Disciple, Part I: For Want of a Piglet

by L. Blankenship

  Kiefan helped me wash the blood from my face, using his bare hands to melt the snow. Then a kiss, just a quick, chaste one. I stared at him a moment, but he only nodded and said, “Good night.”

  Once we were up on the shoulder ledge again, against the stone face, Kiefan broke the path for us. I followed, leading Puck, and Anders behind me with Acorn. Ulf and Ilya took turns half-carrying Ther Boristan at the rear.

  The nights were dark and frigid, and all seven Flock moons could not provide much light while the Shepherd waned to a sliver. Every night, we bundled up together with a heating charm in the blankets at our feet. I did what I could to clear the congestion, ease the headaches, spending all my kir and whatever Ilya could give me through his charm-hand Blessing. I got a little good-night kiss each evening, but exhaustion kept them brief. We didn’t have flasks of kir to ease the journey, this time, though the Caer did give us what extra charms they could.

  “To think the saints chose us for this,” Ther Boristan said. The wind screamed, thumping the tarps against our bodies, and horizontal snow poured by our windbreak. “I thought them kind. Saints Aleksandr and Qadeem, that is. Saint Woden always seemed a stern master, to me.”

  Anders snorted, which started his cough.

  “He is,” Kiefan said for him. “Are they kind, then? The others?”

  “You’ve a strength Blessing, m’lord, that’s a claim by Saint Aleksandr,” Boristan said.

  “Not in my case. And here, not strong enough even with the Blessing.”

  “Nobody could ask you to be stronger,” Boristan said, but at that Kiefan laughed until he coughed.

  When he got his voice back, he said, “You haven’t met my father? Was a time I thought he and Saint Woden agreed beforehand which Blessings I’d get. They have me so well corralled.”

  Ther seemed puzzled to have to explain. “No, the saints make their own choices. They know which Blessings fit you best.”

  Another harsh laugh. “I studied, when I learned about the Blessings, I read every book I could lay hands on. I learned Russe and Arceal and asked Mother to teach me Suevi. Believing that if I was ready, if I was smart enough…” Kiefan trailed off, clamping his mouth shut. “Child’s dreams,” he said. “Nothing more. Born yoked to the plow, so best to put my shoulder to it.”

  He said no more and after a time the conversation turned to home. The storm blew itself through the pass late in the day and we dug ourselves out as best we could with our two shovels. Blinding sun beat on the fresh snow for a short time before the shadows gathered. We ate a cool dinner of Caer trail bread, full of walnuts and bits of dried apple.

  When I got my kiss good-night, I whispered, “You wanted Saint Qadeem to choose you.”

  He hesitated; it was something of a blasphemy. But Boristan’s even wheezing marked that he’d dozed off, and Ilya’s snore was unmistakable. The rest likely couldn’t hear. “Yes. I wanted it even more, after. I hardly saw a book for all the sword training and jousting. Even asked —” Kiefan’s voice dropped further, though I was huddled close. “I asked him why.”

  “You questioned Saint Woden?” I nearly tripped over the words in surprise.

  “No — Mother have mercy!” He chuckled, and coughed a little. “I asked Saint Qadeem.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That four Blessings would have been too much.” Kiefan was lost in the memory, for a moment. “Said he would’ve been proud to have me. It was kind of him, I suppose.”

  “Saint Qadeem doesn’t say things idly, Master Parselev told me.”

  Kiefan’s mouth twitched to one side. “Still, if I’d been Blessed with memory, or with master-craft, or even just craft-handed, as Ther Boristan is, I would be better for it, I think.”

  It seemed a strange thing to say. “You hate the sword?”

  “No. There’s a grace, when my kir melds the speed and anticipation to the strength and the flow of it — but since I woke from my Blessing and found the sword was my destiny, there’s not been one day I’d want to treasure.”

  That saddened me. Since my Blessing, studying at the Order had changed my entire world. They sent me home a few times a year and I was ashamed at how my feet dragged on leaving and flew in returning. My parents’ little hut, which had been so cozy and safe, now reminded me of the hungry winters and threadbare clothes when there’d been little work for my father. “I wished for the heat-sight Blessing,” I admitted, “when I was little. I thought I’d be a better cook with it. But now I wouldn’t want anything but memory.”

  “If you’d gotten any other Blessing, I’d never have met you,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll have to admit to my headaches, if it’s you who heals them.”

  My heart quivered in my chest, at that. “I might not see you again, otherwise.”

  “You’ll see me again,” Kiefan murmured, sounding half-asleep.

  I wasn’t so sure, and the more I thought on it as he drifted off, the more I doubted it. The ache of that kept me awake.

  Chapter 11

  The second day after, we stopped early to set up camp and all grinned as we did it. Ilya trotted off as fast as his coughing let him while Ulf unloaded the tarps and Anders found a place to tether the ponies.

  Under the snow, the lumps around us were juniper and stunted spruces. The branches Ilya found were wet, but Boristan had enough kir for a fire-spark. “At least I can be some use,” he said with a smile, stoking the flames carefully with grass and leaves. The branches caught slowly, smoking. Boristan coughed and had to turn away. “May not be cooking with this soon,” he managed to add.

  “Smoke is what we need,” Kiefan said, watching the column rise off the little fire. The sky was clear, for now. “Smoke for a hawk-eye in Vorspitz to spot.”

  It was enough to melt some snow, bring it to boil and make some tea. Boristan was too weak to do more than manage the fire; I took the big skillet and cut up some potatoes to fry with a bit of ham. Below us, the forest rose up and blocked much of the view, but in the purple distance I could see Wodenberg’s western mountains. The afternoon sun settled itself behind them as I cooked. I thought I saw a silver curve of the Neva River, out there.

  Home. My eyes misted and I had to put the pan down to wipe them.

  Dinner was simple but heavenly. The men praised my cooking until I laughed myself into a coughing fit. Since we ate early, I had enough light to clean the pan by, and stood wiping it dry at the fire while Ilya told us about his young daughter’s coming birthday.

  I saw Ulf cock his head, and both the ponies look up from grazing on tough mountain grass. “Bring them in! Close to the fire!” He scrambled toward the leads, tied to a stubby spruce tree.

  Boristan, energized by the meal, hauled himself up to help. “I’ll get Acorn.”

  Anders got up too. “Don’t strain —”

  Ragged snarls tore into camp and the ponies squealed. Dark forms streaked by and two hit Boristan full on. A glimpse of sword and shouting and the pain of the skillet hitting my foot knocked me back to sense. Screaming, and not just mine. Boristan’s feet, kicking, dragged through the snow away from me and I leaped on them. I caught one ankle in both hands and threw my weight against it.

  Two lamia had him, one per arm, shaking him, blood spraying, as he shrieked. One beast planted its paws and pulled. The other lunged at me and I let go on reflex, threw myself back from its yellowed fangs with a scream.

  The lamia burst in half, innards spilling free; the second stumbled from the sudden freedom and then ran with its prize as if Boristan weighed nothing. I fell backward, through the campfire. Kiefan slipped from Blessing speed for half a second to keep from tripping on the monster he’d killed and was struck from behind, thrown down. That one didn’t stop, it ran over him and caught Boristan’s thrashing ankle, helped its pack-mate drag.

  Ilya caught me, pulled me clear of the flames before my woolens caught. He hollered and I heard teeth snap. Then Kiefan was there, between us and two more lamia, bloody sword ready. Boristan’s
wails, fading with distance, spiked to a ragged scream that faltered and choked into horrible silence.

  “Behind us, m’lord!”

  Kiefan spared a glance over his shoulder and I looked too. Three more circled, across the fire. Their spiny hackles flexing, ratty tails lashing, they paced to and fro, eyes fixed on me and Ilya.

  I gasped, “Where’re the ponies? Anders and Ulf?” No sign of them but churned snow and the ends of broken leads on the spruce.

  One lamia lunged, teeth snapping, but danced back quickly when Kiefan swung around the fire. Ilya had his dagger out and shifted up to his feet. His hands shook, but he pointed the blade toward the monsters. My chest heaving, head spinning, I fumbled for my own knife and clenched my hand on it. Useless, to me, but it was something.

  It dragged into an impasse. The lamia circled us, teeth bared. One tried a dash at Ilya but Kiefan swooped around in a blur and the beast’s ear went flying as it tried to dodge. With a squeal it fell back. Then another feinted on the other side and Kiefan was there too.

  My breath slowed enough that I swallowed and said, “They mean to wear you down.”

  “It’ll take longer than they think,” Kiefan growled, loud enough to tell them all.

  Five lamia pinned us down at the fire. The shadows deepened. They darted at Ilya, at me, to make Kiefan spend his kir. Over and over. One got too bold and took a slash across the shoulder. It hobbled into the dark and five became four. But they kept at it.

  We heard a shout and an arrow took one beast through the neck. The rest scattered, snarling, and Kiefan rallied with a yell. He wasn’t using speed anymore, but they kept well clear of his sword as they fled. Kiefan chased them only a few steps and stopped, swaying on his feet.

  Puck’s eyes showed whites as he followed Ulf toward the fire; the pony’s lead was tied to his belt. A few steps behind, Anders trotted across the clearing and turned to check behind them. Every line on him showed fatigue, the same as Kiefan. Worn down.

  I saw the lamia charge from the brush and screamed, throat ragged. Anders’ sword spitted one and its impact knocked him down. A second’s teeth flashed. Third lamia leaped from the shadows to join in. Kiefan raced across the gap, roaring fury, and the third one kept running. The second broke off and fled too, before our prince’s blade was in range.

  Ilya rushed to help. I untied Puck from Ulf so he could circle the campfire, arrow nocked and ready. His quiver was half empty, I glimpsed. “Shot that many of them? How many are there?”

  His jaw was clenched grimly. “Not all hits. Lamia know about bows.”

  Ilya put Anders down by the fire and he toppled onto his back, coughing fit to bring a lung up. Blood streaked his sleeve. The boiled leather breastplate had split in two places, at the shoulder, from a pair of punctures.

  “He’s bleeding,” Ilya told me. “His shoulder.”

  Passing him Puck’s reins, I opened my medicine bag. While I knelt beside him, Anders levered himself into sitting up and the effort set him coughing again. His breastplate had stymied half the bite; the other two fangs had torn his left shoulder. I took a blood-stop charm and squeezed it over the wound. The kir unfolded and did its work.

  Then I got his cloak off and pulled his cotes aside to see to the rest, as blood-stops did only one thing. I cleansed the bite and asked, “Who else is hurt?”

  Kiefan turned toward the fire and I saw his breastplate was gouged with parallel claw stripes. “None of this blood’s mine.”

  Ulf said, “Nothing that needs kir, on me. Just a bandage or two.”

  “Ilya, give me your kir so I can clear his lungs too,” I said, reaching.

  “Wait!” Kiefan looked to Ulf. “They’re not singing. Will they attack again? How many are left?”

  Ulf grimaced. It was true, the lamia weren’t singing. “They might. Lamia sing when the hunt’s done. As for how many — I wouldn’t guess, m’lord. Sometimes we see a dozen at once, but there always seem to be more. We come up here to kill what we can when they get too bold, and we retreat before we lose anybody.”

  “Save the kir. If they return, I’ll need it.” Kiefan heaved a sigh. “They’ve tapped me out.”

  Anders only twitched a little when I hooked my needle into his flesh. The gashes needed a few stitches of catgut to close them. As I sewed, Ilya asked, “What happened to Acorn?”

  I felt Anders tense under my hands. “They hamstrung him. Went for his belly. I cut his throat myself — I wouldn’t see an animal eaten alive like that. Let alone a friend.” His voice was rough, and he coughed to clear his throat.

  “Half our supplies gone,” Kiefan muttered.

  “Only two days to Vorspitz,” Ulf said. “Day and a half if we push hard. If they push hard to reach the fount, perhaps we’ll meet them sooner.”

  Kiefan considered the campfire. “Will they push hard?”

  “No secret the lamia will try for weak prey. Especially weak men.”

  I cut my thread free and Anders sidled his torn cotes back onto his shoulder. Reaching under both layers, I laid my hand on his sweat-slicked chest. “Hope I’m not cold,” I murmured, near his ear, and he tried to chuckle. When I called up my kir to clear his lungs, he leaned back against me with a sigh. His kir was tapped out, too, by how little of an answering echo I felt. It took three hard heaves to cough out all his phlegm into the snow, and a little blood came too.

  “They took our weakest,” Kiefan said, and tensed, spotting something in the darkness. “They’re watching still.”

  “Weakest are taken first.” Ulf turned to check on what Kiefan had seen. “Two of them there, yes. It’s happened before, to other hunting parties. They whittle away till the strongest is exhausted. Alone. Sometimes that one makes it home, though.”

  Kiefan’s hand went to the leather bag of documents he wore opposite his sword.

  I’d never been awake, before, when my day’s kir came. At midnight the lamia circled our camp, eyes reflecting the moons and the dim coals the fire had fallen to. Kiefan circled opposite them. Anders and Ulf switched off in joining him. Ilya and I leaned back to back, loosely wrapped in bedrolls, and tried to doze. The lamia would mock-charge, snarling and snapping, just enough to frighten Puck and jolt us all awake. Then they would peel off and meld with the blue snow-shadows.

  The day’s ration of kir blossomed in my chest, refreshing as a whiff of baking bread to the hungry. We all straightened, we all sighed.

  “The saints are with us,” Ilya said.

  Ulf wasn’t as impressed. “With us themselves would be a greater help.”

  “We’re given Blessings to endure trials like these.” Kiefan shot a stern glare across the fire at Ulf. “Don’t ask Saint Woden to give quarter. He will not.”

  “As well he’s not my saint, then,” Ulf returned. “Any who’d care to lend their hand would be welcome, now.”

  We all glanced up at the cloudy sky, knowing the tales of saints dropping in unexpected. But there was nothing to see.

  I caught what sleep I could, the rest of the night. When I saw the Shepherd rising, a thick rind and well before dawn, it confirmed that we’d been gone all the Grain Moon and four days into the Leaf Moon already. I dozed again, longer this time, and woke when Ilya moved to get up. Dawn caught on high, feathery clouds over us. Anders and Ulf stood watch and Kiefan slept, finally, by the fire. The lamia had melted away sometime after moonrise.

  Ilya and I packed up what there was of the camp, quietly as we could though Kiefan slept sound as the dead. Anders woke him with a shake, and slipped back Blessing-fast when Kiefan’s sword shot up.

  “We’ll make the fount by noon,” Ulf said. “We should skirt it, keep going.”

  Kiefan still had dark circles under his eyes. “We need the kir. One skin of it could make all the difference.”

  “They’ll be waiting.”

  “Can you swear they’ll leave us be if we skirt the fount?”

  Ulf looked away from the challenge. “No, m’lord.”

  “T
hen we make the fount by noon.”

  Clouds thickened overhead and the frost lingered well past dawn. Winter advanced down the mountainside at night, was pushed back by sunny days but left crusts of snow under the pines. We walked without speaking, Ulf ahead and the knights behind, Ilya and I with Puck in the middle. I had to watch my feet, as my tired mind wandered and missed the tree roots or jutting rocks in the trail. My ankles throbbed from stumbling. My back ached from sitting all night.

  And they followed us, a rustle off to one side, a whuffed breath on the other. Puck’s ears swiveled to and fro and at first he startled every few minutes, as raw-nerved as any of us. Well before noon came, he merely plodded on, exhausted.

  The trail led down a rocky slope that was tricky for a pony. I took Puck’s reins and Ilya leaned against his chest to counter-brace and we got him down the first few feet. The fount’s pond was in sight and I could feel the kir tugging at me. Puck was looking at it, too, ears perkier than they’d been all morning. He slipped a little and slid against Ilya’s weight.

  Anders came down a steeper part quickly, sword in hand. “I’ll brace his other side.”

  Ulf stood at the bottom with bow ready, scanning a half-circle. It was only the motion that warned me; they came silently this time, from opposite sides. My scream was entirely too slow. An arrow took one; the other knocked Ulf to the ground.

  I was thrown down on the rocks and agony clamped onto my arm. It dragged me like a doll, despite my thrashing against its wiry fur, despite grabbing at whatever passed by. The beast shook me and my shoulder cracked.

  That instant it paused to shake, a hand grabbed my ankle and pulled so hard the lamia spun around on my arm despite its claws scrabbling for purchase. A blur of steel and the monster screamed. Kiefan spun around over me, straddling, blade slicing a wide, challenging circle. Lamia fell back on either side, snarling, and he snarled back.