Fenner felt anxious watching helplessly, wishing there was something he could do.
Suddenly a noise in the brush caused Stoutwyn to freeze.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Avoidance
A noticeable change had fluttered throughout the Great Mist. Lanico’s sound presence and availability for good counsel were sorely missed. Some wondered at the rumors, worried that they’d find themselves with the same leaderless fate as had befallen those left in their old homeland following the Seizure of Odana. For the puffed-up, conceited Trayvor was no leader. Not really.
WynSprigns also wanted to know, asking in a roundabout manner, what Fenner had done wrong, so they would not make the same mistake—he was a leader, an elder. He had been long respected. Others wanted to know why Joso Stoutlet was not selling his vegetables. It was peak season. His presence was being missed. With the lack of their traditional leader’s presence, questions surfaced. Their questions led many folks to turn to Trayvor for answers.
The clamoring was all too much for Trayvor, and the questions had become overwhelming. It was no surprise that he hadn’t thought this whole thing through. Brash and bombastic, he clearly lacked any real plan for the WynSprigns, nor did he know how to be an effective leader to them all, without the support of his fellow leaders whom he had now parted from. His hope rested in the newfound riches he’d gain for the WynSprigns would be enough to satisfy them.
For now, until those riches materialized, he sought his usual refuge at the bottom of one of the tavern’s thick wooden mugs. When it all became too much, he decided to ask the tavern maid, Maybell, to assist in answering questions on his behalf—he didn’t like being bothered by all that. He had just managed to imprison Joso, after all, and he was weary.
Trayvor spotted Maybell leaving a table and immediately summoned her. She dutifully set down a large mug of ale for him and held an empty jug in her other hand.
Trayvor beckoned her closer, for something secret, he indicated. She leaned down, but her bubbly demeanor straightened as he spoke. Her smile turned into a serious line as Trayvor began to propose an “opportunity” for her to assist him in answering the townsfolk’s questions. He tried making this role sound appealing, offering her a role as his assistant. She wiped dry the empty jug while listening intently to Trayvor. After he explained the alleged grandeur of this proposed new role, she looked as if she were considering the prospect. Trayvor eyed her intently.
“No thanks, Mr. Trayvor Odmire,” she said simply, failing to keep the disdain from sounding in her voice.
Trayvor was aghast, offended by her lack of loyalty to him. “Maybell, I have been coming here and paying you handsome tips daily for many, many years.”
“You threaten’n to stop?” she asked with a smart tone. He bristled, but even if she didn’t like him, she didn’t want to threaten her gratuity. His frequent visits did keep her well paid.
Trayvor measured her for a moment. She dons the same few dresses as always. What is she saving up for? Nevertheless.
He opened his mouth to answer her but she continued, “Mr. Odmire, I wouldn’t have any way of knowin’n how to answer those questions—just the same as you don’t.” The clever young woman knew that she and perhaps Ms. Bre Bricklebury, were the only ones alive that could get away with talking to him in that manner.
After the initial shock, Trayvor leaned back. “Fine. How about this, Maybell?” he met her glare. “I could tell you the answers, and write them down for you”—he pulled out a coin and showed it to her in his plump, opened hand—"Then you could explain the answers for me, you know, on my behalf.” The corner of his straight mouth curved in a mild smile. He felt like a cat watching a mouse.
She considered this for a moment. “It feels like I’m helpin’n you hide, but I’ll do it”—then murmured under her breath—"put up with you for now.” She straightened from their conference. She set the jug down on the table and wiped her wet hands on a rag tied to her side. She smoothly pulled out the thick wooden chair next to Trayvor and leaned over with a sigh to begin examining his scroll. Trayvor raised his head and grabbed for his cane to stand as he noticed a small group of WynSprigns making their way toward the tavern. They shot glances at him as they neared.
Trayvor whispered to Maybell, “I’ll be in the back drinkin’ my ale. Out of view,” and struggled to his feet.
Maybell rolled her eyes and puffed out a sigh. “I don’t have any other plans, anyway. Besides, how hard could it be?” She stood up and gathered her pints for the arriving guests, wearing her customary warm, rosy smile.
Despite his physical limitations, he deftly shuffled out of sight as the WynSprigns gathered in the tavern courtyard.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Fight
Once the tree line to Horse’s Clearing was in sight, Gax and Neen urged the horses to a full gallop. As usual, they rode the horses hard and arrived quickly at the clearing, leaving all the horridness of the one-armed hag encounter behind them.
Neen slide Gax a scowl. He was still angry about the episode back at that loathsome creek. He’d make sure to remind his brother regularly about this. They were only supposed to stop at the creek for a brief rest and he had told Gax not to go to venture off—he had warned him. Now, a lesson had been learned. Gax wouldn’t go off to investigate mysterious smelly huts again. No. His curious nature was suppressed.
After hearing a scuffle at the shack, Neen had stormed in and had to save Gax from the wounded one-armed hag who raved incessantly about her dead sisters.
To Gax’s credit, at least before they had killed her, she had provided useful information about the mysterious WynSprign warrior that she had encountered days before—who’d killed her sisters. It was further confirmation of whom they might be engaging—a WynSprign. And now, they had been able to track him here—Horse’s Clearing. The Mysra fumbled for their trillium pouches to take some crystals before engaging with whatever they might find.
With renewed energy, the brothers dismounted at the tree line. Their panting horses found relief from their exhaustion in the shade of the trees they were tied to. Their coats were frothy with sweat and their tails twitched in defiance of the buzzing flies. Their treatment had been terrible.
With only a few heavy footsteps on the yellow grass, the Mysra were captivated by a new world. They crunched on pine needles and twigs, and the cooler air brushed against their sweaty, gray skin.
They ignored the desire to look around and focused on their task, walking cautiously, looking for tracks, and soon found a well-used path before them. They followed it, passing trees and bushes that became denser with every stride, and after a few moments, they spotted wooden cages in a glade, in the distance. Then, a nice surprise.
Neen’s eyes settled on the nearest cage.
The brothers smiled delightedly at each other. For they saw that these cages held WynSprigns—yes! They were very close to the hidden village, indeed.
The cage closest to the Mysra held a large young Mysra who whimpered and cowered in a corner. The Mysra eyes roamed from this nearest cage to the next, which held an older WynSprign that looked wild and angry enough to inflict some damage—he glared at them with palpable hatred.
“Hmm . . .” Gax hummed looking over Joso. “I’m curious of the quality of the others. Would the other slaves be as portly as this one?”
Neen focused on the WynSprigns instead of his brother’s useless question. He wasted no time beginning his interrogation: “Where’s your village?” he demanded from the obviously weaker choice. Surely, he’d talk.
Joso could not even look at the Mysra. He only whimpered and shook. This was exasperating—a waste of time.
Neen sighed hard in an effort to control his rage. He closed the slight distance between himself and the older one, and he bent to look at him. His voice was slow, graveled, as he threatened, “Okay . . . your turn, tough-Sprign. Where’s the village?”
Trembling in fury, the WynSprign erupted, “I wou
ld never tell you!” With a jerk of his head, he spat on Neen’s cheek.
Neen nodded slowly. The spit glistened against his skin but he ignored it and pulled a large jagged knife from the sheath against his hip. He slowly dragged it along the bars of the cage as he eyed the WynSprign, who carefully stayed in the middle of the cage to avoid getting stabbed from any side.
Holding his own knife, Gax stood near the young one’s cage but addressed the older one: “Listen, tell us how to get to the village, or else this plump boy is going to get stuck by the pointy end.” He waved his knife and bent over to eye the shivering WynSprign inside. “And I reeeally want to hear him squeal.” Almost playful, he thrust the edge of his knife at the terrified creature, who was too large to avoid a stabbing even if he pressed against the other side of the cage, exposing himself to the other’s blade.
“Ow! Stop!” the young one yelled, more in fear than in pain. The tip of Gax’s knife had jabbed into him slightly, making a tiny cut.
“C’mon! Squeal for me!” Gax yelled and laughed cruelly. Then he paused. He lifted his head at a sound in the brush nearby, waiting . . . No, nothing more over the sound of the terrified WynSprign’s breathing.
“Don’t tell ‘em anything, Joso!” the older one yelled, breaking the brief silence. He jolted forward in his cage to grab at the bars in urgency. “Be strong in your spirit boy!”
Another cruel cackle burst from Gax.
“Look!” demanded Neen, whose attention was already elsewhere. “Let’s just follow this path. Enough with the interrogation.” Neen’s eyes roamed over the forest floor, and he held his knife out, pointing over the disturbed ground. He said low, “We’ve wasted enough time with these two.”
“No!” the old one yelled, desperate. “I’ll tell you where the village is!” He clutched the bars of his cage, his face wedged between two. “Y—You’re going the wrong way!” He watched in horror, his expression wild as the Mysra laughed and continued toward the village. Fenner’s shouting and excitement only meant that they were on the right path.
“Easy . . .” Gax said and smiled at his more somber brother. The Mysra wasted no time, quickly making long strides along the path without acknowledging the captives further, without even another wasted glance.
It wasn’t a long walk before they could hear distant voices and see that the trees thinned out slightly ahead. It was a revelation to see how the WynSprign lived amongst the trees, inside of them even. They hadn’t felled them but rather had built around them, and into them. This made the brothers’ mission somewhat easier—offering more opportunity to hide. They agreed with whispers to get off the path, walk through the denser trees, and brush until they could spy more of the village.
Among dusty paths, the relaxed, fearless, and free WynSprigns lived their lives with no sense of the danger, lurking just beyond their sight.
Is it to be this easy? Neen wondered. It’s almost ridiculous. Grude will be pleasantly surprised. He made a contented sigh.
✽✽✽
“We must conjure a plan, and quickly,” Stoutwyn said, quietly emerging from the brush to stand between the cages. The leafy cover behind him swayed at his movement. “I’ve cut loose their horses—can you hear them? A nice surprise for their return journey,” he chuckled. “A shame to free them when we could use them ourselves, but”—he neared Fenner— “we need to stall their return and not draw attention.” He resumed sawing at the ropes that held the cage together. He handed his lucky paring knife to Fenner to start sawing from the inside of his cage. “I forgotten I had that,” he said timorously.
“It figures,” Fenner said with a sour glance and tone. He then began to cut the rope. How Stoutwyn had outranked him and had been the Second Advisor of the King was beyond his understanding. Then again, the kingdom was overtaken, so . . .
Bits of twine spiraled as they were cut loose. “Finally!” Stoutwyn declared as one rope gave way.
Fenner and Stoutwyn were able to free one end of the bar from the cage, and Fenner was very thin and could wiggle through. Together they hurried over to start working on Joso’s cage. Joso was still nervous, trembling and bleeding a little from the small cuts Gax’s knife had given him.
Fenner was beginning to feel the prickle of annoyance at Joso. I would never have allowed him to be raised in such a weak and fearful fashion, he thought. The grimace on his face seemed to be for the efforts at sawing the ropes, but was a look actually reserved for Joso’s family – the weak lot of them. Save for Stoutwyn. For at least he had been an Advisor and a Major.
Together they sawed with fervor to free him.
“We will need to gather everyone—we’ll avoid the tavern, of course, to steer clear from Trayvor. He’s the one that started all this mess,” Stoutwyn said breathlessly.
Once Joso was free, they trotted to the Great Mist, keeping an eye out for the Mysra.
“We’ll—gather—everyone,” Stoutwyn said, panting between strides.
“Yeah, but we’ll need to make a plan to defend ourselves, too,” Fenner added.
Stoutwyn managed a nod. Joso jogged behind them and remained silent—the Mysra might still be close.
Stoutwyn said low, “First we’ll go and get that bell Trayvor was using to announce his ‘rules.’ Then we’ll gather everyone to start to learn how to fight.”
“Fight?” Joso asked from behind them.
Stoutwyn and Fenner paused and looked back briefly at Joso with raised eyebrows—they paid him no mind and resumed their forward strides.
“Right!” Stoutwyn replied, immediately forgetting his voice volume.
“Between Lanico’s house, yours, and mine, we have only a few swords,” Fenner said. “We have some training staffs, though. We’ll have to focus on training the more able-bodied folk to use the swords—since they require more heft and skill.” He was a natural runner and was not winded by their trek through the woods.
“Right”—Stoutwyn stopped to catch his breath and raised a hand to stop the others— “But still we don’t have enough weapons—nor staffs.”
“Well, we will just have to make do. In truth, we cannot just flee the Great Mist without another plan in place. They’ll track us,” Fenner said, waiting to resume the walk. “And they’ll be faster than we.” He shot a quick glance to Stoutwyn’s legs.
“But wait!” Fenner added, his finger in the air. “Aren’t your kin some of the finest woodworkers ever—can’t they make staffs for us—not swords, granted, but weapons nonetheless?”
“No, not swords” Joso piped in unexpectedly, “but every kid knows how to swing a staff.”
“Yes!” Stoutwyn grunted, “Staffs will do—if we have enough wielding them.” He straightened up to continue through the woods.
They continued into the Great Mist, stirring the brush with their urgent steps.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Identity realized
The force from their crashing swords ignited sparks. They flashed through the dense forest like a low lighting. Their battle sounds could be heard in the distance around them, but they didn’t care, for the dense Odana woods provided seclusion and neither warrior had heard that illuminating, delicious clash for many years. The twang, the song of steal. The sound resounded in their bones and fingertips—it exhilarated them.
The long sword Treva had borrowed from Greta’s treasure trove was no match for the pristine steel of Lanico’s blade, but with skill . . . she was just as deadly.
Lanico felt a fabulous surge of well-being sparring with her. It was reminiscent of the precious times before the Battle of Odana. He grunted against Treva as their sword hilts came in close together, forming a V with their blades. He released a burst of breath against her cheek. With a jolt of force, she thrust her foot against his thigh to make space between them and leapt back, grinning. She was not up to her old training level after these many years, and was losing, but she dug her heel into the ground. Determined. She was determined and relentless.
Treva sm
iled wickedly and waited for Lanico to make a strike. Her mouth hung wide open. Lanico knew she had learned this effective-yet-annoying gaping-grin habit from Izra. Normally he’d find this sadistic gaping disturbing, but somehow it reconnected him. A strange comfort, he reasoned in the face of her maddening grimace.
“Looks like that sword is working well enough,” Lanico gulped, breathing hard.
“Well, that falchion sword your mother saved would have been better for me.” It was a tired and old argument that stemmed from their early days training together. He didn’t prefer that she had been used to one type of sword.
Lanico had revealed Greta’s identity as not only his mother, but also a Fray. She had taken it well, already stunned with the revelation of Marin’s growing up Lanico’s adopted son. “That does explain a lot,” she’d said—not only Lanico’s ability to rescue Marin after the siege and carry him to safety in the Great Mist, but also the nurse who’d “magically” appeared to care for Treva’s wounds. “Greta hid her identity well,” she’d said. “Very well.”
“C’mon, Tre,” Lanico taunted with another strike, “you need the challenge—you know it.”
As he expected, she raised an eyebrow, gave a sly smile, and launched toward him in forceful return.
Together, they danced in fluid movement, the weaving and flowing of their articulate strikes the epitome of beauty and precision in motion.
Lanico was taking it easy with her, knowing she was weakened, having been malnourished for many years, and had an injury. The taste of freedom and old muscle memory had them both swinging and giving everything, they had.
Before the practice, Greta had given Treva a concoction that dulled the deep pain in her side. “This will work for now”, Greta had explained to Lanico “I believe you should intervene with Treva’s wound, son, in your own time and at your own will - as a Fray.”
The Legacy of Lanico: Reclaiming Odana Page 16