by Kim Fielding
Goddammit.
AFTER THE temple, they stopped for a meal—flaky spiral-shaped pastries filled with meat and veggies—and they both drank a great deal of ale. The sun was about to set and the streets were full of people as they walked back to their shed.
“Do you think that priest listened in while we were in the shrine?” Mike asked.
“Maybe,” answered Goran. “Does it matter?”
“No. I guess the poor girl should get her entertainment where she can.”
“Are you ashamed that you cried? You shouldn’t be. Losing someone you love is… very difficult.”
For a minute, Mike thought Goran was going to say more. But he remained silent all the way to their makeshift home. They didn’t make love that night, but as usual they squished together on the bed. Mike tried to memorize all the physical aspects of Goran’s closeness: the firm strength of his body, his warm breath tickling Mike’s neck, the smell of his skin.
Chapter 12
MIKE WOKE up before Goran, which was unusual. The sun wasn’t yet visible over the city walls and rooftops, but the stars had dimmed away as the sky began to brighten. Mike conducted his usual morning routine and dressed in his rattier set of clothing. He folded the nicer ones around the sandals and tucked them into a leather rucksack he’d asked Goran to buy. He added a few other items too—cheese, dried fruit, and nuts; a glass wine bottle filled with water and stoppered by a bit of cork; his little collection of toiletries. He was just shouldering the sack when Goran woke up.
“Ready to go?” Goran asked over a yawn. “You’re eager to leave Varesh.”
“I want to get this over with.”
Goran stood and stretched hugely. His nude body was magnificent. “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready too.”
Mike took a deep breath. “You’re not going.”
Goran blinked at him. “Pardon?”
“You’re not going. You can stay here—you’ve got a pretty good gig with your job, especially with only one mouth to feed. Or you can move on. Whatever you want.”
“But—”
“Here’s the book.” Mike pulled it from his vest and tried to hand it to Goran, who wouldn’t take it. He set it on the table instead. “I’ve read over the damn thing a bunch of times now. I have only two more shrines anyway, and the ass-hat author doesn’t say how to get there. I can ask along the way. I hope you get a lot of money for the damn thing.”
“I don’t understand. We’re not finished with the pilgrimage yet.”
“I’m not finished, you mean.” Maybe if he talked really fast, this whole scene would be done quickly and with less accrued pain. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. “I can manage just fine from now on. I know how to beg people for food and shelter, and I know how to find berries and stuff on my own. I’m cool. I’ve even got these great boots you bought me. I’m just gonna cruise right through these last two shrines and I’m golden—home sweet home. And I’m sorry I can’t pay you extra because man, you’ve totally earned it. But I guess this is a little bonus, right?” Now he pulled his blue briefs from his pocket and set them on top of the book. “They’re clean. Um, maybe you can figure out the elastic thing and earn a fortune off that.”
Goran slowly shook his head. “Why are you doing this? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Of course not. You’re… you’re fucking perfect, Gor. But you’ve already done way more than you signed up for.”
“I don’t care. I don’t care about your book or your… underwear either. I care about you, Mike!”
No no no. Not what he wanted to hear. Mike tried to walk to the door, but Goran stepped quickly, blocking his way. Mike considered just rushing him, but even naked and unarmed, Goran would easily win any fight. Mike resorted to words instead. “Let me go!”
“No! You’re not making any sense. Are you feeling ill?”
“I feel fine. Dammit, Goran! I’m not an invalid. I’m not a pretty little helpless boy. I might not be”—he gestured vaguely in Goran’s direction—“Hercules… but I am capable of taking care of myself. I don’t need you.”
Goran recoiled a little as if he’d been hit. But he didn’t budge from the door. “What are you scared of, Mike?”
“Nothing!” Mike roared. “I had my goddamn meltdown yesterday, but now I’m fine.”
“All right. You’re fine. You can take care of yourself. But don’t you still want my company?” Goran was making a visible effort to keep himself calm.
So Mike tried to tone it down too. Hysterical didn’t suit him. “I’ve lied to you, Goran. I’ve kept secrets from you—big ones. And I’ve used you. I’m going to finish my errands, and then I’m going to go home, and you can’t go with me. It’s just not possible. And… Jesus, Gor. I’m not Pavo. I’m not cute and smart and capable and… and all that. I’m an asshole. A selfish asshole. That whole thing with Benny blew up because I refused to talk straight with him, so now I’m talking straight with you. I can’t do this. Do… us.” His eyes stung again, a fresh round of tears threatening to erupt.
Goran was crying. Big, fat tears coursed down his cheeks, making him look vulnerable and wounded but not ugly, never ugly. His voice was hoarse. “But Mike, I lo—”
“Don’t. Please. Just don’t.” He couldn’t look Goran in the eyes anymore, so he stared at a random spot a few feet to the left. “Let me go, Goran.”
Looking like he wanted to kill someone, Goran stepped aside.
Mike didn’t say another word. Didn’t turn for one last look as he crossed the yard. Didn’t allow a single tear to escape. He’d made the right decision.
“You have a fucking lot to answer for, Agata,” he muttered. And he headed for the nearest city gate.
Chapter 13
THE NEXT-TO-LAST shrine was somewhere called Obrov. The guidebook author had told Mike that much, along with a recipe for soothing eye drops, a bawdy tale about a farmer’s daughters and a sailor, and advice on the best time of year for planting barley. Mike asked a man selling eggs where Obrov was. The man just glared at him silently, but an old woman browsing at the next market stall overheard. “It’s northwest of here,” she said. “Just follow the Tanis River. You can take a boat and be there tomorrow.”
“I don’t have money for a boat.”
“Then walk along the river road. Three days, maybe four.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“You’re a pilgrim?”
“Yes.”
“Made a pilgrimage myself when I was a girl. Not to Obrov, though. I wanted to beg Agata for children.”
Mike managed to suppress a scowl at the goddess’s name. “How did that work out?”
She grinned toothlessly at him. “I had eight!”
The Tanis was the widest of the four rivers in Varesh, the one with the most boat traffic. One evening Goran had showed Mike the docks where he worked—broad wooden platforms where dozens of small craft were tethered and where men and women swarmed like ants. It was a little too early this morning for the loading and unloading to begin, but there was still activity as people cleaned the docks and ships and as carts queued up alongside the river, waiting for cargo transfer. Donkeys brayed irritably, humans laughed and argued as they munched their breakfasts or drank their ale. Mike walked past them all, his heart aching.
He’d made the right choice.
Soon he passed through the unguarded city gate and then alongside the modest houses that sprawled outside the city walls. Hens clucked at him and dogs barked. The air was warm already, but the river looked clean and fresh. His boots were really fucking comfortable.
As he continued walking, the houses became more widely scattered and fields and orchards flourished between them. There was little other foot traffic, but sometimes a boat would float by. Mike wished he’d been able to afford to ride one. He’d always liked traveling by water. He and Benny even went on a cruise together once—they’d taken the Inside Passage to Skagway. They’d spent hours sitting in the hot tub, watch
ing eagles fly overhead as the ship drifted past glaciers. They’d talked about doing a longer cruise in the future. Somewhere warm maybe, or perhaps one of those European river cruises. It never happened.
Deciding to save his food supplies for later, Mike begged lunch from a pair of middle-aged women who were weeding their front garden. Unlike Goran, he couldn’t do any tasks in return. So he simply thanked them before continuing on his way.
Later he got dinner from a young family and spent the night in their barn. A cow occupied the stall next to his. She wasn’t bad company, for a cow. He had college roommates who were noisier and smellier. But gods, he missed having Goran sleeping at his side.
Roosters woke him in the morning, and he resumed his walking. He didn’t have much to occupy his thoughts—the road was straight and even, the scenery unremarkable—so despite his best efforts, he kept thinking about Goran. He remembered the little songs Goran liked to sing and the way he liked to tease Mike good-naturedly until Mike couldn’t help but laugh. Goran knew the names of all the plants they passed, all the birds and animals. One night when they were in the forest, a sudden storm brought heavy sheets of rain, and together they pulled down tree branches to build a makeshift shelter. By then they were soaked to the skin, so they stripped and huddled together, listening to the downpour and fooling around until their hearts beat louder than thunder and their pleasure crackled like lightning.
Leaving Goran was the right thing to do. Additional time together would only prolong the pain for both of them, would only imply promises about a future they could never have.
Goran talked in his sleep sometimes. Mike could never quite make out the words, but Goran always seemed distressed, moaning and flinching and twitching his hands. Whenever this happened, Mike pulled him closer and smoothed the hair away from his face, and Goran would soon slip back into peaceful slumber. Would he soon find someone else to ease his nightmares?
Goran was a big boy. Really big. He was certainly more than capable of taking care of himself.
When Mike was by himself in towns, nobody spared him a second glance. Goran, though—people couldn’t help but notice him. Both men and women stared in awestruck lust. But Goran pretended they didn’t exist. His entire attention was on Mike, as if Mike were the most fascinating person in the world. In two worlds.
Goran, handsome and capable and sweet, would surely have no trouble finding another lover right away, if he were so inclined. He could find someone better suited to him—a strong, outdoorsy type, maybe, or some rich man who could give him a comfortable home.
Mike’s thoughts continued this way all day until he was so sick of his own company he was ready to hurl himself into the river. He didn’t even have hunger or thirst or aching feet to distract him: his boots were great, and there were numerous small hamlets along the road where he could find someone to feed him. An MP3 player would have been wonderful. He could have played something really loud and not remotely angsty or lovelorn. AC/DC. Black Sabbath.
He covered a lot of ground, so determined about marching on and so caught up in his head that he was still walking after sundown. This was not a good idea. Goran had warned him that outside of cities, the main roads weren’t safe at night. Bandits, he said. Outlaws. And not, Mike had the impression, the sexy antihero sorts of outlaws with chaps and bandanas and scruffy beards, who turned out to be wrongly accused and unjustly persecuted, and to have hearts of gold. No, Nenahde had real bad guys who’d managed to escape the pillar and the noose and who had nothing to lose by robbing and murdering travelers.
So Mike probably shouldn’t have been surprised when, at a spot where the road squeezed between the river and a thick copse, three people leapt out to block his way.
With his heart pounding, Mike reviewed every piece of advice he’d ever heard about what to do if faced with a mugging. Hand everything over. Don’t be a hero. Try to get the attention of passersby.
“Out for a stroll?” asked one of the trio pleasantly. Mike realized with a start that it was a woman, obscured by the dark and shrouded by a cloak and hood.
He tried a polite smile. “Just about to head in for the night.”
“Really? The nearest inn is over an hour from here.”
“I… I was going to walk faster. So if you’ll excuse me—”
“What’s in your sack?” That was one of the others, a tall man with a gruff voice and a slight lisp.
“Nothing. Just a change of clothes. Look. I’m on a pilgrimage. I have absolutely nothing of value. Not even a single leeka.”
“Which god are you honoring?” asked the woman.
“Alina.”
All three of them laughed, and not in a nice way. They came a few steps closer. “That’s excellent,” said the woman. “You can become your own offering to the god of death.”
Fuck. But Mike wasn’t panicking. He was terrified, yes, but his head remained clear. “I’ll give you my pack, okay? You can have whatever you want. There’s no need for you to kill me.”
“No need, maybe,” said the woman, “but no reason not to. I owe Alina a gift in any case.”
Mike couldn’t get past them. Dense shrubbery blocked his way to the right, and to the left was the cold and swift-flowing river. He did fine paddling around in a swimming pool or a pond, but he wasn’t an especially strong swimmer. Besides, the guy with the lisp was close enough that he could make a grab for Mike if he tried to dive in. And that left only retreat. He could turn, run, and hope he was faster than these three and didn’t trip over a rock in the dark and fall on his face. Faster and with better endurance, because the last sign of habitation had been a long way back.
Now the outlaws were so close Mike could smell them. Personal hygiene apparently wasn’t a priority. He took a few steps backward, and they slowly followed him.
“I don’t think we should kill him right away,” said the third person, speaking for the first time. Male, and the bulkiest of the three. “I think we should play with him awhile first.”
“You always think with your dick first,” the woman said, chuckling.
The tall guy chimed in, “That’s because his dick’s bigger than his brain.”
Mike felt sick. It had never before occurred to him to fear rape. He backed up a little more, followed closely by the trio. The man who thought with his dick reached out and stroked Mike’s face. Mike knocked his hand away, which made the others laugh. “Come on, pilgrim. Let me show you what a real man’s cock is like. Might just fuck you to death instead of slitting your throat.”
Good gods. Were perverted bullying shitheads the same in every world? Mike growled like a pit bull. “Keep your fucking hands to yourself and get out of my way.” He swung the rucksack off his shoulders so it hung in front of him, and he reached inside.
“Are you going to fight us with your spare clothing, pilgrim?” taunted the would-be rapist.
Mike didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled out the bottle, dropped the pack, and scurried backward a bit more. He crouched just long enough to shatter the bottle against the hard-packed dirt, then stood again, jagged glass held outward. “Make my day,” he snarled.
All three of his opponents pulled knives. The blades glinted in the moonlight. Fine. He was going to go down fighting and do as much damage as possible while he was at it. The woman swiped at him; he jabbed back and was very satisfied when he felt the glass dig into her shoulder. She yelped and jumped back.
But before Mike could feel victorious, the two men were after him. One of them stabbed Mike’s lower right arm. It hurt like hell, but Mike managed to hold on to the bottle. The other aimed for Mike’s face, scoring a nasty gash on his cheek but fortunately missing his eye.
As quickly as everything was moving, Mike’s head stayed remarkably clear. He was going to die. And he wasn’t going to die in a car wreck or of cancer or by any of the other ways he’d thought likely. He was going to get hacked to pieces by outlaws on a lonely road in an alternate universe while midway through a pilgrimage. “
I don’t even read fantasy!” he yelled. And he laughed at the absurdity of it all. But he wasn’t afraid anymore, and that was good.
All three attackers surged forward at once. Mike retreated, bottle waving. And just when he thought he might survive a few minutes longer and inflict a few more wounds, heavy running footsteps sounded behind him. He heard the very distinctive sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. He prepared himself for the sensation of steel biting through his neck or plunging through his back—
But instead a heavy sword came down on the rapist’s knife arm, severing it completely. A lot of screaming and shouting ensued, a lot of scuffling that was very confusing in the darkness. Mike remained right in the middle of it, moving without really thinking. He didn’t come back to himself until he was on his knees, plunging his broken bottle into a lifeless body. A large hand grasped his shoulder, urging him up. “It’s all right,” said a calm, familiar voice. “They’re dead.”
“G-Goran?”
“You’re hurt. Let me—”
“Goran? What are you— How…?”
Instead of answering, Goran pushed him gently back against the edge of the thicket. As Mike watched, Goran sheathed his sword after a cursory wipe, then tossed each of the corpses into the river. Even though he was breathing heavily from the fight, Goran handled the heavy bodies easily, as if they were nothing but cargo to be offloaded. Then he turned and wrapped an arm around Mike’s shoulders. Mike didn’t resist as Goran urged him along the road a short way to a small meadow.
“Sit,” ordered Goran, pushing at Mike’s shoulders.
“But—”
“Sit.”
Mike sat. More heavily than he’d intended, really. And only when he was seated did he realize he was still clutching the bottle. His fingers had locked in place like a vise, and he had to will them to release; the bottle thudded to the soft ground.