The patrol rushed into the swirling river, eager to come to grips with the enemy, and was soon up to their flanks in the swiftly running water. Gerald struck out with his sword, feeling the tip penetrate an opponent's leather jerkin. As he pulled it back, blood gushed down his blade. The rider toppled from his saddle and was carried away by the fast flowing water.
Gerald received a blow on his shield and turned his head back to observe the tip of a spear glancing off of it. The Norlander holding it, pulled it back for another thrust, so Gerald stood in his stirrups and reached out with his own blade, striking overhand to bring it crashing down on his enemy's head. The weapon penetrated his foe's helmet, cutting deeply. Gerald tried to pull his sword free, but it was stuck, and he twisted his wrist in an effort to loosen it. Stretched out as he was, there was nothing he could do to block a blow from another opponent, who rose in his saddle for the killing blow. Gerald ducked low and to the left, releasing his grip on his sword. The manoeuvre threw all his weight to the left side of his saddle and this, combined with the force of the water coming from his right, sent his horse tumbling into the river.
Luckily, he had instinctively pulled his feet from his stirrups to avoid being crushed by his mount, and then a wall of water slammed into him, sending him spinning. In the blink of an eye, he was beneath the surface, fighting for breath against the coldness of the water. All thoughts of the fight were torn from his mind as he struggled to gain control of his momentum. His armour pulled him down, and he felt the rocks of the riverbed scraping against him as the current forced him downstream.
He released his shield to free his arm; then tried to grip anything to stop his whirling. His hand grasped a branch of some type, and he struggled to hold on, pulling himself upward. He finally broke the surface and took a breath, only to find his numb hands unable to hold their lifeline. He gulped air while he could, before the cold water pulled him down once more. Struggling to hold his breath, he tried to take stock of his predicament. It would be nearly impossible to remove his mail while being tossed about the river in this manner. He must endeavour to reach the nearest bank to pull himself from the river's icy grip.
His numb hands reached out, but he couldn’t feel anything around him. With lungs burning from the lack of air, he was just about to pass out when he bounced off a boulder in the river, thrusting his head above the surface once more. He gasped for what air he could as the river carried him through a set of rapids. The turbulence here made it difficult for him to breath, with as much water as air entering his lungs. The swirling maelstrom tossed him around like a rag doll. His ribs struck a rock, and then his legs bounced from one obstacle to another, each one leaving its mark upon him.
With his energy ebbing fast, he was driven sideways into a large rock, and he clung to it for all he was worth. He lifted his head above the water, seeing the shoreline only a few horse's lengths away. Struggling to pull himself upright, he scanned the shore, trying to find the best way to safety. Just downriver there was an ancient tree, with an expansive root system that jutted out into the water. If he could throw himself close enough, the current should take him where he wanted to go.
With a deep breath, he hurled himself towards the northern bank. The icy water tried, instead, to pull him into a final embrace as his armour snagged on a branch. Desperately, he reached out, barely managing to grasp a root before the water closed over him one last time. He hung on by sheer willpower, his legs dangling uselessly beneath him with no riverbed to stand on. Using every ounce of energy at his disposal, he dragged himself, hand over hand, toward the bank.
Gerald crawled onto the dirt and collapsed, his lungs burning with the effort. Coughing up water, he was dismayed to see blood; he had taken a beating. First, he must find someplace to rest, if only for a little while. Lifting himself up, he glanced around, coming to the realization that he was on the wrong side of the river; this was Norland territory.
Over the rushing of the water, he thought he heard something, footsteps perhaps? He must find cover, Norland soldiers might be looking for him. He spied a fallen tree trunk a stone's throw away and dragged himself toward it. It reminded him of all those years ago when he had fled the men that killed his family. Then, he was a frightened boy, but today, he was a hardened warrior, able to defend himself. He had lost his sword, but his dagger was still sheathed on his belt. He drew it, seeing the sun glint off it as he held it in front of him. He may be injured, he thought, but he would go down fighting.
Peering over the trunk, he watched a Norlander emerge from the brush. There was a pole across his shoulders, with a bucket hanging over either end. He had the look of someone down on his luck with his unkempt hair, rough looking beard and threadbare clothes. The man stopped by the river, lowering the buckets to the ground. He was apparently going to fill each container, but as he stooped to grab the first bucket, he spied Gerald's drag marks emerging from the water. His eyes began to follow the trail, and Gerald cursed; now he would have to expend what little remaining energy he had to silence the man before he raised the alarm.
Leaving the buckets by the riverbank, the stranger began moving toward Gerald's position; soon he would be clearly visible. Gerald struggled to rise, the pain in his ribs reminding him of the rock he had bounced off.
“I mean you no harm,” the stranger said.
“You’re a Norlander,” Gerald spat, wincing as he spoke, his dagger shaking in front of him from his exertions.
“And you’re evidently a Mercerian, but you’re still someone in need. I won’t hold the sins of your forefathers against you.”
Gerald struggled to grasp the man's meaning. A spasm of pain wracked his body and he instinctively dropped the blade, clutching his ribs. “Get away from me you filthy Norlander!” he barked.
“I can help you,” the man countered. “You’re injured.”
“I’d rather die than accept help from northern scum.”
“So be it, friend. I wish you well, it’s likely to be a cold one tonight.” The stranger gathered his buckets, filling them from the river and then, hoisting them back onto his yoke, carried them away.
Gerald listened to the water sloshing as he left and then finally relaxed. He tried to piece together the time and came to the conclusion it was late afternoon. He wasn’t hungry, and there was plenty of water, but he was shivering and must find warmth or he would freeze to death.
He briefly considered swimming the river for it would be better if he was on the Mercerian side, but reasoned against it. The river had tried to take his life once, he would not tempt fate a second time. He knew he should remove his armour for it held the cold, but he was afraid that enemy soldiers might show up at any time. He thought of fire and made his decision; he would gather some wood and attempt to light it. He tried to rise to his feet, but the pain in his ribs robbed him of the act, and he sat back down in agony.
“For Saxnor’s sake,” he muttered, “I hope you’ve a better fate in store for me than freezing to death.”
He thought back to the days of his youth and remembered spending a night under a trunk. It worked then, and it just might work now, he reasoned. He used his dagger to start digging beneath the old tree trunk. It was tough work, but finally, as it darkness descended, he had cleared enough space to crawl beneath to give him a semblance of protection.
The work had warmed him, and he pulled himself into his protective cover, but soon he regretted his decision. His present lack of movement meant the chilly air began penetrating his limbs, leaving him shivering uncontrollably. He thought to divest himself of his armour, but his hands were too numb, and he cursed the weather.
Darkness soon came, and with it even more frigid temperatures. Gerald didn't know how long he lay there, shaking with the cold, but he could no longer feel his arms or legs. He passed into delirium; saw himself wandering through the fields of his youth. He was shaken awake by a pair of hands; the Norlander had returned.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe, shall we,” t
he stranger suggested, “before the patrols find you.”
“Patrols?” stammered Gerald, barely able to talk.
“Yes, they’re always looking for Mercerians crossing the border. We need to get you to safety. I have a small farm nearby, but it’ll take some time to get there in your condition. Can you walk?”
Gerald grunted a curse, but the words wouldn’t form between his chattering teeth.
“Come then, let’s get you away from here,” the man came closer, and Gerald accepted his assistance. His rescuer placed his arm around his shoulder, and soon the two hobbled away from the river.
* * *
Gerald opened his eyes to a small room. He was lying on a simple cot, with a rolled up blanket beneath his head. He remembered little of his trip to arrive here, but his entire body ached. Turning his head, he peered about; the room was sparsely furnished and quite run down. There was a table with two chairs that looked like they might soon fall apart. Across the room, was a simple window bracketed with a pair of shutters that appeared warped from many years of use.
The smell of food greeted his nostrils, and he rotated his view to see a fireplace against the far wall, a small pot hanging over it. His host, stooped over the food, was ladling something into a small wooden bowl. The stranger turned, his eyebrows going up as their eyes met.
“Ah,” he said, “I see you’re awake. I thought you might like some food. I’ve a nice root stew for you here.”
Gerald sat up, wincing with the effort and spat, “I’ll not take help from a Norlander.”
“I’m afraid you already have, my friend,” the man replied.
Gerald tried to rise, but as he dropped his feet over the edge of the bed, he doubled over in pain.
“Take it easy,” his host advised, “you’ve damaged some ribs. It’s likely to be a few days before you can move around. Here try this, it’s not much, but it’ll help.”
A bowl of food was offered, but Gerald pushed it aside. “I don’t want your help,” he growled.
The man placed the bowl down, putting his hands into the air, “So be it. I’m Kaylan Rothmire, and this is my home, humble as it is. Might it be too much to ask who you are?”
“Your enemy,” Gerald replied with venom.
“And yet I’ve never laid eyes on you. Why is it that you have so much hatred toward Norlanders?”
“You know why!” said Gerald, through gritted teeth.
“I am but a simple farmer,” Kaylan responded.
“You’re no farmer,” snarled Gerald.
“I assure you I am, but let us not argue. I have some chores to attend to. I’ll leave the bowl of food here on the table for you. It’s entirely up to you if you want to avail yourself of it.” He exited the building, closing the wooden door behind him.
Gerald looked around the room, searching for any chance of escape. He tried to rise again, but the pain was too severe, and he sat back down, defeated. The room gave no clue as to his captor's identity, but he knew he was no farmer; the man was too well-spoken, and yet here he was, in this run-down hovel. He lay back down, trying to ease the pain of his ribs. Perhaps after more rest, he might be able to move around a little more. Mere moments later, he was fast asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of chopping wood. It seemed like early morning, and he realized with a start, that he must have slept the night away. His head felt clear, and so he rose, experimentally, to a sitting position. His ribs ached, and he moved slowly to avoid more pain.
Rising to his feet, his head swam, and so he steadied himself with one hand on the wall as he made his way to the table, where the bowl still lay. He noticed a plain white apron hanging beside the hearth. Was there a woman here? He wandered over to the fireplace to glance into the pot; it was empty. Had the man given him the last of his food; it seemed unlikely, Norlanders were not known for their hospitality.
Gerald struggled back to the cot; he was still weak from the battering he had taken, and he knew he had no choice but to rest. Laying his head down, he felt the weariness envelope him once again and closed his eyes.
* * *
The sound of a door opening jarred Gerald from his slumber. He noticed Kaylan carrying in some wood that he dropped by the fireplace. “Feeling better?” the man asked.
“Why, what’s it to you?” Gerald replied. “Does it matter? You’re only going to kill me anyway.”
Kaylan turned, surprised by the venom in his voice, “Do you think I would go to the trouble of saving you if I was only going to kill you? That hardly seems worth the trouble.”
“I suppose not,” admitted Gerald. “Still, you’re a Norlander, and I’m a Mercerian.”
“We’re not so different, you and I. I suspect you’ve suffered a great loss, as have I.” The man’s forlorn look was lost on Gerald, who merely grunted.
“Did you say your name was Kaylan?” Gerald asked at last.
“Yes, Kaylan Rothmire.”
The room fell into silence while Gerald tried to make sense of his situation. He was at home on the battlefield, but here, in enemy territory, he was out of his depth.
“Are you hungry?” asked his host.
“No, I’m fine,” Gerald lied. “Where's my dagger?”
Kaylan rose to his feet, walking over to the hearth, “It’s right here, above the fireplace. It’s yours whenever you want it. I have to go back outside for a while, there’s food to be gathered.”
“I thought you were a farmer?” Gerald queried.
“I am, but it’s the spring, and I haven’t enough stores left from winter. I need to go into the woods nearby and gather some plants, or we’ll both starve. Unless, of course, that’s your intention?”
“No,” Gerald reluctantly agreed. “Be about your business Norlander, I’ll not interfere.”
“Very well then,” said Kaylan. “I should be back before dark. Feel free to make yourself at home.”
Once more his captor left, and Gerald began to wonder at the man's sanity. Gerald's dagger lay only a few feet from him and yet he hadn’t moved to hide it. What was his host playing at? He struggled to his feet and made his way to the fireplace, steadying his progress by placing his hands against the wall. The dagger was where Kaylan had left it, and Gerald tucked it into his belt, and then staggered back to his bed. He struggled to think of a way to escape, considering his options before finally making a decision; he would kill his captor and then make his way home.
-Interlude X-
Bodden
Summer 960 MC
“I just don’t see you killing a man who rescued you,” offered Beverly.
“I was different in those days,” replied Gerald. “I was a man possessed. The loss I’d suffered destroyed me.”
“It’s true, Beverly,” added the baron. “You didn’t know the old Gerald. He had lost his humanity somewhere along the line. All he did was train or fight.”
“But you’re not that way now,” commented Anna.
“I remember you from the archery contest, you didn’t seem like that,” offered Hayley.
“That was years later,” explained Gerald.
“How old are you, exactly?” asked Hayley.
“Gerald’s ancient,” said Anna, “but we still love him, don’t we Tempus!”
The great dog barked his agreement as everyone laughed.
“I can look back on it now and see my behaviour was wrong,” said Gerald, “but at the time, all I could think about was vengeance.”
“Still,” offered the baron, “without that fire burning in you, you wouldn’t have become the warrior you are today. Even the bad times in our lives shape us in ways we can seldom see, at least at the time.”
“Wise words, Richard,” offered Albreda, who was now sitting on the floor beside the baron’s chair. “You have the makings of a sage.”
Fitz smiled at his companion, “I’ve learned from the best.”
“Please continue, Gerald,” said Beverly. “It’s a fascinating story. I knew you los
t your family, but I never knew about this.”
“Of course, Lady Beverly,” Gerald mused. “Where was I?”
“You were about to slaughter the Norlander in his sleep,” supplied Anna.
“Really?” said Gerald. “I don’t remember using the word ‘slaughter’.”
“Well, you didn’t use that precise word, but the meaning was clear.”
“I suppose that was the meaning, at the time,” he offered. “I was waiting for him to return so I could ‘slaughter’ him, to use the princess’s precise term…”
Gerald and the Norlander: Part II
North of Bodden
Spring 934 MC
It was dark by the time Kaylan returned. Gerald lay on the bed, pretending to be sleeping as listened intently to his host. It didn’t take long for the man to climb into his own bed and fall asleep. Gerald counted to five hundred in his head, and then sat up, carefully swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Grasping the dagger firmly in his right hand, he stood, wincing with the effort. Taking a few steps toward his host, he steadied his movement by holding onto the nearby chair. He staggered, scraping the chair along the floor, and froze, fearful that his captor might awaken. Letting his breath out slowly, he regained his composure and continued his journey. Soon, he stood over Kaylan with the dagger in his hand. He placed it at the man’s throat, ready to cut, but his hand shook, and he couldn’t do it.
“Go ahead,” said Kaylan, his eyes opening suddenly. “Do us both a favour and take me out of my misery.”
Mercerian Tales Page 13