by Resa Nelson
Thomas laughed. “But you are doing that work already right here with me. There is no need to worry!”
“I have no worries,” Gershon said, “except that I should be working on my own in my trade as a trapper.”
“Liar!” the clerk spouted. “You joined Brother Thomas in good faith, and he will not permit...”
“I can speak for myself,” Thomas said cheerfully. Nodding toward the clerk, he added, “Although I do appreciate your concern for my well being.”
Placated, the clerk nodded his head abruptly before looking daggers at Gershon.
Turning his attention toward Gershon, Thomas said, “Pray tell…from where does this sudden wanderlust come?”
The clerk shook his head in disgust and muttered, “Lust!”
Gershon cleared his throat again, silently reminding himself that Thomas had proven himself to be far craftier than he’d originally seemed. In town after town, Gershon witnessed Thomas use smooth words to convince villagers to give them food and shelter. Although Thomas didn’t have the clout to help himself to women in the same way he did with the villager’s wives in the town where he made his home, Gershon noticed more than one wife glance at Thomas with either glee or disgust after her husband had been kept busy elsewhere, often with the clerk or Gershon.
It didn’t sit right with Gershon. Helping yourself to another man’s property boiled down to theft, pure and simple, whether that property be a drinking cup, a goat, or a wife. Once, when he’d broached the subject with Thomas, it resulted in a stream of excuses and nonsensical explanations that ended with Thomas speaking about himself—as usual.
This time Thomas cleared his throat, raised his eyebrows questioningly, and waited for Gershon to answer.
“There is some truth to wanderlust being part of my nature,” Gershon said, choosing his words carefully.
The clerk grunted and looked like he’d just smelled something putrid.
“It’s a nature not uncommon in my family. My father was a fur trader like me, and his father before him.” Gershon shot a pointed look at the clerk, who ignored him. “It’s an honest trade.”
“Of course,” Thomas said, his voice as soft and gentle as spring rain. “How can anyone criticize a trait required in an honorable profession? But you are a soldier of the Krystr now. You have new responsibilities. New priorities. The world is a place full of barbarians, and your newfound calling is to help them.” Thomas paused for effect. “That was the agreement you made in exchange for the food and shelter I provided over the course of the winter. Not to mention the training in the ways of the Krystr.”
“And the training is far more valuable than food or sleep!” the clerk added.
Thomas waved a shushing hand at the clerk, keeping his gaze on Gershon. “Are you shirking your training?”
The man is a weasel. An exceptionally smart one.
“Of course not.” Gershon now realized that to break free of this weasel and be rid of him for good, he should lie. “When I go back to my worldly trade, I will travel far and wide into territories where no one has heard of the Krystr. What better way for me to spread the teachings of him than to go directly to the barbarians themselves?”
Thomas’s eyes brightened with greed. “And you would convince them that they must share their wealth with the agents of Krystr?”
“Without hesitation,” Gershon said, his voice now as smooth as Thomas’s had been moments ago. He knew what Thomas meant—Gershon would collect valuable goods and give them to Thomas. “They know me. They trust me. More important, many of them fear me.” Gershon paused to gaze at the fields surrounding them and pointed to a distant farm where a man drove an ox and plow. “Think of me as the plow that will prepare the land for your seed. I will do the hard work, and you will reap the benefits.”
The clerk pursed his lips, ready to question Gershon’s words. Before the clerk could open his mouth, Thomas spoke excitedly. “Yes. I see the possibilities.” His voice became more calm and even. “Forgive me for doubting you, Brother Gershon. We have suffered pretenders in the past who drank of our good will and banqueted on our kindness, only to disappear when we needed them most. You do understand.”
“Yes,” Gershon said, mustering all his will to keep from smiling, “I understand quite well.”
For the rest of the morning, Thomas returned to dominating the conversation about his favorite topics, and Gershon let his mind wander. The scent of salt in the air grew stronger and more intoxicating. Before the day’s end, he could be on board a ship sailing toward the Northlands or the other side of the Midlands. In either case, he’d likely arrive at a good time to hunt. He’d be glad to be rid of these ridiculous men forever and start his life anew.
* * *
By noon, they reached the outskirts of a seaport. A stray cat sat on the edge of the wooden boardwalk serving as the town’s main avenue. Its fur was orange and thick, and the cat busily licked its paws and ran them across the top of its head. An open and empty clamshell lay at the animal’s feet.
The simple wooden houses lining the boardwalk stood gray and weathered from the sea air. The air weighed thick with the briny and tart smells of fish and clams and shrimp. Although the sun’s rays were still warm, a sharp breeze whistling down the boardwalk made Gershon shiver.
In the heart of the seaport, dozens of people crowded the boardwalk: seamen hauling coils of rope or cargo, merchants bargaining for better rates of transport and passage, and townspeople bartering for food and wares.
Gershon’s heart lightened at the joy of being in the thick of normal, reasonable people again. Until now, he’d never realized how much he loved his work and his life, and he readied himself to begin with renewed appreciation.
But he stopped short at the sound of a familiar voice.
Gershon scanned the crowd until he saw her, the light in his heart going out like a candle’s flame extinguished by the wind, not believing at first what he saw.
In the middle of the boardwalk, Margreet walked toward him, flanked by Vinchi and the boy who had kidnapped her.
CHAPTER 60
Margreet caught sight of her husband. Her eyes widened and her heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. In that moment, she realized that for the past several days she’d forgotten he existed, caught up instead in the excitement of starting a new life in Guell.
She choked on empty air. She jerked to a halt. Still in the habit of reaching for the nearest man to protect her, Margreet clutched Vinchi’s arm.
Deep in conversation with Astrid, Vinchi stopped at Margreet’s touch, his smile transforming into an alert expression of concern as Margreet curled her fingertips tighter into his forearm. “What is it?”
Margreet imagined herself frozen like the ice ghosts that had guarded the entrance to the Forest of Aguille. She couldn’t will herself to speak or move.
Instead, she kept seeing what her life had been like during the past few years.
She remembered the terror she’d experienced after witnessing the Krystr army’s attack on the Temple of Limru and its Keepers. Guilt washed over her again for being the only survivor of that attack. She remembered the first day she’d met Gershon. His gentleness and kind voice. And later his promise to protect her from anyone who might do her harm. The way she’d come alive again the first time they’d made love. The adventure of travel that gave her the opportunity to journey by his side.
For a moment, Margreet wanted to race across the boardwalk and through the crowd so she could jump into Gershon’s arms and remember how safe she’d once felt there.
“Margreet,” Vinchi whispered urgently. He and Astrid reached for the daggers tucked under their belts. “What troubles you?”
She realized they didn’t notice him in the crowd, and only then did she realize he dressed in a simple robe belted at the waist like the much shorter men flanking him. “Gershon,” she whispered.
At the mention of his name, she saw her husband’s gaze drop to her hand on Vinchi’s arm. Ev
en from this distance, she recognized the darkening of her husband’s face. Quickly, she let go of Vinchi’s arm and let her hand drift back to her side where it belonged.
Astrid whispered, “Gershon,” noticing him at last.
Vinchi spoke rapidly to Astrid in the Northlander language. To Margreet, he said, “We can protect you.”
Even though she watched her husband stare at her with growing rage furrowing his brow, Margreet whispered. “I love him.”
Vinchi spoke rapidly again to Astrid, who shushed him.
Margreet yelped at the hands grasping her shoulders and turning her. For a moment, Margreet didn’t recognize Astrid, who held on tightly to her shoulders.
Looking steadily into Margreet’s eyes, Astrid spoke the only words she’d ever learned of her language, including the words Margreet used most often when they watched Vinchi train the teenage boys. “Dragon,” Astrid said. “Sword.”
“You must excuse me,” Margreet said out of habit. “My husband is waiting for me.”
“Incompetent,” Astrid said, holding on tightly to Margreet, refusing to let her go. Astrid looked at Gershon and said it again. “Incompetent.”
“No!” Margreet protested, still forgetting Astrid couldn’t understand her. “Of course we argue. Every married couple fights. It’s to be expected—that’s part of what marriage is. Sometimes he gets carried away. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love me.”
Tears welled in Astrid’s eyes and she held on steadily. “Incompetent,” she said.
“He is not incompetent—he is my husband! I love him.” Margreet wriggled but failed to escape Astrid’s grip. Frustrated, Margreet cried. “He is my protector!”
Astrid whispered one last time. “Incompetent.”
“Margreet!”
She looked up, and the sound of his voice made her feel that she was awakening from a dream.
Gershon walked toward her now, the men still flanking him.
Feeling Astrid’s grip fall away, Margreet turned to face him. Now all the other memories came rushing back. The sting of his hand across her face. The soreness of her face after being punched. The feeling of hopelessness that her life would ever improve.
“Our marriage is over,” Margreet said fiercely, standing tall. “Be on your way.”
For a moment, a flicker of relief seemed to cross Gershon’s face.
“How can you let a lowly, evil creature speak to you that way?” one of the robed men said to Gershon.
Gershon looked briefly into her eyes as if searching for approval and then looked away. It was what he did every time he lied. “She is nothing to me. I can serve the Krystr better without being burdened by this woman.”
Vinchi and Astrid tried to lead Margreet away, but the robed men blocked them. “This is an atrocity!” one of them said. “The Creator God sees all and knows all. These cannot be followers of the Krystr—otherwise, they would obey their duty and give her to you for your own purposes.”
A crowd circled them now, quietly watching.
The older robed man spoke to the crowd directly. “By the law of the Creator God, let our god prove this man to be right and true to his word. Let the Creator God prove this wretched woman to be a liar and a creature of evil!” He paused purposefully and for effect. “I call for a trial by combat.”
The crowd broke out into excited conversation, and a few people cheered.
Margreet breathed a sigh of relief as Vinchi and Astrid pressed close, grateful for their presence. She knew enough about the followers of the Krystr to know what the robed man had just done. Gershon would fight on his own behalf against a man who would fight on Margreet’s behalf. The followers believed their god already knew which one of them told the truth: Gershon or Margreet. The Krystr followers believed their god would side with Gershon by making sure of his victory. If Gershon won the battle, Margreet would suffer the fate of his choosing, which would likely mean imprisonment or death. Margreet’s only chance meant finding a man who could defeat Gershon in battle. Only then would she live and remain free.
Turning to Vinchi, who had paled with fear, she said, “Will you fight for me?”
“I can’t.”
“But you are an expert swordsman. You teach people how to fight. Who better than you?”
Vinchi appeared to steady himself. As the crowd around them dispersed in anticipation of the impending trial, he placed a tender hand on Margreet’s shoulder. “You forget—we’re in Daneland now. Here, the law says you must fight on your own behalf.”
Suddenly, Margreet’s hands turned numb. “What?”
“You,” Vinchi said, “are the only one allowed to fight Gershon.”
CHAPTER 61
An hour later, Margreet held a black woolen sling containing a large rock in her hands. The cloth scratched her hands, and it smelled like a sheep that had been drenched in a summer downpour. She took slow, deep breaths in an effort to control the terror she felt at the thought of facing her husband in their trial by combat. But the sky remained clear and the sun warmed her face. That simple comfort gave her strength.
“The footwork is much the same,” Vinchi said while Astrid paced at his side. “And when you use the sling, it’s much the same as delivering an overhead blow with the sword. You use the same double-handed grip—just grip the sling instead of a sword.”
Along with the entire population of the seacoast town, they’d walked a short distance from the houses on the outskirts to the beach beyond the harbor’s boardwalk. Here, sand mixed with dirt, rocks, and broken shells from where the seabirds had dropped clams to break them open. Down the beach, Gershon dug a pit while his robed companions watched, their distant voices offering advice.
Margreet watched her husband dig, overwhelmed with sudden emotion. “Don’t let them bury me in that pit.” Her voice trembled, and she wiped the tears from her eyes before they could fall. “If he kills me, I want to be with my own people, not here.”
Vinchi’s soft touch on her shoulder startled Margreet and she turned to look at him.
“No one will be buried in that pit,” Vinchi said. “I already told you what that pit is for. Remember?”
Margreet cleared her throat and regained her focus. “It’s the pit he’ll stand in when he fights me.”
“And how deep will it be?” Vinchi said.
Margreet looked at him with a steady gaze. “Deep enough so that my feet will be at the same level as his chest.”
Vinchi nodded. “The Danelanders are good people. They believe you must fight your own trial, but they make sure it will be a fair fight. That’s why they make him dig the pit himself—to tire his arms. And while he’s digging, we have time to practice.”
“But he’ll have a dagger,” Margreet said.
“And he might get a cut or two at your feet. But you have a big rock that you’ll be swinging at his head. Remember your footwork, and you should be fine.” Vinchi paused. “You are by far the best student I have ever taught, Margreet. If you were anyone else, I’d have concern. I wouldn’t let Astrid fight him. She may be a good dragonslayer, but she’ll need years of training before she can defeat someone like Gershon.”
Astrid looked up at the mention of her name.
Vinchi let his fingers trail as he drew his hand away from Margreet’s shoulder. “But you can do this. Remember that.”
Margreet nodded and took a firmer grip on her sling.
* * *
An hour later, a few hundred villagers circled around the pit, careful to stay a good distance from its edge to give Margreet the freedom to walk around it. Gershon’s robed companions took his shovel and melded into the crowd while he sat on the pit’s edge and jumped to the bottom. His jaw set in determination, he withdrew a dagger from his belt.
One villager stepped forward to explain the rules. “The man must remain in the pit at all times, but the woman may circle or back away from the pit’s edge as she wishes. They will fight only as long as the sun remains above the horizon, preferably unti
l one of them dies. If they both survive until dark, then they will walk their separate ways tomorrow, and no winner will be declared. If one passes out after being struck, the time given to recover will last until the sun’s highest point of the day or its lowest, whichever comes first.”
While the crowd cheered all around her, Margreet had never felt so alone in her life. She wanted to leave Gershon and start a new life in Guell. She didn’t want to kill him. She wished she’d come a day later or earlier to this town so her path never would have crossed his again.
But maybe Gershon still would have been here.
Maybe he would have been in any town where she sought passage to Guell. Maybe she should see him one last time. Maybe it would help her remember who she had been before becoming his wife. Maybe she needed to remember how she’d lost her way so that she would never lose it again.
A town official stepped forward and made a dropping signal with one hand. He shouted to the crowd that cheered in response. He then gestured to Margreet and Gershon before darting back into the crowd.
Vinchi believes in me. I can do this.
Gripping the sling so tightly that her knuckles whitened, Margreet kept her knees and body low as she took big, wide steps toward the pit and aimed a swing at Gershon’s head.
He ducked, and the missed blow threw Margreet so far off balance that she stumbled.
Gershon took a weak stab at her ankles, missing by several inches.
Surprised, Margreet looked down and into his eyes. She tottered away from the pit’s edge to regroup.
“Why did you leave me?” Gershon said softly.
“I didn’t leave. I was kidnapped.”
“But you let him take you. You let him touch you.”
Margreet was confused, one moment savoring the freedom she’d discovered without her husband and the next moment remembering that being his wife meant being legally bound to him. “What could I have done? How could I have stopped him?” Margreet walked slowly around the edge of the pit, and a few women shouted encouragement from the crowd.