“Arnith?” the farmer questioned, eyeing them. “There has been no travel from there in half a cycle.”
Fasime took the man’s gestured offer to dismount. “There has been much trouble in that land,” Fasime explained, lifting his hand to help Eltha descend.
The man’s face softened as he watched them. “You are welcome to rest here a while. I traveled to this land away from a troubled Arnith, when I was a young lad myself.”
Fasime bowed his head in thanks. “I am Fasime, this is Eltha.” The farmer shook hands with them both.
“My name is Torgan. Come inside and rest your limbs. Agetha will find you something to eat while I tend to your horses.”
“Thank you,” Fasime said as they followed him towards a burly wood cabin astride the thriving field.
They expected her to be more conversational as she brewed then poured them tea, but she let them sit in peace at her large wooden table. The same thick, dark wood surrounded them; the walls, floors, ceiling, and all of the furnishings bore the dark stain of worn mahogany. The dull sunlight through the casements cast sheen, glowing light upon the logs and planks and made the small house feel safe and comforting. The hostess spoke to them after they drank their tea and eased their anxiety.
“What brings such youthful travelers to this part of Miscia?”
Fasime’s eyes went to Eltha, suggesting that she answer.
“We are in search of a better life,” Eltha told the woman.
“Well, it takes hard work and stamina to survive this land. There is only one small village nearby to trade goods. What we have we mostly must make ourselves.”
“We can make ourselves useful,” Fasime assured. “I have some experience with tending to fields and livestock.”
The woman gazed at him a moment. “Torgan could use another hand for the autumn harvests. You are welcome to stay, though we do not have much to offer but a place to sleep and a meal for your work.”
Both the young guests nodded. “We couldn’t ask for more,” Eltha told her.
Tight and dirtied skin covered muscles that were sore yet glad of the strain. Leather and cloth covered the forms, entering in from the windy fields, seeking refuge in the quiet, warm indoors.
“Agetha, some mead for this young pup,” the farmer said as he came in behind Fasime. “Be it a curse upon my soul if I deny he did not do the work of four men.”
“We all owe toil to the field, you must have been overdue,” Agetha stated.
Fasime sat down gratefully and took the cup the woman offered.
“My limbs agree with you,” Fasime stated, letting the thick wooden chair support him and closing his eyes. He listened to the farmer sit beside him and his wife returning to the kitchen.
“Where is the young mistress?” the farmer asked and Fasime opened his eyes.
“She took one of my baskets saying she would return soon.”
“Where did she go?” Fasime asked, not allowing the suggestion of dread of her leaving unexpectedly to surface.
“Into the forest,” the woman answered. “She said she needed to earn her keep.”
The farmer shifted and a nervous expression came over his face. Before Fasime could ask the cause of it, the door opened and a gust of wind followed in a cloaked figure.
They all turned to her. With her cloak tightly wrapped around her head and form, pieces and scent of the wild upon her, she seemed out of place in the quiet, comfortable cottage. She seemed a sprite or forest creature, accidentally wandered into the plain life. But she reached for the cloth and withdrew it, and as she approached them she began to familiarize and the apparition faded.
“We are glad you have returned safely,” their host said.
She met eyes with Fasime and then looked to their hosts, setting the basket upon the table. “This forest abounds with useful plants. The climate must be good for them with your tall trees.”
The woman looked over her pickings. “You seem to know the forest well,” she praised. “Many of these plants I would have overlooked, but what will you use them for?”
“Well,” Eltha stated, lifting out a bundle of leaves, “these you can add to your tea to relieve the ache of bone and tissue in the winter.”
“My lady,” their host stated, but paused with reluctance after he had her attention, “you should use caution when venturing alone into the forest.”
Eltha was about to defend, but saw the seriousness on the man’s face and decided to wait for him to explain. The farmer looked to his wife and then back to them, steadfast. “Raiders travel the wood, and one never knows when they might pass.”
“Raiders?” Fasime asked.
The hostess lowered her gaze. “The filthy Rognoth,” she explained and Fasime tensed. “Small bands of them have attacked the village.”
“They mostly leave us alone. We are too small for them to hassle with. But once we have the crop harvested, it is best to have it stored or traded quickly,” Torgan explained.
“When did they last attack?” Fasime asked. Their host noted the change in his guest’s demeanor. The farmer paused, looking to his wife and she nodded.
“That is enough talk about this,” she stated, standing. “Torgan, why don’t you go fetch the children, supper is ready.”
“Yes, my lady,” he responded and stood. Fasime and Eltha watched him leave and then met gazes. Concern was in their expressions, not for themselves but for the family that housed them.
“Madame Agetha,” Fasime persisted, “how often have the raiders attacked the village?”
Their hostess dismissed it, smiling reassuringly to him. “Don’t worry about such matters tonight, young travelers. Enjoy your food and your company. Rest, and worry over such things another time.”
Fasime breathed out, relaxing. She was right; worry would not aid the situation. They stood to help her set the table, seeing the two brown haired children enter with the farmer and wind behind them.
Fasime leaned back, pulling the twine tightly around the bundle of hay. As he tied it down and cut it, a blast of cool air chilled his exposed skin, persisted and seeped through his clothes. Shivering, he looked to the sky, following a gray trail of clouds to the western horizon. There, storm-tossed blue, gray and white clouds brewed menacingly. The tall farmer stepped beside him, inspecting the same area of sky.
“Help me get the last of the harvest inside,” the man said in a low, prudent voice. “A storm’s coming.”
“Papa!” shouted from the edge of the field.
“Come inside children,” the farmer called out to them, watching them run towards them with their bare arms wrapped tightly around their chests. As the boy and girl ran by them towards the house, Fasime and the farmer lifted the bundles of hay and carried them inside.
Eltha looked up to the door opening as she wrapped a blanket around the two children, huddled near the fire. The workers entered and shut the door behind them quickly, setting down their firewood by the entrance. When they came towards the fire, Eltha saw their faces were stained with a soft red from exposure to the cold. They sat before the fire and opened their hands to its warmth.
“The skies were pleased with us, sending you to us at this time. I wouldn’t have been able to finish harvesting the crops before the storm without your help,” the farmer stated. Eltha sat beside Fasime and they looked towards the window as a whistling howl began outside and the glass became blotted with white.
“Trendin, you and your sister gather the rest of the blankets,” the woman said as she sat with them, offering Fasime and Eltha a cup of warmed mead. “I bet you are glad you are not traveling through the wood in this weather. This is the kind of storm one could lose themselves in.”
They drew closer together, more thankful for the shelter and warmth than their hosts knew.
“This storm is early,” Torgan stated as he took the cup Agetha held out for him. “Once the snow passes, we should bring the grain to the village and trade for winter supplies.”
The c
hildren returned with the rest of the blankets and they wrapped themselves in them, sitting in the absence of their words, but listening to the conversation of the angry wind and snow against the creaking house and the soft crackle of the fire.
The village was small; only boasting a few dwellings and a large area for a temporary marketplace, littered with carts and bartering farmers and craftsman, still bundled from the chill after the storm. Torgan guided their mules, pulling the chart beside the others in the marketplace. Fasime and Eltha followed him and then dismounted, helping down the children that rode with them.
“Come,” Torgan said and found a place to tie the horses to the cart, “we will find the gathering and introduce you to the rest of the villagers. It will be a few days before we are through bartering all of our goods.”
“Papa?” the daughter asked, hearing children’s laughter across the marketplace.
“All right, Aulia, but stay with your brother.”
“Yes, Papa.”
“And don’t leave the village!” their mother called out to them as they ran towards a group of children throwing snowballs at each other.
“Yes Mother,” the boy called back to them. The adults stood there a moment, laughing at the child’s play.
“Torgan!” they heard from behind him and they turned to see a shorter man with black hair approach them.
“Ah, Marfit, how goes it?” Torgan responded, shaking his hand.
“Fair,” he answered, looking to the two newcomers. “And who have you brought with you? Surely your children have not grown that quickly.”
Torgan laughed. “No, these are travelers from Arnith. They came before the storm and helped me save half my crop.”
“Good! Well come, the rest of the villagers will want to meet you,” he stated and motioned for them to follow him into the market.
Their new guests enraptured the villagers as they gave their introductions. Sitting inside a large building around a fire, they watched the two young travelers with delight on their plain, weathered faces. The villagers brought them food and drink, listening to farmer Torgan tell of how they had saved his crop several times, the amount of work Fasime had done growing with each telling. Fasime told them of the southern mountains and of the cold, constant wind that blows from them, and of the people and wares of the city. The villagers grew solemn to hear of the death of Arnith’s king and siege of Anteria by the Rognoth and Marrians.
“Cursed raiders,” one of the farmers protested, “they’ve been harassing everybody, stealing our crops and all of our good mounts.”
“And mules and livestock,” another added.
“Well, if Arnith can’t get rid of them, what’s to be done with them?”
Fasime and Eltha listened to the villagers tell their shared experiences of the raiders and the hardships they caused. Fasime realized that though it did nothing to relieve their problems, complaining about this nuisance eased their strife over it. He noted, however, that none of the farmers or villagers suggested retaliation against the raiders’ attacks.
“So, I suppose you were expecting a reprieve from the threat of barbarians when you left Arnith,” an elder woman stated as a bridge to a new conversation.
“Yes, we didn’t expect to be hassled by the raiders this far west,” Fasime explained.
“Caution, lad, any settlement without a regiment to protect it is fair game for the Rognoth or Marrian in these parts.”
The elder woman looked to the grumbling farmer with an air of staking claim. He sat back in his seat and then returned her gaze to the travelers. “So do you and your wife expect to stay here for the winter?”
Eltha blushed. “We aren’t yet married, madam,” she said.
“Well now,” the elder woman said with a smile, “that’s something we’ll have to remedy isn’t it?”
The villagers all agreed with a cheer.
Chapter Forty-Four
RAIDERS
Fasime and Eltha watched Torgan returning to the tent as they sorted through their supplies.
“This has been a good cycle,” he proclaimed and came to them. “Our crop was plentiful and the trade was good.”
“What else can we help you with?” Fasime asked, stacking the last of their packs.
“We can take down the tent and return all these goods to the cart,” Torgan stated. Fasime and Eltha stood. “Will you be returning with us to the cottage?” the farmer asked as they helped him take down the stakes. They tried to surmise if his question was an invitation or reconsideration, but Torgan’s expression seemed to be welcoming.
Before Fasime could answer, he heard shouting from across the market. It sounded like villagers were arguing. But then a scream pierced from the north. All three of them dropped their work and rose, trying to find its source.
“Raiders!” Torgan shouted. He started for their cart, surrounded by sounds of riot. Fasime and Eltha followed him.
“They have no way to defend themselves,” Fasime said to Eltha running beside him.
“What can we do?”
“My sword and bow are in the cart. Have you ever wielded a bow?” He looked over to her, but she shook her head no.
“Torgan!” they recognized Agetha’s voice shouting before them.
They ran past panicked, fleeing villagers, hearing sounds of horses, shouting and screaming around them but unsure of a single direction of it. Agetha ran to Torgan, terror on her face.
“Agetha, where are the children?” Torgan demanded.
“I last saw them playing to the north of the market,” she explained shakily, going with him around the cart to find them. Fasime stepped onto the cart and found his sword, quiver and bow. He climbed up the rider’s seat to gain vantage of the market and the village. Looking beyond the turmoil and confusion of running villagers, he saw a group of scattered riders beginning to gallop to the forest north of them.
“There! Some of the raiders are leaving.”
“Fasime, the children,” Eltha told him. He lowered his gaze to the villagers, beginning to gather as the crisis quieted.
“I don’t see them,” he said, seeing Agetha and Torgan joining the crowd.
“Trendin!” Torgan shouted. Fasime found him, being carried to them by another villager.
“Oh no,” he uttered and jumped from the cart, running towards them.
“Trendin!” his mother cried, and when Fasime came to them, he saw his face and arms were bruised and cut.
“I tried to stop them,” the boy struggled to say as his parents took him. “I tried…”
Agetha looked to the farmer with horror. “They took Aulia.”
Torgan’s face reddened with anger and despair. “Aulia!” he cried, but his emotion only took him a moment before his vigorous, muscular form woke into action. “Weapons! We have to follow them!”
The villagers vacillated, watching the farmer lift his axe from the cart. “Torgan,” one of them stated, sorrowfully, “we have no way to follow them.”
Fasime turned for his mount, but he saw Eltha had already untied him and was leading the mighty black warhorse quickly to them. He mounted and took the reins before turning towards Torgan. All of the villagers silenced at the sight of him. Agetha held her wounded son with tears in her eyes.
“Quickly!” Torgan shouted. “Gather what horses we have and follow him!”
Fasime sheathed his sword and shouldered his bow. He didn’t take the moment to glance to the villagers, the mother and the wounded boy, knowing what their eyes would tell him.
Bring her back.
Fasime flicked Lightning’s reins and cried out to him, starting him galloping out of the market and towards the northern woods. The sounds of the villagers were quickly out of earshot. They were into the field before Fasime realized what he was doing. He was one man against at least a dozen raiders. The feelings of duty towards the village and family that had harbored him strengthened his resolve and he withdrew the bow from his shoulder. They can’t out ride Lightning.
<
br /> He was already to the threshold of the forest. He pressed his heals into the stallion’s sides and leaned forward. He had always held caution with the beast, not allowing it to ride at its fastest speed, not knowing, upon that brink, what he would unleash. But now he strove towards it, seeing that upon entering the forest there was little snow upon the ground and the marauders’ trail was indefinite.
The steed responded with a supernatural understanding. It rushed with zeal in the direction its rider commanded it. Fasime gripped the girdle tightly, feeling the jolting of the ride strangely smooth the faster they galloped, as if Lightning glided towards their foes, becoming discernible in the distance between the trees. No root nor stone nor limb hampered him.
Perilously, Fasime straightened, reached for an arrow and knocked his bow. Soon. They will be within range soon.
They were deeper into the woods and Fasime was almost close enough. How many arrows will it take until they turn and fight? We shall see. Fasime raised the bow, unsure of his aim upon his shaking ride. He saw the trailing end of their riders clearly ahead. He closed one eye and drew the string, locking his legs against the stallion and targeted the rear rider. He released the string and the arrow flew ahead of him. Within a moment, the enemy rider fell off his horse. He was close enough to see the other riders turn in their saddles and spot him. They didn’t stop and turn. They quickened their pace.
That won’t help you.
Fasime grabbed the girdle and hastened Lightning to make up the distance. Soon his steed was hurdling over the body of the dead Rognoth. His quarry glanced back to him as he raised his bow. This time the arrow missed; the raiders ducked as it whizzed over their heads. They looked back to him again but still did not turn. Fasime saw them drop something, lightening their load. He shot another arrow. One of the riders jerked, but did not fall. That’s just a wound to remind you of your coming doom. The marauders did not turn to check him now, leaning forward in their saddles in an attempt to out ride him.
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