A Fray of Furies, page 21
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
The man-shape did not move.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Speak your name!”
Her eyes tried to tell her she was simply seeing a shadowed stump. Her instincts said otherwise.
Drawing her weapon, she padded into the trees. Her eyes raked the ground for snares and hunted along the branches for deadfalls. The gloom slowly surrendered to sable fur and empty eye slits.
The back of the krin’s bulkbear cloak.
“Why did you not answer?” she gushed, relief flashing to pique.
It gave no indication that it’d heard. She rounded it angrily, gathering breath for a tirade, only to be brought up short.
Its eyes were open but unseeing
“What is wrong?” she demanded, her ire growing cold.
Unthinking, she grabbed its upper arm, “Hey–! Argh!”
Its hand had closed over hers, the grip painfully tight.
“Ow! Let go!”
With eerie deliberation, its dull eyes turned toward her. Then fell across her knife.
Smothering her sudden fear, she surrendered the blade to the mulch and clutched at her trapped wrist instead.
“I said let go,” she gritted out, “you mongrel monster!”
Her abused hand went limp in self-defense. The krin’s grip immediately began to gentle. She pulled free, taking a hurried step back. It did not follow, standing rooted. Though its eyes were still trained in her direction, she felt herself strangely unobserved.
Frowning fiercely, she shook some life back into her fingers.
“What new torture is this?” she spat, bitterly.
It was just like the Ancestors: to save her from the krin’s non-stop nattering by robbing it of its will to speak. Or move.
“Brilliant,” she swore.
She couldn’t carry it. She doubted even if she could drag it. Judging by its reaction to her rough handling, trying to rouse it with a few well-earned slaps seemed foolhardy. At least she’d found it, now. She’d passed a suitable campsite, some ways back. If need be, she could spend the night, and hope dawn brought the krin around…
Already, her eyes were hunting for firewood. That’s when she noted the strewn saplings. The straight, springy rods had been pried whole from the forest floor and had fallen around the krin’s feet. For her new bow, she supposed. A peace offering.
Of pine. Blegh.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she sighed, hands raised peaceably. “But I need to get you turned around and moving again.”
She approached cautiously, hands hesitating.
“No biting,” she admonished.
Her grasp settled lightly on its shoulders. It was a testament to how dirty they both were that she found its scent only slightly sour. It blinked myopically as she managed to move it.
“That’s it,” she coaxed as it stumbled along under her gentle direction. (She surreptitiously scooped up her knife.) “This way…”
Despite her urging, it seemed capable only of a snail’s pace, its tangled stride more befitting that of a blind elder.
Ancestors’ hoary bones! They’d not reach the city this season!
“Fine!” she relented at last. Its steps stalled without her hand between its shoulders. “We’ll make camp here then.”
It stood, unhelpfully, as she scuffed out duff for a firepit.
“I should have left you as bait for that bulkbear,” she grumbled.
It took several tries to get it seated across from her.
“It’s not for your comfort,” she assured it, not bothering with the traders’ tongue. “I just dislike you towering over me like that.”
It made no move, gazing into the flames with blind eyes.
“Ugh,” she buried her face in her hands. What was she going to do if this was permanent? Not even the narrowest travois could traverse these rough woods. And, as she’d been forcibly reminded just now, the krin was dense. Pushing it felt akin to pushing a slat-ribbed pony. Uphill. She dreaded the thought of dragging it.
She’d almost rather it completely cast off its skin and eat her.
Her belly growled cannibalistically. She’d been moping awhile.
Without much enthusiasm, she dug a hunk of smoked meat from their improvised pack. The novelty of eating bulkbear had long since waned. Now, it served only to blunt her appetite. And her teeth. She chewed resignedly at the tough strip she’d torn off.
“Here…” Lost in thought, she did as she’d done every night since the river: she backhandedly lobbed the krin its share.
“Thank you,” it said, snagging the soaring morsel.
She inhaled her mouthful of meat.
It cavorted among the trees, enjoying the mid-morning downpour. As if she needed more reminders that it wasn’t human, it ran on four legs as often as two. Despite the bulkbear cloak she’d picked from its forlorn puddle, she shivered.
The krin had recovered its facility with speech, jolting from its seat as she choked on her dinner. She’d fought desperately for breath (and against its concussive back-slapping).
“What happen?” she’d managed at last, through raw airways.
“You tried to swallow a whole haunch,” it had opined.
“Not me! You! What happen to you?”
“What do you–?” it had started. “When did the sun go down?” it had demanded instead, seeming suddenly confused.
She’d stared at its furrowed brow, “What you remember?”
“I remember,” it had hesitantly recalled, “you shouting at me. And… gathering materials for your bow…” it had cast around for the evidence of its labors.
“Pine,” she’d sneered. “Bad for spear. Worse for bow.”
“Why don’t I remember?” it had breathed, undistracted.
“Told you,” she’d offered, eyeing its horrified expression. “You not right in head. It very lucky I find you, in forest, first time. More lucky I find you again, today.” Lucky for her, at least. “No more go off by yourself, understand? No goat minder I.”
It had sunk slowly down onto its seat, looking lost.
“These Old Masters,” it had said at length. “They can heal me?”
“Old Masters fix,” she’d promised. “Take away you confuse.”
After all, you needed a head to be confused.
“Now,” she’d forestalled further questions. “Eat. Sleep.”
It had complied, dusting off the bulkbear chunk it had dropped.
“Thank you,” it had said at last, surprising her.
Across the firelight, she’d met its earnest eyes.
“For coming to find me,” it had clarified.
“Mm,” she’d managed, bland meat cleaving to her craw.
It had fallen into tortured introspection after that. She’d retreated into her own quiet, cutting a point on what would possibly prove to be the worst spear in the People’s history. Finally, the awkward silence had compelled her to speak.
“I think of name for you…” she’d offered, earning its attention.
“Oh, yes?”
“Bavura,” she’d supplied, suppressing a smile.
“What does it mean…?”
Morning had come, stropping wetly across her cheek.
“Eew!” she’d batted at the beast-like krin. “Bearbait, no!”
It had been licking her face, eager as any puppy to see her rise.
She had not known what to make of it. The human semblance she’d exchanged words with, the night before, had gone. This krin was reduced to the feral creature she’d hauled from home, by its chain.
The sifter’s seal remained broken. She could see as much – clear on the krin’s rain-scrubbed skin. She’d known her imperfect unbinding had somehow muddled the magic. She just hadn’t known it could be mangled to this extent.
Since there’d been nothing else for it, she’d forged on.
As much as the krin’s cityman sham had irked her, she’d become accustomed to having someone to talk to again. Despite her frequent and fervent wishes for its silence, its return to quiet was… wearisome. And, even determined as it had been in its questions, it was not nearly as stupidly insistent as–
“Yes, yes,” she grated, tiredly rebuffing the soaked krin as it careened around her. “Rain. Nice rain. Go– No! Down! Down!”
It hared off into the torrent again. But it would be back. Though she now accepted this as being inevitable, she’d panicked the first time it had disappeared. She’d given chase, lest it lose itself (or its will to move) amid the foliage. But the beast had thought this good sport, waiting while she caught her breath before bouncing off again.
“Ancestors,” she sighed, “give me strength…”
Wet and miserable, she weathered the morning. The rain cleared up by midday, birdsong returning to the trees. A butterfly winged past, the krin bounding beneath it in pursuit.
“Idiot,” she remarked, causing it to halt, head cocked. “Yes, you,” she confirmed. “Tumbling about like a hooked trout– Agh!”
The krin became the epicenter of a new deluge, shaking like a mutt. She threw her hands up against the spray.
It bounded off, leaving her to glare after it.
Calm, she counselled herself. Calm…
Krin-tasting water trickled into her mouth.
Spitting-angry, she scooped a likely stone and sent it winging after the beast. She missed, but the concussive clatter – as the missile bounced between the boles – brought her some solace. She stomped on.
“What?” she seethed, as the simpleton placed itself in her path after only a score paces, looking plaintive. “What!?”
Ducking its head, it spat something onto the wet leaves. She stared at the saliva-sheened stone.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no…” she stepped around it.
Snatching up its prize, it pursued.
“I’m not going to throw it!” she declared, as it barred her way once more. She swatted at it with her spear. It danced ahead of her, getting underfoot and denying her every new direction.
“Gah!” She sent the stone arcing into the trees as hard as she could. The krin sped after it. “Moron!” she screamed at its back.
She sloughed on through the wet, grumbling under her breath.
The trees retreated with such suddenness she stumbled to a stop.
In the middle of a road.
No mere deer trail or trickle-bed, this dirt track was man-made. She stood on the cusp of the lowlands – she’d made it!
As if to flaunt its abundance of lowland folk, the road brought her the faint clop of hooves and the trundle of iron-rimmed wheels. The underpinning rattle of pots and pans suggested a trader’s wagon. For a moment, she considered the wisdom of being spotted. Her Hunt had planned to be unseen, right up to the city’s palisades if possible. Going clandestine was still the safest course.
On the other hand, she desperately needed directions, else she might not reach the city. And while she had nothing to fear from a lone peddler, their kind traded as much in gossip as in goods. Unlikely as it was, the last thing she needed was for the Herald’s message to reach the Old Masters before the Herald did.
She listened to a one-sided argument slowly approach:
“…so then the drover says to the innkeeper: ‘One last flagon, for myself and my big-eared friend!’ Alas, the donkey falls down, drunk. The drover makes to leave. ‘Here,’ cries the innkeeper, ‘ye can’t be leavin’ that lyin’ there!’ The drover turns to the innkeeper: ‘My good master,’ he says, ‘that is no lion. That’s an ass!’”
Braying laughter followed.
Hmm. If he wasn’t alone, perhaps hiding was the better option.
The krin was nowhere to be seen, so she retreated under cover.
She reassessed, as the wagon came wobbling into view. The peddler sat alone atop the box and his one-mule conveyance was tiny. If it contained any goods at all, it was empty of further threat.
Decision made, she stepped purposefully to the middle of the road. The People had greeted travelers to their territory like this for generations. Only, this wasn’t her territory and she had no Hunt. Ancestors send this wagoner would assume her warband hidden by the trees, instead of absent by reason of avalanche.
Affecting a stony face, she grounded the butt of her spear.
Instead of immediately pleading for his life, as was proper, the peddler picked up a jaunty whistle, bearing down on her.
The temerity!
Well, he wasn’t riding rough-shod over anyone. Not with a felled mule. She shifted her grip… but apparently, his greased comb-over hid a brain after all. He pretended to notice her anew.
“Whoa,” he cried, pulling up short. “What ho, little lady?”
Suppressing a shiver, she noted his eyes were a sickly sky-blue. She’d heard some lowlanders sported eyes of grey, green or even colder colors. But she’d never witnessed the affliction firsthand.
(It was said those who let themselves be lured from the Ancestral Bridge returned to life with eyes the color of ice.)
“Highway robbery, is it?” the peddler prattled on. “Not even byway robbery. Not even backway robbery, come to that. And a lady brigand? Is that a brigandine? A brigantine? Nomparal is at sea with all things nautical. Should he have his hooves in the air?”
He raised his hands gamely, blue eyes dancing.
Like the krin, his words ran together fast and flat – difficult to parse. She opted to ignore the bits she didn’t understand.
“As you wish,” she shrugged.
He lowered his arms, keeping his smile in place.
“Are you planning to rob me, mistress? I only ask because your manner seems as wooden as your weapon. I dare say it is far from pointless, but it’s not very cutting, is it? Perhaps you’ve mistaken Nomparal for a boar to be spitted, yes?”
The jab at her sub-par spear stung, however deserved.
“It may be,” she cautioned, “I have also some steel for you.”
“A trade!” he sang, choosing to ignore the way she caressed her knife hilt. His balding pate and stooped shoulders marked him as more than midway through his life. But he was spry as he tumbled from his perch. He turned his landing into a flourishing bow.
“Let me introduce myself,” he crowed. “I am a humble trader of the trappings of pastoral life, traveler of these tumultuous roads, tinker and troubadour, purveyor of household paraphernalia and dealer of all domestic desirables. Known far and wide as–”
“Nomparal,” she forestalled. She’d understood that much.
“Certainly not!” he straightened, affronted. “This,” he gestured peremptorily at his mule, “is Nomparal. I am Mercer Ehwan of Forkstead. At your service,” he inclined his head. “And you are?”
“Lost.”
“Most assuredly. But I meant your name, Spring Flower…?”
She did not know the word for ‘Herald’ in the trader’s tongue. That hardly mattered. She gave it to him in the mountain tongue.
“Kassika, chief’s daughter, born to Esse and Warag of the Blackwater tribe, Huntress and Herald of the People.”
He blinked glassily before she’d made it half-way through.
“I’m afraid I do not speak Nemil, Spring Flower,” the man recovered. “But that certainly sounds an impressive title. Tell me, what is an impressive young lady like you doing so far from home? Alone and – if you’ll forgive my forthrightness – a little frayed?”
She resisted the urge to comb a hand through her hair.
Nemil, she thought. One of the lowland tribes?
“I go see city,” she declared.
“The yearly rebellious pilgrimage, is it? I had not realized it was that time already. Certainly there are more direct routes to Tellar from Nemil lands? How did you find this forsaken backroad?”
“Horse run away,” she blurted. It was true enough. Still, it was more than she’d been planning on telling him.
“Horse?” the man’s eyes sparked with interest. “Neril, then – not Nemil. Would you like my help finding the poor beast?”
“Many days ago,” she shook her head. “Horse far away now.”
“Oh, dear,” the man commiserated, face falling. “Tellar is weeks away on foot.” He glanced down. “I’m not sure your buckskin slippers will survive the journey. You need shoes?”
“No shoes,” she shook her head. “Which way to city?”
“Ah, of course!” Nodding in a knowing way, he ran his hands over his wagon’s flank. It yawned wide, folding out into both booth and awning. Grey wood gave way to a riot of color. Some fabric she had no name for cushioned an inviting array of knives, bangles, hairpins, ribbons... She fought the urge to approach.
“I have all manner of wonderful maps and–”
“Not need paper,” she forestalled. “Need word– What is that?” she demanded, suddenly breathless. He followed her gaze.
“Ooh,” he drawled, appreciative. “You have a fine eye.”
With a colorful handkerchief, he warmed and polished the gleaming bow: “A composite in the Kender style. Joined bamboo core, with steppe goat horn for the belly and shin sinew for the back. A pleasant recurve line, for easy use from the saddle.”
Unspooling a waxed cord, he strung the stave.
“Stiffened tips provide a secure seat for your bowstring, in this case a silken loop, served at the ends against wear.”
A gentle pluck produced a deeply pleasing note, “At two-thirds the length, it has nearly the power of an Imperial longbow.”
She doubted she was able to keep the longing from her gaze.
“Arrows,” he recalled forgetfully, rummaging in the wagon. “Almost as impressive as the bow,” he showed her. “Goose feather fletchings on trued cedar shafts, tipped with square steel bodkins.”
With a shock, she realized she’d been standing like a stump, letting this cityman string a bow and nock a shaft. Her gut crawling, she watched him pan around the woods at a half-draw, outwardly hunting a demonstration target. Somehow, she knew his slow search would center on her.
“Not cheap, I fear,” he chuckled. “You said you had steel. I’m more interested in gold and silver. Or even copper. Any of those?”
“No,” she ground out, watching the arrowhead snuffle toward her. “It may be I have nothing you want.”
