The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  A wind of angst seized Mawby with that statement, and he knew it was less from the insult than because the man was almost certainly right. Jhom was probably the most intimidating Baeldon he’d ever met. He wasn’t as tall as the really big ones, but he was big as a mountain and solid as a boulder, and he moved like lightning in spite of it.

  “I’m not going to fight you, Mawby,” Jhom said as if reading his mind, “So, what say you just go ahead and take that bridle off the horse, then we’ll head back to the house, yea? I’ve got some ripe field tubers roasting for you. They’re just about ready.”

  Mawby looked past him toward the rusty glow of the old farmhouse’s windows. After a moment’s consideration, he shook his head and turned back to the horse. “No,” he said as he resumed securing his bag to the animal’s mane. “No sir, I don’t believe I will.”

  “No? Did you really say that? No?”

  “I’m going after Koonta. I’m reasonably sure you don’t like it, but that’s where we’re at. You can try to stop me, but—”

  “There won’t be any try about it.”

  Mawby gave the horsehair knot a final wrench before turning to face the man full on. “I’m leaving, Jhom. You shouldn’t try to stop me. This is bigger than any of—”

  “You take the bridle off that horse, boy.”

  Mawby bristled at that. Boy?

  It was exactly the wrong choice of words. Hearing that word served up by an arrogant, racist Allied agent delivered Mawby a dose of fury that nearly drove him to stupidity. In that moment, it was all he could do to resist drawing his sword.

  Instead, he said through a tight jaw, “I’m going now.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’m going after Koo. And you’re not stopping me. You shouldn’t even try. You’ll just wake the others, and I’ll still get away. You should just go back up that hill and tend to your tubers.”

  Jhom’s scowl was nearly demonic in the ghostly light of the waning moon. “Oh, is that right?”

  “That is exactly right, sir. What good can come from my staying? That Watcher will be dead by morning, and if he isn’t, it won’t be much later. Why should I sit here watching a man spit blood until he dies when I can move out ahead of the company and maybe do some good?”

  “You’ll stay because I said you’ll stay. You don’t need a better reason than that. We move when Chance says we move, not a dry fart sooner.”

  Mawby watched him for a moment, watched his dark eyes simmering eerily in the moonlight. Then just shook his head, and said as firmly as he could manage, “No, sir. You can wait to move when he tells you, if it suits you, but it’s a foolish waste for us to all hunker down here. Koonta’s my friend. No, she’s my family. Known her forever, since we were swaddling. I love her like no other.”

  “That’s sweet,” Jhom said on a laugh, “I’m touched. Really. Got a girl of my own back in Barcuun.”

  The fire in Mawby’s gut flamed higher. He was about full of being insulted by this arrogant fool. He stepped forward, hand locked on his sheathed sword. “You best step carefully about this, Jhom. You’re going to offend me one time too many soon enough.”

  Jhom walked up to him. There was barely a pace separating them now. “You’ll put the entire party at risk,” he said seriously, “How can I allow that?”

  “Would you be stopping me if I were a Baeldon?”

  Jhom stopped at that. For a moment, he actually looked confused. “What the hell does that—”

  “Answer the goddamned question! If I weren’t Vaemysh, you’d never try to stop me. Isn’t that the truth? If I were Baeldonian and trying to go after a Baeldonian captive, you wouldn’t lift a finger to stop me. Hell, you’d have already lit out after her yourself.”

  Jhom seemed to think about this. Then he nodded slowly, and he said, “Yea, I reckon that’s just about right. I would go after her. Hell, you’re exactly right… I’d already have left. But you’re not Baeldonian, are you? You are a goddamn Vaemyn. And the truth is, I don’t trust you farther than I can spit. I think the minute you leave this camp, you’ll make a beeline straight back to your people.”

  “If I’d wanted to go back to my people, I’d have left this morning. I’d have gone out after the horses and never come back. But I did come back, didn’t I?”

  “By Khe’naeg’s balls, I’d have to agree,” Jhom said nodding, “That is a true statement. And now that you’re back, you’re staying right here with us.” With that, he slipped his knife free.

  Mawby backed away until his back met the horse. He reached for the reins without turning and pulled the horse around toward him. The knife blade glimmering at him from the ghostly light was longer than most Vaemysh swords. He knew he had to do something and he had to do it now. He had to draw his own weapon or make a run for it. He was just pulling his sword free when the mountain seemed to seize.

  Jhom’s knife abruptly flipped away into the night. His head cocked awkwardly back. For just an instant, Mawby thought he was having a brain seizure. Then he saw an arm snaked convincingly around his neck and another trussing back his knife arm.

  “Mawby, go!”

  It was Wenzil!

  Mawby stood there for a moment, not sure what he should do. Maybe he should help Wenzil first.

  “Go!” Wenzil yelled over Jhom’s shoulder, “Go now!”

  “This is a mistake!” Jhom shouted as he struggled against Wenzil’s restraint, “Let my arm go!”

  “Ride, Mawby!” Wenzil yelled again, “She needs you! They both need you! It’s where you’re supposed to be. Go now!”

  The words cleared Mawby’s mind as brusquely as a slap. He leapt up onto the horse’s back. The animal danced a few steps before he reined it around to face Jhom and Wenzil. He knew time was slipping away, but he couldn’t resist the urge to set that bastard of a mountain straight.

  “You stubborn son of a bitch!” he yelled at Jhom, “I gave Chance my word I’d not go back to my people! My bloody word! And despite your pathetic lack of confidence, I won’t betray him! I’ll never betray my word or my friends!”

  Jhom suddenly doubled forward, flipping Wenzil over his shoulder. Wenzil landed hard on his back in the field sod. In the same instant, Jhom ran toward Mawby.

  “Go!” Wenzil yelled as he twisted up from the grass, “Go, Maw! Go now!”

  Mawby dug his heels into the horse and wheeled it roughly away from the advancing mountain, pushing it into a harsh gallop. Once clearly out of reach, he reined it back in and turned again toward the Baeldons.

  Jhom stood panting in the moonlight a dozen paces back with his fists knotted like boulders at his side. “You son of a bitch!” he yelled, “Don’t you do this! I swear to gods, I’ll wear your skin if you leave!”

  Mawby’s horse snorted and pawed at the dirt. “I’ll leave signs!” Mawby called back to Jhom, who was once again barreling for him, “You’ll be able to follow my trail! I’ll lead you to them. And I’ll be waiting there for you, I swear it!”

  XXV

  THE DISSOLUTION

  IHOM SQUATTED BEFORE THE FRESH TRACKS IN THE GRASS, SCRATCHING AT HIS BEARD AS HE STUDIED THEM.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he said, lowering his torch to better illuminate the trail, “I’d say the half-breed was making a beeline for your house.” He glanced back at Chance, laughing.

  Chance was not amused. “I find that most unlikely. I’ve already told you, Beam was there when it burned. There’s nothing to go back to.”

  Jhom’s face reddened at that. “Yea,” he said, throwing his eyes off into the impending dawn, “My mistake. Didn’t expect you’d think I was serious.”

  Chance felt a moment’s guilt for his impatience. He was too damned hard on Jhom, who was only trying to bring a little light to the gloom. He tried to offer up an apologetic grin, but couldn’t pull it off. Better to just let it be.

  He looked off toward the dark forest line a few miles south of them where the trail clearly led. The crowns of the trees gl
owed softly in the dim rust of the early light. Through some queer twist of luck, it turned out that Beam’s trail passed within a quarter mile from the failing farmstead they’d made camp in the night before.

  “Maybe the he’s heading to Vaen,” Jhom said with less enthusiasm.

  “No, I don’t believe that.” Chance looked at Jhom, who even kneeling was just below eye level with him, “He’d never go to the Vaemyn. He’s a bigot. He loathes them.”

  “I’m talking about the savage. Maubius Yendt.”

  Chance sighed. “Blood of the gods, Jhom,” he said, rubbing at his eyes, “You need to let it go. You never should have tried to stop him.”

  “Chance is right,” Wenzil said.

  Chance nearly jumped out of his britches. The runner seemed to have materialized beside him. “Damn you, Wenzil!” he barked up at him, “You near scared the love out of me! Even with a limp, you’re silent as a shiver.”

  Wenzil carefully squatted down across from Jhom, supporting his wounded thigh with a barely perceptible wince. “He’s not going to Vaen,” he said directly to Jhom, “He’s going after the Vaemyd, and you damned well know it.”

  “I don’t know anything of the sort,” Jhom grumbled, “He’s a warrior. They damned well don’t drop their loyalties to the tribe just because the wind changes.”

  “That’s a load of bullshit and you know it.”

  “Is that right?”

  “That is absolutely right.”

  “Fine words from the fool who abetted his escape.”

  “Escape? He wasn’t a prisoner, and you know it!”

  “He damned well should have been.”

  “You don’t have a bloody—”

  “Shut up!” Chance yelled with a raised hand, “Both of you, just shut up! Gods almighty! Give it a rest already.”

  The kneeling Baeldons fell into a clumsy silence.

  Chance was about to pose a question when he noticed a smudge on Wenzil’s face. He leaned over to him, guiding the man’s face up as he moved the torch in for a closer inspection. Wenzil’s right eye was black and blue, and swollen nearly shut. His bottom lip didn’t look much better, and he had a scrape along the left side of his chin.

  “What the devil happened to you?”

  Wenzil shrugged and pulled free of Chance’s hand. His gaze quickly fled off toward the growing red gash of dawn. “Nothing important,” he muttered.

  “Nothing important?”

  “It’s nothing. I don’t remember. Fell, mayhaps.”

  “Fell, mayhaps,” Chance repeated, “If you’re going to lie to me, at least show me some respect by putting a little effort into it. Did Mawby do that?”

  Wenzil didn’t reply.

  “Wen, answer me.”

  “Well, that’s about as ridiculous a thing as I’ve ever heard you say,” Wenzil said with a glare that was about as half-hearted as the lie had been, “Calina’s tits, Chance! Why in the Nine would Mawby fight me?”

  “You tell me.”

  “It’s nothing.” Wenzil again looked off into the reddening horizon. “Went out for a piss last night and ran into a tree.”

  “You ran into a tree. Was that before or after you fell?”

  Wenzil muttered something, but didn’t pull his eyes from the sunrise.

  Chance looked over at Jhom, who’d suddenly become just as interested in the growing dawn as Wenzil was. The young sunlight had his face cast in a rosy glow. For the first time since waking, he noticed Jhom’s left cheek was split and swollen.

  “Of course,” Chance said, looking from one to the other, “I understand now. You’re a fine pair of fools! We don’t have enough enemies to fight? Now you’re fighting each other? What the hell is wrong with you two? You disappoint me most seriously, the pair of you!”

  Both Baeldons continued their inspection of the birthing morn. Their silence was deafening, and in that moment, Chance hadn’t one scrap of patience for it.

  “I don’t care what you fought about, though I suspect Mawby’s leaving is likely at the core of it. I need soldiers at my back, not a pair of toddlers.”

  Wenzil shot him a glance, but then seemed to reconsider and quickly looked away.

  “Don’t make an inquisition of it,” Jhom grumbled, still watching the sunrise, “It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damned right it won’t. And you’ll damned well look at me when I’m talking to you!”

  Jhom turned his head just a bit. After a beat, he looked fully at Chance. “Fine, I’m looking you straight in the eye, Pa.”

  Chance actually had to resist a laugh at that. “I want you to bury this childish suspicion you’re harboring for Mawby. He’s no threat to us. He’s an ally!”

  “According to you. I reserve the right to harbor doubts.”

  “He’s Lamys te’Faht,” Wenzil said, “Our cause is in his blood, for gods’ sakes. He’s no more a friend to Prae than you are.”

  “So say you. How in the Nine do you know he’s telling the truth?”

  Wenzil growled as he climbed to his feet. “I saw his amulet, Jhom,” he said, scowling down at the other, “And beyond that… I, well… hell, I just know it’s true.”

  “Oh, the wee birth vision,” Jhom said back, “Sure, I forgot all about that. Must’ve been your wondrous godsense told you the truth, yea?”

  Wenzil threw a finger down at Jhom, yelling, “Now don’t you go and mock me, you son of a bitch! It’s the Lesser Birthsight, and you goddamned well kno—”

  Jhom jumped up and grabbed a wad of Wenzil’s shirt, yelling, “I ought to—”

  Chance jabbed the torch between them. Jhom shrieked and danced backward, swatting at the sparks flaring in his short beard.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he hollered at Chance, “You could’ve put my eyes out, for gods’ sakes!”

  As the Baeldon slapped away the last of the ash, Wenzil started laughing.

  “Yeah, hilarious, isn’t it?” Jhom shouted at him, “Laugh it up while I smolder, why don’t you?”

  Wenzil continued to do just that. And it was apparently contagious, because Chance quickly found himself laughing along with him.

  Jhom held his hands out. The black soot from his beard smeared his palms. He studied it for a moment, clearly struggling to maintain the façade of rage. But then he laughed as well.

  Friss emerged from the dusky shadows, coming from the direction of the old barn. She stopped a few paces out and just stood there in silence, staring at the three of them with her fists planted determinedly on her hips. “What would the three of ye be cackling about, then?” she asked, scowling her disapproval.

  Wenzil hiked a thumb at Jhom, saying, “Chance tried to blind Jhom with his torch, but he only managed to singe his beard.”

  “I’ll get it right next time,” Chance said, fighting to stop laughing.

  “Well, they do say practice makes perfect,” Wenzil added, “Want me to grab you a fresh torch?”

  Jhom slugged Wenzil’s shoulder.

  “Ow! You son of a bitch!” Wenzil shouted, swinging back.

  “Enough!” Friss yelled, “Like tribe of monkeys scrabbling after chokeberry! If it be troubling ye short of inconvenience, I could use some help with dear Grae’s dressings. Truth pressed to lips, I’d pray rather suck out me own eye than pull ye prematurely off whatever manner of male bloody cock swinging ye be dancing about with here at dawn’s blush.”

  “We’ll be in directly, Friss,” Chance said, wiping the last of his humor away on his sleeve, “We’re nearly finished.”

  Friss took a moment to send them each a personalized scowl, then turned and marched back toward the decaying farmhouse. “Happy news that!” she snapped over her shoulder, “Calina knows I’ll rest me ivory ass on pins and needles waiting to see ye deliver such important work as this to ambition's end.”

  “Friss!” Chance called, “Wait! You don’t—”

  “Heroes, me ass. Ye be infelicitous spawn of imps, each bloody one of ye!”
>
  “All right,” Chance said as he watched her marching off into the fading night, “No more infighting. We’ve got bigger battles to face. And we surely don’t want to see that one-woman army pushed to anger. Agreed?”

  The Baeldons mumbled their agreement.

  “We’ve lost our lead tracker,” Chance said, looking up at Wenzil, “Thank the gods we still have you. I want you to take to Mawby’s trail. I’m confident he’ll lead us to Beam and Koonta’ar.”

  “With due respect,” Wenzil said too carefully, “I fear that plan won’t play out.”

  For a moment, Chance didn’t understand the words. “What, is your leg bothering you? I can give you—”

  “Nay, I reckon the leg’s bearable enough. I just can’t track for you, not no more.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have to leave,” Wenzil said sheepishly, “Got to head back to Barcuun. I, eh… I’ve got... responsibilities.”

  Chance tried to make sense of the words. It took him a few beats, but the truth eventually seized him. “The Baeldonian Drayma. Of course. You’ve received your vision.”

  “Yea, last night. Needs be I go back.”

  Chance felt hope sink. He slowly dropped down to his knees in the matted grass. It felt as if the sky itself was falling in on them, and they couldn’t hide and they couldn’t get out of the way. Their party was disintegrating before his eyes. Beam, Koonta, Mawby. And now Wenzil? And just when they’d taken on the added burden of the mortally wounded Watcher.

  And yet, he could find no argument to counter Wenzil’s leaving. He was Lamys te’Faht, after all. He had a higher calling to answer to than the whims of some tired, old mage. He rubbed the butts of his palms against the pressure building behind his eyes. “I understand,” he whispered, “You have to follow your vision. It’s beyond your control.”

  “More than that,” Jhom said, “We need to inform Barcuun. I’m every bit as loathe to let him go as you are, but Bender needs to hear what’s happening from someone who’s seen it first hand, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Chance said, still rubbing at his eyes, “Yes, of course, I do. You’re right. And it should be you who delivers it, Wenzil. Gods know, you’ve seen the worst of it, what with Hector and all.”