud but, this time retained her grip on the weapon. The man was on top of her, a deep growl escaping his curled lips. She thrust her hips up and rolled on top of him, her knife to his throat. At the same time, she felt a cold blade on the bare skin of her neck as well. Her red hair had come partially loose from its braid and hung in long tendrils about them.
“My face will be the last thing you see if you finish that stroke,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Why did you attack me?” Sasha asked in a low hiss.
“Why did you sneak into my camp with a drawn weapon?” He asked.
“One can never to be too careful,” she replied.
“Yeah, you never know when someone might wander into your camp with a knife,” he said. Sasha’s lips formed into a slight grin at his words.
“Or someone might jump you from behind a tree,” she returned, her tone heavily laden with humor. The man grinned wolfishly and Sasha laughed. She rolled off him and took a few cautious steps back. He stood and patted the dirt from his green clothes, his keen brown eyes never leaving Sasha.
“My name is Sasha. And yours is?”
“You are a Northman?” He asked, ignoring her question by asking one of his own.
“Yes, I am from Snowhaven,” she answered plainly, with a little exasperation and irritation that he had snubbed her inquiry.
The man’s eyebrow rose. “Strangely enough, I am headed to Snowhaven. What can you tell me about the recent battle and the force the town faced?”
“Why should I give you information when you have not shown me the courtesy of telling me your name?” Sasha replied boldly.
He raised his knife, and Sasha defensively brought her blade up. He grinned, picked up a pair of dead hares from the ground where he had dropped them before their struggle, sat, and began skinning them.
“My name is Jared. Would you care to share my fire?”
It was past sundown, but the light of the fire allowed the woodsman to still apply one of his trades. Jared patted the horse’s massive chest and bent down to put ointment on the cuts on her lower legs. He whispered gentle words to the huge animal and stroked her long legs, both to reassure the horse and to check the muscles for knots or other injuries. As he spread the light paste of ground leaves, herbs and flowers along the shallow cuts, Jared regarded the horse’s young rider out of the corner of his eye. She had known enough to keep the cuts clean and bandaged, but her treatment of the animal’s wounds ended there. There were plenty of the correct plants all along the Tradeway this early in the spring to make a poultice for shallow cuts like this. She obviously knew horses by her manner and the way she tended to the beautiful animal. She had taken great care, as she had carried the polished brown saddle into camp, had placed it on a log to keep it clean, and then thoroughly brushed the mare’s dapple grey coat. Also, the animal knew her, showing no signs of skittishness the way the horse had when Jared had first approached.
The horse, whose broad back stood higher than Jared’s shoulder, was magnificent. Her chest was broad, her eyes bright and her bearing was almost regal. Her ancestors had probably been war horses, bred and trained to fight orcs and other beasts under, and if need be, alongside their warriors. Somewhere, in the back of the animal’s brain, she remembered that and eyed Jared with wariness, as he had approached to look at her wounds. Although with a few kind words, a soft mental touch, and a slow gentle hand on her legs, Hoarfrost had relaxed enough for Jared to apply the medicine to her cuts. Jared finished wrapping the last of the horse’s legs in clean bandages and patted the beast on her neck. “See, now that wasn’t so bad was it?” Jared said softly to Hoarfrost. The horse nuzzled his chest and then bent to nibble at the grass on the edge of the clearing.
Jared walked back to the campfire where the young woman sat oiling her blade. The long sword was simple, but obviously well-made and cared for. Jared picked up a stick and poked at the fire underneath the spit, where the rabbits now hung. He pulled a pinch of seasonings from his back pack and sprinkled them lightly over the browning skin of their dinner.
Again, he observed Sasha out of the corner of his eye as she finished polishing her blade. She was sparing with the oil, using just enough to keep the sword clean and free of rust, but wasting not a drop more. Satisfied with her work, the young woman sheathed the sword and set it on the ground within arm’s reach.
“Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” Jared said to Sasha. “They’re a bit skinny this early in the season, but they should be enough for tonight. I hadn’t really planned on feeding two people.” Sasha stood and walked around a bit, stretching out her legs from a long day of riding. Jared noticed the stiffness of her gait; however, there was still a grace to how she walked. Her feet turned slightly outward for balance, and there was a certain bend to her knees that spoke of someone who was trained for combat. The fresh scar upon her cheek, jagged as one would expect from an animal’s claw, not smooth as it would be from a blade, also told him that she had seen a fight recently. Jared began
adding up all his observations about the young woman and tried to puzzle out what she was doing here.
“So, what do you think?” Sasha said suddenly. Jared looked up, the confusion apparently evident on his face.
“About what?” He asked.
“About Hoarfrost’s wounds? About dinner? About me? Take your pick.” The woman peered at Jared with a raised eyebrow and a slight upturning of the right side of her mouth. The expression caused the fading pink scar along her left cheek to slightly whiten.
Jared looked at her a moment longer before replying. “Her cuts will be fine. You did a good job of keeping them clean. The poultice will help the healing process along a bit and should help prevent infection.” Jared poked at the campfire again and continued on. “Dinner, like I said, will be a bit stringy but should be fine for trail rations.” The woodsman returned his gaze to Sasha. “As far as you’re concerned, I’m not sure I understand your meaning.”
“Please, Jared,” the young woman said. “I’m not stupid. You’ve been looking at me out of the corner of your eye ever since you came back from getting firewood. In your brief, but intense, scrutiny of me what have you learned?” Sasha, put her hands on her hips, looking at Jared expectantly.