Several targets had been placed by a stone wall and three archers stood together at the edge of the cluster speaking privately but taking no pains to hide the looks and grins they sent toward the thin, muscular woman in front of them. Lydria relayed the proceedings to Kimi and let the cat use her eye for a time so he could appreciate the spectacle.
“Haidrea will show them more than her archery skills before this is over,” Kimi said coldly as he scanned the crowd with Lydria’s green eye.
The feeling of giving the cat control over one eye was uncomfortable. Kimi, aware of the disorientation it caused, tried not to overstay his welcome, but when Lydria finally got used to the cat’s presence, Kimi would spend long moments on one spot, and Lydria clearly wanted to move to a different view. “Kimi, what are you so interested in?”
“Nothing. Your eyes are horrible – I’m just trying to be sure of what I’m looking at.”
“Why do you think Haidrea will show more than archery?”
Kimi laughed, which sounded a bit like a sneeze to Lydria. “Apart from the archers, do you see the three large men at the front and away from the captain? Watch them. They are trouble. Let me know how it goes, I’m going to get something to eat. Any longer in your eyes and I’ll forget how to see properly.”
As Captain Branch made introductions, the men were polite. Several made rude comments and gestures to their companions, but none did so when the captain or Haidrea could see. Three archers lined up opposite their targets and fired off several volleys, most striking the hay bales surrounding the targets and a few finding the small wooden disc at the center. The entire target was contained in a small wooden cage so that it could be moved from place to place.
“That is good,” said Haidrea, clearly enjoying her role as teacher.
“That’s right, it’s good, miss,” said one of the large men Kimi had pointed out. “With this group behind their bows, an enemy doesn’t stand a chance.”
“Certainly not,” Haidrea allowed. “At least, not if the enemy is twice as large as a man and standing perfectly still.”
The comment made the group laugh lightly at the expense of the archers, as she knew it would, and as Captain Branch knew as well if his smile meant anything. Haidrea was enlivening the group and bringing them to her side slowly. The archers also picked up on the laughter, ceding her point, and Haidrea walked casually to the targets with three lengths of rope which she secured to the cages and gave the opposite ends to the three archers. “Pull these targets as fast you can.”
The men looked at each other in disbelief. One said to the captain, “I’m not a horse. I’m not pulling…”
“Take a rope, each of you,” barked Captain Branch. His authority was absolute, and the men immediately grabbed a line. Each of the men in turn recruited two of their fellows to pull the target very fast. As they began their journey back and forth along a long section of wall, Haidrea spoke to the remaining men.
“Every beast has a tempo and if you study it, you will be able to follow even the swiftest animal.” With an effortlessness borne of years of practice she loaded an arrow and pulled the string of the short bow so that her arrow’s feather brushed across her cheek. In the span of two heartbeats the arrow was away, and another had taken its place, followed by a third shortly after. Before the third struck home into the disc, she had already turned back to the assembled men. “Your enemy will be on the move and you must be able to hit the man who is moving.” She paused for a moment for the men to return their gaze from the targets to her, their jaws slack and their attention now pinned to her every word.
“Also, remember, while you are shooting at them, they are shooting at you, so it is wise to be moving yourself.” Haidrea mounted a horse Captain Branch had nearby and she wasted no time heading toward the targets. She fired two arrows and held back the last as she led the horse with her knees back to the waiting company. She was met with silence as the men noted the location of the arrows, both of which had just grazed the center discs.
The men pulling the targets dropped their ropes and rejoined the company. Nearly every man among them, including the captain, was humbled by what they had witnessed and stood silently processing the implications for their defenses. Finally, the largest of the three target pullers offered that Haidrea had only shot two of the targets. The mean-spirited jab drew scant, weak laughter from some of his fellows and a deafening silence from the rest.
Lydria relayed what was happening to Kimi as the men were waiting the storm the silence portended. Haidrea glanced at Captain Branch, who gave a nearly imperceptible nod and said, “Weaver,” before Haidrea walked slowly and purposefully to the man who had spoken. When she reached him, she placed her face inches from his own, her eyes in direct line with his jaw. He was a large man, and Lydria was half afraid that the soldier would crush her friend before she could move. It was a pointless worry.
Haidrea’s voice was soft but clear and each word resonated among the soldiers. “I didn’t take the last shot, because it was my last arrow. Unless your enemy pays you the convenience of returning them, your last arrow is worth far more in your hand than in your enemy’s neck. The soldier’s smirk had only begun to form on his face when in a single fluid motion Haidrea shifted her weight and placed her right leg in front of his, punched his kidney with her left fist, took his left ear with her right hand and drew him down, leaning forward so that he fell over her extended leg onto the ground. By the time he realized what had happened her knee was under his chin, and her left hand held the point of the last arrow a finger-breadth from his eyeball.
“You are big. You are strong. But you are slow.” The man was breathing hard, his eyes glued to the sharpened point of the arrow. “Speed, accuracy, and then strength are what a warrior need.” Pushing into his chest with her knee, Haidrea placed a palm on the man’s forehead and somersaulted off him, out of his range. Then she moved quickly back to him and held out her hand. “Thank you, Weaver, for volunteering for my demonstration.” The man was not mentally agile, but he saw the captain nodding to him and understood. He smiled and accepted Haidrea’s help to his feet. The men of the company applauded and laughed and Haidrea reached out and hugged the man before moving back to Captain Branch.
“She hugged him?” Kimi was incredulous as Lydria relayed what happened. “She put her arms around him and hugged him? I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. She is very smart. She gave Weaver a way out of his humiliation and now his friends will merely tease him for the hug, and not the beating. Haidrea is very wise to not leave enemies in her wake.”
The rest of the afternoon pitted the men against each other, shooting and sparring, with Haidrea giving them instruction and advice. Weaver, Lydria noted, was the most attentive and asked the most questions.
FOURTEEN
Summer days in the north were long, with light stretching into hours that were dark by the same time in Thrushton. Sleep was hard to come by, but the air was clean and the weather pleasingly cool at night and agreeably fine during the day. A low ridge of hills to the east helped Wynter judge distance and smoke on the horizon told him he was coming to a village, or at the very least, a camp. It had been days since he’d seen anyone. His theft of travelers had given him the tools to survive and his skill with his meager weapons began to return as he picked out distant targets along his route and practiced with the few arrows he possessed, collecting them as he passed. In this way, Wynter gathered his strength, honed his skill, and passed the long, miserable, and blessedly quiet hours.
The smoke continued to elude him, moving out of his reach each day, but he knew he was getting closer. He was in no hurry. Late in the evening the summer sun finally settled down, but Wynter knew it would only be down for a few hours. Holding his hand to the horizon, he knew the sun would rise only a couple of hand’s lengths from where it set.
Using scrub brush and sticks he collected from the thin trees he passed during the day, he made a small fire and prepared his camp. S
omeone, he knew, had been following him for several days. Although he had never seen the person, Wynter’s was aware of something he could not see. It was an extra sense he credited to saving his life more than once. He had not had the sensation for years, but he knew exactly what it was when he felt it that morning. He was being followed, and whoever it was, was masterful at not being spotted. Throughout the day Wynter made subtle movements to scan the path he’d just walked without giving away that he was looking for something. He slowed his progress and deviated from a straight line. Even amidst the flatness and near-emptiness of the tundra, he saw nothing but seasonal grass and wildflowers with small stands of trees. They would be enough to hide in, but it wasn’t a forest and the stands themselves could mostly be seen through - so great was the space between the trunks and so thin the ground cover under their weak canopy. Even the animals gave no account someone might be following him, but he knew better.
Knowing there was nothing to be done, Wynter made camp and curled up near his small fire with a blanket taken from one of his victims. Despite the season, nighttime on the tundra, when it came, was almost cold. A little sleep will serve me well, he thought. “If I am meant to die, then die I shall, but I won’t be tired when death arrives.” He chuckled to himself as he closed his eyes. Perhaps there was nothing out there. Perhaps he was seeing ghosts to match the one in his head.
“Wake up!”
“Go away, woman, just go away.” Wynter threw off his blanket as if doing so would send the voice in his head sprawling across the grass, and when he opened his eyes, he saw dark legs with animal skin boots. He thought it was the old woman come to torment him again, but a quick look up showed a different face altogether.
“You are Wynter?”
Wynter made no immediate reply, studying the warrior standing before him. Sturdy but lithe, at this range Wynter knew the man could kill him if he chose; but he didn’t fancy handing out his name to any stranger who asked. The warrior was an Eifen, a people Wynter had rarely seen, but was aware of; he was perhaps a messenger from the woman Haustis – there seemed to be a resemblance.
Wynter lifted his face to meet the eyes of the man, “I am known by several names, but I am not known by you.” He hoped the tactic would help him gather more information than it provided.
“I have come to find a man of Wesolk by the name of Wynter. I have news he should hear.”
Feeling at a disadvantage Wynter stood up, using his stick to help him, but also to provide a weapon should he need it. The warrior, for he could be nothing else, gave the stick an appraising look, and seeming unconcerned, turned his attention back to Wynter and stared at his neck in the poor light of the fire, moving to the side to catch the light more fully. “You are he, then.”
Wynter paused and stared at the newcomer. His muscles were defined and developed. He wasn’t a boy. He had a man’s height and strength, it was obvious. But there was no tension in him. His eyes were wide, his shoulders at ease and his hands were not settled to make a quick or aggressive move to one of several bladed weapons evident on his body. There was no point in denying who he was, Wynter decided. If this man wanted him dead, he would already be dead.
“I am Wynter. Who are you who has tracked me through this desolate place without being seen or heard?”
“I will tell you my story. May I share your fire?”
The question was polite and disarming, and Wynter motioned toward the fire and rummaged through his things to find some food for the man who gave a grateful nod and accepted the plain meal earnestly and began to eat at once. Wynter said nothing as he ate. If this man were willing to tell his story, he was willing to hear it.
“You have chosen a good camp,” the Eifen said. “The land is flat, and where you set your fire is just low enough to hide it from the south.”
“Should I be worried about the foxes and rabbits who follow me from the south?” Wynter didn’t appreciate the conversation and wondered why, if the man were going to kill him, he didn’t just do it. Assassins, in general, didn’t deal in polite conversation.
“The foxes and rabbits don’t follow you. Much more dangerous creatures have been following you for some days. They’ve watched you hunt, eat, sleep, steal and mutter to yourself along your path. You presented for them a question.”
“Presented? Do I no longer pose a question to these dangerous creatures?” Despite his instinct to not be near this man, Wynter was curious. This wasn’t the type of conversation a killer had with his target. Some assassins, he knew, would try to get more money before killing their target. Some would try to get information that would lead to more work. Some just wanted the target to know who wanted them dead. This man did none of those things. He asked for nothing, he bragged of nothing.
“You no longer are threatened by three of them. My name is Nethyal. From the blue collar you wear, you are who and what I believe you to be.”
Wynter raised his hand to his collar without thinking and felt the cool hardness of the ring there. “If I am ‘what’ you believe me to be? What if I am not ‘what’ you believe me to be?”
“Then you still have nothing to fear, for if you are not, my people have nothing to fear from you. For now, however, let us sleep and speak more as we walk tomorrow.”
Nethyal laid back with his hands behind his head and quickly closed his eyes and was soon breathing steadily in sleep.
“Kill him now.”
“Why? I don’t think this man means to harm me. He seems to want to tell me something and I would like to know what it is.”
“Fool. Your curiosity will kill you – and for what?” Wynter’s wife’s voice was getting deeper, as if she were afraid she would be heard if she didn’t whisper.
“The worst that can happen to me is that I will die here in the tundra. If that happens I will not have to live a life in the barren cold and I will not have to listen to you any longer. I’ll take my chances that this man won’t kill me.”
The next morning was crisp and cool, but the clear sky promised a bright sun and dry weather. Wynter woke to the smell of meat and soon picked out the sound of flames crackling on dry wood. Opening one eye he peered at Nethyal who was carefully cleaning the skin of a small rabbit, peacefully scraping the inside of the skin with a steel knife. He could have been at home in the middle of a family gathering, Wynter thought; he had no nervousness about the wild and seemed at ease in the camp of a stranger.
“You made breakfast?” Wynter offered by way of good morning.
“Sought, hunted, killed, cleaned, and made breakfast – yes.” Nethyal smiled at the still prone form of Wynter to show he was in good spirits. “The meat will be finished soon, then we can continue our journey and talk.”
“You say, ‘our’ journey, but I wasn’t aware ‘we’ were on a journey. How do you come to know where I go or what I set out to do?”
Nethyal smiled again, using his knife as an extension of his hand, motioned for Wynter to sit up and carved him a slice of rabbit, holding it on the point of his blade. When Wynter took it, he hesitantly took a bite, and then another and then Nethyal began to speak. He told Wynter of a stranger who came to Eifynar soon after the night the sky rained ash; he spoke of the twin souls of her eyes, and her story of meeting Wynter at the crater. Wynter sat entranced, willing Nethyal to go on, but offering no confirmation that his story was true.
Nethyal considered the man’s silence for a time and then told him of the power the woman he called Lydria could wield. The power to move objects, start fires, and perform tasks that would take hours – all in less time than it took to explain the task to be accomplished.
“Can you do these things?”
It was a simple question but one that demanded an answer. Nethyal’s posture became more rigid and on guard. He didn’t grasp a weapon, but Wynter could tell the man was considering all options for ensuring he couldn’t escape. He looked at the remains of the rabbit and saw his fate in the steaming carcass.
“I don’t know,”
Wynter answered, stalling for time to think of a way out of his circumstance. “I think it is possible, now that you tell me these things. Do you know how she accomplishes such …”?
“Magic. That is the word given to us by the spirits.”
“Fine. Do you know how she accomplishes such magic?”
Nethyal explained as best he could how Lydria would think a thing and it would be but could offer no more elaboration than that. After a moment’s silence, Nethyal picked up a small bundle of dry sticks sitting next to the fire and placed them between himself and Wynter. “Start a fire.”
Wynter stared at the warrior and realized he was serious and after a moment, he stared at the bundle of dry leaves and twigs and thought about what he would do if he were going to start a fire. He considered how he would place a stick on the driest leaves and spin the stick back and forth through his palms until friction created smoke, and eventually fire.
It started slowly, the smoke curling up through the leaves and small twigs as if he had spent an hour with a hand drill. His palms seemed to hurt as though he had been running a stick back and forth through them, building up painful calluses, but the joy was the same – more so – as the wispy tendrils of smoke grew thicker until they burst into flame. Wynter fell back, exhausted, and when he went to wipe the sweat from his brow, he couldn’t move his arms. He looked to Nethyal who had been watching him closely.
“I can’t move my arms if that’s what you’re wondering,” Wynter offered, silently considering his paralysis that seemed so long ago and wondering what magic he had caused that day.
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