Jumping at an angle, Chism used the soldiers to block one of the bowmen while drawing a knife. An arrow landed in the snow where he had knelt, a reflex shot by the bowman on his right. Chism threw the knife, striking him in the shoulder. The man screamed and his bow fell to the ground.
Fishy’s sword was in Chism’s hand and he struck the back of the shielding soldier’s head with the hilt. He fell like an empty suit of clothes. Fishy reached to his scabbard before realizing Chism held his sword. It was the fool’s own fault for underestimating him. Raising the tip to the leader’s neck, Chism kept hidden from the other bowman.
“Drop the bow,” said Chism, no louder than necessary.
Nobody moved.
“You can both die or neither of you can die.”
Again stillness followed.
“Your choice, not mine,” said Chism.
After drawing his second knife with his left hand, he brought the sword back to strike Fishy. The motion was enough to prompt the bowman into action. He threw both bow and arrow to the ground and raised his hands high. A wise choice.
With a sword at their leader’s throat it was a simple matter to get them dismounted and unarmed. After separating them from their arrows, he ordered them to break the bows. Without ranged weapons they weren’t a true threat. In one last effort to discourage pursuit, he took their cloaks and tunics. They wouldn’t freeze, but the shirtless walk back to their camp would hopefully take what fight was left in them.
With fresh horses and extra cloaks, Chism rode south at a fast trot, leading the spare animals by the reigns. After half a mile he slowed to a pace the horses could maintain. As he rode, he worked on a plan but couldn’t come up with any way to escape Far West Province on horseback. He would be too conspicuous, especially mounted on the fine steed of a soldier. The cloaks were useless to him. Without a company of men no border guard would believe Chism was a soldier.
Exhaustion was setting in, but if Chism stopped to rest he might be overtaken. There were no signs of pursuit, but it was inevitable. Fitful naps as the horses plodded on had to suffice.
The snow on the ground thinned as Chism traveled south, and a change appeared in the landscape. A fuzzy line of low trees in the distance cut a path through the endless pasture land. He longed to race the horses for the trees, but kept them at a steady walk. A plan was beginning to form.
As Chism hoped, the trees bordered a creek, barely a trickle at its winter low. The horses didn’t need to be urged toward the water. Each found a small pool among the boulders.
Chism leapt off his horse, careful to tread only on large, lichen-free boulders. Avoiding the silt and sand, Chism located a pool of his own and drank deeply. The frigid water invigorated him. After filling his waterskin, Chism allowed the horses to drink their fill, then approached them while drawing Thirsty. With a sharp yell, he slapped the nearest horse’s rump with Thirsty’s flat side, startling the four southward.
They were reluctant to leave without encouragement, so he urged them on with a few stones. A hundred paces away they slowed to a walk, but it was the best he could do to create a false trail.
There were enough large boulders in the creek bed to travel without straining his injured leg with any long leaps. If it started bleeding again a child would be able to track him.
***
Full dark came an hour later. Chism nestled himself under the protective hood of an old hollowed river tree and slept almost immediately.
The smell of smoke surprised him when he woke, and he wondered if he was being smoked out of his hole. But there was no heat and the smoke came from all around, a faint haze that hung in the air under a diffuse grey sky. Chism inched out, watching for soldiers. He snuck upstream and after fifty paces spotted a house on the far outskirts of a village.
The closest building was a smokehouse. Tiny specks of flame showed in one corner through gaps in the log walls. The fire must have been lit recently because very little smoke escaped, but it poured out of the chimney of the house. Between the smokehouse and the farm home was a drying frame full of clothes. Chism acted while the yard was empty.
Removing the Fellow’s uniform was easy. It didn’t compare with giving up the Circle and the Sword, and he was still a member of Quicksilver Squadron no matter what he wore. He folded the uniform precisely and concealed it far under the lip of a large boulder then crept, sword in hand, to the drying frame wearing nothing but his unders and boots. He smelled pipe smoke as he leaned Thirsty against the frame and held up the clothes.
“You know there’s a ‘13’ on your back, lad?”
Chism spun and raised Thirsty, but saw only an ancient man, wrinkly as a targus, smoking a pipe in front of the smokehouse. He spoke again. “You don’t look like a runt, but I guess that depends on your age. Under fourteen—not a runt. Fourteen or over—runt.”
The old man’s hair was wispy and thin, reminding Chism of a shaggy cactus he saw once in a covered garden in Palassiren.
Cactus was quick to continue speaking. “But I’ll give you one year for the sword and up to two more depending on your mettle. You got spunk, boy?”
Chism liked the old man. He liked him a lot. “I got spunk, Oldster.” He lowered Thirsty. “More than you’ve ever seen.”
“Come out of nowhere, next to naked in the winter? I guess you gotta have spunk. Not many smarts, though.”
“I’ll take spunk over smarts any day,” Chism said with a proud grin. He considered asking for some clothes, but didn’t want to risk the old man’s assessment of his mettle.
Shaking his head, Cactus said, “What thirteen year old wouldn’t? Who’s after you?”
The direct question caught Chism off-guard. A dog barked in front of the house as he decided whether to tell the truth or lie. Secrecy was best. “Some men,” he said.
Cactus took two shallow puffs of his pipe and said, “Listen, I’m a hundred and four and might be in the ground by the time you spit it out. Course, it won’t be long 'til ‘some men’ get here. Tracker’s already greeting them.”
The barking rose in pitch. The old man was Chism’s only hope. “The Provincial Militia. I threatened Duke Jaryn and he wants me dead.”
After considering for a moment, Cactus asked, “Did you have a good reason?”
“The best,” answered Chism.
“Well, let’s hide you then. There’s not much time.” Placing one hand on a cane and the other on his chair, he rose with tremendous effort. Chism went to his side to assist, but the old man swatted his helpful hands away. “I may be a hundred and four, but I’m not dead yet,” he snapped.
Over the dog’s barking, Chism heard indistinct voices. “Hurry,” he said.
Only halfway out of the chair, Cactus said, “You should see me when I’m not hurrying. Grass grows faster.”
The voices grew louder. It sounded like a dozen men or more. Chism raised Thirsty, ready to defend himself against the soldiers who would come around the house at any time. Unflustered, the ancient man said, “Why, last summer I started walking back here to smoke a pig but by the time I got here it was winter.”
Chism was not amused, but Cactus went on. “Spring came before I made it back inside.” He was finally out of his chair, shuffling toward the smokehouse door. Stooped as he was, he stood even in height with Chism. When he opened the door, smoke flowed under the lintel like an inverted waterfall.
“Your mind’s more addled than I thought. I’ll cook if I go in there,” said Chism.
“Some spunk you have. Suit yourself, but there’s plenty of good air down low.” He bent slowly to pick up some burlap sacks from the grass.
Chism looked between the dark smokehouse and the side of the house. Trusting the old man wasn’t easy, but it beat his other options, so he dove to the ground inside the door. The hard packed dirt was warm and soothing after so much time in the cold. Wet burlap landed on top of him, a freezing contrast to the comfortable warmth of the dirt.
“Cover up,” ordered the old ma
n.
Burlap in tow, Chism started crawling toward a bench along the wall, but stopped and looked back at the closing door. “Fifteen,” he said.
With a mere sliver of light remaining, the door stopped. “That old, are you? Well, it’s a good thing you got spunk, lad. Find some smarts if you want to see sixteen.”
The door closed and while Cactus hobbled away, Chism slid under the bench. The warmth was no longer comfortable, and every breath felt hotter in his throat. There was plenty of burlap to cover himself, which immediately provided relief. Air leaked in through chinks in the logs, cooling his face as the fire sucked it in, and he saw a sliver of the yard outside.
Cactus walked past his chair and rounded the corner of the smokehouse toward the creek. He heard the old man singing to himself followed shortly by sounds of a large group approaching.
“You there, old man.” Chism recognized Fishy’s raspy voice and silently cursed. It wouldn’t take much pressing to get the old man to confess.
“Don’t interrupt me, boy. My water just started flowing and if I stop now I’ll suffer all day.”
His shuffling just wiped out my tracks in the grass and now he’s making water all over the rocks I came in from. Maybe the soldiers wouldn’t find the hidden uniform.
Fishy dispatched men to search then waited for Cactus to return. Chism could tell by the steady shuffle that Cactus was moving at top speed, but the Militiaman didn’t wait. “Have you seen anyone this morning, old fellow?”
“I see you. I’m not blind,” snapped Cactus. “And I saw my granddaughter, and that soldier there, and—”
Fishy cut him off. “Have you seen anyone besides us?”
“There was a deer right over there when I came out. And a rabbit too. A white one.” Chism could only see boots from where he lay, but the old man’s voice sounded cheerful and innocent. Even with the blocked view, Chism could tell there were at least a dozen men with Fishy. He ached to know the exact number, even thought about creeping to the door to peek out. But the old man had shown kindness, and exposing himself would be no way to repay that.
He didn’t know how much longer he could last sheltered in the smoke-filled shed. The heat was building fast. Without the gaps between logs, Chism wouldn’t have any chance of surviving.
“What are you smoking this morning?” asked Fishy.
“Hogs,” answered the old man.
“Search it,” said Fishy, and boots moved toward the smokehouse door.
“Stay away from there,” shouted Cactus. “I spent all morning building that smoke and heat. You’ll let it all escape with all your openings.”
The door creaked open despite the old man’s protests and within seconds the blanket of heat relented. Chism lay as still as a dead pig under his burlap. He was confident he had covered himself completely; any exposed skin would have burned long since.
Cactus continued his protestations and curses. A few of the soldiers chuckled and Chism heard the old man’s cane slapping arms.
Inside the smokehouse, Chism heard a dull fwhick, like a sword piercing cloth and flesh. They’re probing the covered slabs with swords! That arrow injury will feel like a splinter compared to a sword wound. He considered rolling quickly and drawing Thirsty, but his position was all wrong.
A woman spoke near the door. “Please stop upsetting him. He gets in a temper sometimes and it takes days to calm him. I beg you. He’s been here since sunup; no one could have come without him seeing.”
Another fwhick sounded closer and the commotion outside continued. A soldier’s boot scuffed against Chism’s back but he didn’t react. He braced for the piercing blow, vowing to himself that he would not cry out or move.
“Harvig, enough,” said Fishy from the door.
Just as Chism relaxed he felt a blunt blow to his flank. The sword should have felt sharp. Harvig stomped off and the door closed. As the oppressive smoke and heat began to weigh down again, Chism reached his hand around, but to his relief he felt only pain, no wound.
I’ve felt blows like that before and it was no sword; that was a boot. He’d never felt so happy about being kicked.
“Pigs,” said a man outside, probably Harvig.
“You think I don’t know animals?” demanded Cactus. “Over a hundred years I’ve been farming here and you come telling me I don’t know it’s hogs in my own smokehouse.”
“Our apologies. The boy we seek is extremely dangerous. He tried to murder the Duke himself.”
Tried? thought Chism. If I tried to kill him, Far West would be in mourning right now.
“Be warned,” continued Fishy. “He looks harmless, but he won’t hesitate to smile at your face while he slits your throat.”
More boots approached and a new voice said, “The house is clear, sir.”
“Very well. You men, search the river. You, with me.” The soldiers departed.
“Give me a hand, Leis,” said Cactus when the soldiers were gone. After standing, he told her, “You go on inside, I’ll be along soon.” Chism heard Leis’s near silent footsteps as she walked toward the house.
After some time the door opened a crack, giving Chism blessed relief. He rolled and watched as Cactus, coughing and sputtering, shambled through the smoke to where the fire burned. With a grunt he upended a container and the fire dimmed with a great hiss.
“Was any of the blood on that spear yours, boy?”
“No.”
“Lucky that. Sharing blood with dead pigs’ll cause infection every time. Best you stay here for the morning.”
Before Cactus could make it to the door, Chism asked, “Why’d you do it?”
The old man paused in the doorway, grasping the jamb for support. Through his coughing he said, “I may be half-blind, but I could see you needed a friend. Somehow I don’t think you ever had one, and the way I see it, I can never have enough.”
The words struck Chism. Until today he couldn’t remember ever wanting a friend. Brothers, sure. Even brothers-in-arms. But he had no use for friends. Until he met Cactus.
“Don’t care much what happens to me, boy, but I’d appreciate if you didn’t slit Leis’s throat. Or her boys’s.”
The door closed gently. Lying nearly naked in the dark burlap, one word rattled around his head. Friend.
Chapter 13
Barrels
With the fire extinguished the smokehouse didn’t stay warm long. The damp burlap that had protected Chism from heat, now chilled him as he lay under the bench waiting for his friend to return. He didn’t have any leather to stroke, no steps to count, or weapons to practice and it proved impossible to lay still. Half a dozen times he went to the door only to be scolded by Cactus when he cracked it enough to peek out. Cactus eventually dragged his chair to block the door, preventing Chism’s nervous peeks.
It was nearly half a day later when Cactus finally permitted him to leave the smokehouse. Leis was shocked when her grandfather brought Chism, half naked and shivering, into the house, but it didn’t take long for him to convince her to shelter what she saw as a wayward boy. Keeping an eye on Chism, she fetched him a blanket, heated water for a bath, and gave him bread with honey. All four of her sons were fascinated by Chism, but the oldest, an eleventeen-year-old boy with a conspicuous cowlick, goggled openly at Chism and Thirsty. The boy’s bangs stuck up and out, reminding Chism of oversized buckteeth.
Buckhairs, thought Chism, allowing himself a small chuckle.
Steam rose from the bath as Leis poured it. No sooner was she out of the room than Chism stripped out of his unders and boots, and climbed in. The tub was the bottom half of a barrel, large enough for a man to squeeze into, and easily big enough for Chism. The water burned, especially his toes as they thawed. The arrow wound didn’t look infected, Ander had done a superb job tending it, but a small amount of blood and pus oozed into the water.
The bath was so peaceful it made Chism uncomfortable. He tried to relax and enjoy it, but leisure was foreign to him. He stayed in just long enoug
h to thaw his bones.
As he stood dripping, knee deep in the water, Leis’ oldest son, Buckhairs, entered with a cloth for drying. He handed it to Chism and said, “I know my numbers. That’s a 13. Why do you have a 13 on your back? And what are those stripes on your legs?”
The boy reached to trace the scars, but Chism lunged out of the tub, kicking water onto the straw-strewn floor of the small room. “Don’t touch me. Ever.”
Withdrawing obediently, the boy said, “Someday I’m going to have a sword like you. I’m going to be a soldier and maybe even have a 13, too.”
Even though the boy was three or four years younger than him, Chism was self-conscious. Covering as much as he could with the small cloth he tried to sound self-assured. “Have you practiced your sword today?”
“I don’t have a sword,” said Buckhairs.
“If you want to be a soldier you need to address me as ‘Sir’. Do you have a stick?”
“Yessir.”
“Have you practiced with your stick today?”
Buckhairs shook his head then added, “Sir.”
“Do you have a bow?”
“No, Sir.”
“Spear?”
“No, Sir.”
“Knife?”
“Yessir. My second grandfather gave it to me ‘cause I’m the oldest in the family.”
“Have you practiced with it today?”
Again the boy shook his head. “Ma says I can’t even pretend fight with it.”
Chism waited, staring, until the boy added the title.
“What about fighting trees?”
“Trees, Sir?”
“A tall stump is even better. Find someone who knows something about swords or knives and ask them to teach you what they can. Then practice every day. Every day. When that skill is perfect, find someone else and have them teach you. Then practice…” He let the words hang in the air.
“Every day, Sir,” said the boy.
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