“How are you feeling?” Rose asked as she lifted a patch of hair and inspected his scalp. “The swelling has gone down drastically.”
Augustus scooted his back up the wall of their wagon, sliding between his blankets and sitting up. “I’ll be fine.” The smell of roasted rabbit and boiling herbs filled his awakening senses. His stomach growled. “Is Dorri cooking again?”
“She is,” Rose confirmed as her fingers worked their way to the bandage over Gus’ brow. Moving it to the side sent a tremble of pain through his skull. He flinched. “There’s going to be a tiny little scar.” She applied ointment to the wound and replaced his bandage with a fresh one. “Guess what? Skiggi trapped a few rabbits. Camping by the farm was a good idea.” Rose sat back on her heels, crouching on the wagon bed. “You’re just full of good ideas, aren’t you?”
Gus peeked over the wagon's edge and searched their campsite for horns or hooves. “Is he still here?”
Rose nodded. “Gathering wood with Skiggi. He’s been a big help, you know? The little guy’s got a lot of heart–refuses to leave your side. I might even like him if he’d stop being so annoying.”
“He’ll be gone soon enough.” Augustus leaned his head back and observed the rays of light breaking through the canopy of the little wood. It’s time to go, he confirmed. We’re a day’s ride from Ottoburg. The city is too dangerous to stay in. I have to move quickly. However, I dread hiking across the Plains of Milanis alone, in the heart of winter. There will be deserters and robbers, starving refugees, and patrols. A riverboat straight to the coast was sounding good to him. But the Temple will watch the waterways more closely than ever.
Gus wrestled out of the wagon and limped to their campfire. Dorri regarded him with a smile. “It’ll be done in a minute!”
He sat cross-legged, peering into the dancing flames. “Will you be ready to perform when we reach Ottoburg?” Rose approached their fire and sat beside him.
Gus didn’t reply.
“Look at him!” Dorri filled the silence. “He’d be more likely to scare the crowd away!” she giggled. Her eyes met Gus’, then darted back to the cauldron of bubbling soup. Her smile vanished. “Sorry.”
“It’s not so bad!” Rose scoffed. “Remember when that Colechester kicked Skiggi in the face and flattened his nose?” She chuckled. “He performed that very night.” She placed a hand on Gus’ shoulder. “Skiggi’s nose has never been the same, but you’ll heal up just fine. You’ll be just as pretty as ever, lordling.” Gus didn’t engage. He simply stared into the fire. Rose’s hand slid off his shoulder. “You face one little beating, and you fall to pieces. Typical lordling.” She sighed, stood, and stalked off toward the wagon.
I’m tired of fighting, he contemplated. And tired of running. Tired of everything. A twig cracked. Gus turned to witness Skiggi and Padair burst through a row of bushes with armloads full of fuel. And tired of listening to them prattle on.
“Hey, Augustus!” Padair smiled brightly as he weaved through the trees and their saplings.
“That food is smelling good!” Skiggi roared. He laughed. The pair marched to the wagon and dumped the wood next to a wheel. The dwarf stood up straight, stretched out his arms, lifted his nose, and sniffed the air. “How did you find Rosemary out here?”
“I nabbed some from the tavern in Turinstone,” Dorri explained.
“Bleh!” Padair shivered, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. “The roasting carcass is ruining my appetite.”
“I was just telling Gus what a help you’ve been,” Rose told the satyr. “Maybe you can help me cheer him up?”
“When feeling down, I just think about my family.” Padair took a seat beside Gus, opposite of Rose. “Just think, Gus. You’re almost home! Your mother and father will be happy to see you after so long! I always love–” Augustus stood. “Gus?” Augustus stared down the little lane leading into their camp.
“Maybe they won’t be so happy to see him?” Rose proposed.
Gus closed his eyes. He sighed. Another lie.
Padair laughed, slapping his knee. “Gus’ father loves him! I know him well enough from everything Gus has told me!” The goat man stood. He approached Gus from behind. “Isn’t that right, Gus? Your father will throw some kind of party to celebrate your arrival. There will be a feast with all the nasty human food you love the most. Your mother and sisters will dote on you and introduce you to the ladies of the city.” Padair circled to face Augustus, who stood frozen, wrapped up in his web of lies. “So don’t feel down, friend. You’re almost home.”
Augustus wanted to run down the lane, away from Padair, to free himself from the lies. Reluctance–and the pain in his right leg–tempered that urge. The mercenary who beat him did the job well. Nothing broke. He would just have to live with the pain of his decisions for a time. Gus limped back over to their fire. “I borrowed some money from my father. That’s why I became a mercenary. I lost it all in a failed business venture.”
As morning light spilled through the trees, the Mysterium loaded their wagon. Dorri fried up a few strips of salted pork and wild mushrooms. After breakfast, they doused their fire, piled into their rickety wagon, and with a few cracks of the reins, Skiggi coaxed the oxen to tug them down the wooded lane. The Mysterium joined a precession of wagons and walkers on the Western Road. Mercenaries marched beside wagons laden with sacks of grain and oil, ale, or wine barrels. Droves of men and women, accompanied by half as many children, marched with them, wearing tattered clothes. They eyed the wagons with eager desperation and everyone else with suspicion. ‘Refugees of the war.’ Gus recognized their type easily. Farmhouses dotted the fields to either side of the road. Farmhands pulled the late autumn harvest from the soil while others followed in their wake, spreading dead fish and manure. Soon, farms turned into tiny villages of bundled brick buildings. Hundreds of tents and lean-to’s expanded from the settlements surrounding Ottoburg. Refugees mulled about, chopping and stacking wood, digging ditches and latrines, or huddling around their campfires for warmth.
Padair sat beside Gus. Passing walkers pointed at the satyr. Children laughed and vied for his attention, waving and calling out to him, bringing their fists to their heads, and creating horns with their fingers. Padair set his brow, lowered his horns, and glared at the giddy onlookers. He slid down the wall of the wagon, hiding. “Your kind takes up so much space.” Puffs of steam escaped his mouth with every word. He crossed his arms. “More than any other.”
“We need food for our towns and cities,” Gus explained. “The best way to get food is by farming the land.”
“It’s not just the land,” Padair concluded. “The men in the East don’t have farms,” Padair pointed out. “Oh!” Their wagon rocked as its wheel landed in a pothole. The goat man growled in frustration. “And they don’t have roads. I like that. But the tribes still brush against each other from time to time.”
“I like their way of thinking, myself,” Skiggi spoke over his shoulder. “Anything belongs to anybody–if you’re strong enough to take it!” He laughed. Dorri, sitting on the bench beside him, giggled.
“Padair wants us to live like barbarians,” Rose chimed. She sat, wrapped in several blankets. “I’ll take a warm hearth and a feather bed, please, and thank you.” She threw the blankets over her head like a layered woolen shroud. “Or a warm bath and a glass of wine. What kind of animal wants to live on the back of a horse?”
“The kind who values freedom,” Skiggi said. “Are we so different in our wagon?”
“They’re just living the lives they’ve always known.” Gus pulled his own blanket closer. Their wagon slowed on the clogged road. He elbowed Padair. “I’m surprised you haven’t departed yet.”
“We may never see each other again, my friend,” Padair reminded. The satyr folded his hands behind his head and gazed into the clear morning sky. “You’re almost home. And who knows if you’ll leave again?” A sad smile pursed his lips. “I’ve lost many friends over the years. And, if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that you should appreciate every moment you get to share. One day, they won’t be around anymore. And every memory of them is the only memory you will ever have.”
Perhaps, in another life, I would appreciate a friend like you, Gus pondered. Maybe even deserve one.
“Well said,” Rose muttered. Her eyes and nose appeared from an opening in the gray folds. “You know, Gus, I can be pretty cold sometimes–” Their wagon rocked again, cutting her short. The back wheels creaked and groaned. “But if it wasn’t for you, I’d be rotting in a dungeon or decorating a spike with my head. So, thank you.”
Gus nodded.
Rose threw the blanket off of her head and glared at him. “We may never see each other again, either.” Her eyes narrowed. “After caring for you these past weeks and taking you on as a bard, you’d think you might even show a little appreciation. But all I get is a nod?”
Augustus grinned. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Rose hid behind her blankets.
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Their wagon came to a standstill. A pair of guards wearing purple-covered brigandines marched up the side of the road, searching wagons and persons. They worked quickly, asking a simple question: “Refugee?” They directed the downtrodden, who cooperated, towards an encampment on the northern side of the road.
They approached the Mysterium’s wagon. A guardsman with a broad face asked Skiggi his question. “Refugee?”
Rose uncovered her head to see what was happening.
“Troop of performers,” Skiggi answered.
The guard’s partner, a short, skinny man with pale skin, circled their wagon. His face lit up when he saw Padair. “They ain’t refugees, for sure. They’re traveling with a satyr!” He smiled.
“Paint a picture,” Padair scolded. “It will last longer.”
The skinny little guard laughed. “Is he your gimmick?” He leaned against the wagon with a big stupid smile on his face. “Where are you performing?”
“The Oat and Barley,” Rose answered. “We’ll only be in town for two weeks. Bring your friends!”
The guard eyed rose with a romantic glint in his eye. “I certainly will.” He tipped the iron cap on his head and offered a wink, then strutted back around the wagon with his spear leaned against his shoulder. “They’re good to go!” he shouted.
Padair pushed himself up the wall of the wagon. “I guess it is time to go. I can feel the walls closing in around me already, Gus.”
Gus met the goat man’s blocky eyes. A surge of sorrow rushed to grip Gus’ heart. As annoying as you are, you are the only one who just wanted to be my friend. Augustus grabbed Padair’s right hand and shook it. It felt like a child’s hand folding within his own. “You’re a good friend, Padair. We’ll see each other again. Don’t worry about that,” he lied.
Padair smiled. “I sure hope so.” He turned around and patted Skiggi’s back. “Good luck to you all. And safe travels!”
“Goodbye!” Skiggi offered.
“Bye!” Dorri waved.
Padair snapped his fingers. The satyr’s skin grew transparent. He was there, then he wasn’t. Ardwin lost his only true friend in the blink of an eye. But he wasn’t my friend. It was all a lie. His stomach churned. Why do I care so much?
“He didn’t even say goodbye to me,” Rose grumbled.
Traffic was stop and go. The city gate, standing twenty feet high, wasn’t wide enough to accommodate the influx. Like a pool above a cave, the traffic slowly dripped through the gap in the rocks. Dozens of guards patrolled the road, pulling people aside and escorting them to refugee camps when necessary. With winter closing in, farmhands from the countryside migrated to the capital to work the docks and the mills. Gus turned his attention to the refugees mulling about their faraway tent towns. There’s not enough work for these people–not enough roofs. The Masters of the city won’t pay for their expenses. When winter comes, they will starve or freeze. Ardwin remembered his work as a baker’s boy. His time in Ottoburg’s Imperial Monastery had been uneventful–pleasant, even. That was before the Seventh War of the West Duchies officially began.
Crossing the threshold of the city gate, guardsmen directed wagons towards the roads and people towards the alleys. The Mysterium fell in line with a train of wagons pushing through the mob and didn’t break free until they turned onto a side road leading to the Oat and Barley. Safe within the confines of a cold stable, Augustus hopped out of the wagon with his swords strapped to his hip, hidden beneath his cloak. Rose clambered down from the wagon bed, still wrapped in blankets. “You’re sure you can’t play a few shows with us? Just come play, then go home. I don’t see the problem.”
“I need to regain my father’s trust,” Gus replied. “I don’t think hanging around a tavern with a troop of performers is a good start.”
“You can’t even help us unload?” Skiggi spoke through gritting teeth as he carried a crate of gadgets and devices. “Now that’s rude.”
Augustus chuckled. “I’m not getting paid this time.”
Skiggi set the box down, approached Gus, and offered his hand. “You’re learning.” He smiled. Gus took Skiggi’s hand and shook it. “Take care of yourself, kid. Maybe we’ll see you on the next tour? I bet you’ll be swimming in gold by then.”
Gus patted Skiggi’s shoulder with his left hand. “Don’t get thrown in jail.” Skiggi burst out laughing, which sent Dori into a fit of giggles.
“Take care of each other,” Gus instructed, hands on his hips. “Take care.” He nodded, then turned and strode out of the stable, but not before glimpsing Rose’s face–stricken with sorrow. He knew the look. And he knew the feeling. She felt the loss of his leaving. Gus would never know whether it was the loss of her bard or a friend, but there was something.
Augustus followed the flow of traffic until it dispersed throughout the city. He skirted around the Duke’s palace, found a series of alleys and narrow streets, then wound down a westward road that fell toward the Twinstone River. Night enveloped the world before he made it to a three-story lodge sitting on the water’s edge, constructed entirely of timber. Large rectangular windows overlooked the rushing waters of the river. “The Fisher’s House,” he recalled.
Augustus entered the inn, finding himself in a large rectangular lobby with a desk directly across from the entrance. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling, alight with dozens of candles. A man wearing a blood-orange shirt stood behind the desk, smiling, his hands folded in front of him. “How may I serve you?” the clerk asked.
“I need a bed for the night,” Gus informed. He stopped a few feet from the desk and retrieved his coin purse from his belt.
The clerk held up a hand and passed a disapproving look over Gus. The kind that makes one forget he’s in a country where men are ‘equal.’ “We’re full, but we can work with those here to work. Mind you, I said work. We don’t do handouts, and we don’t take refugees. So, are you in the city for work?”
“I’m crossing the river tomorrow–going south to apply my trade.” Gus swept his cloak back to reveal the weapons at his side.
The clerk glanced at his sword and dagger, then back at him. A tremble of terror passed through the man. Stiff shoulders bounced as he shuffled his feet beneath the desk. “As long as you’re fighting for Burgundia.” He chuckled.
“Of course.” Augustus nodded. Then, he dug out a silver circling and sat it on the desk. “For the room–and for your silence. I have enemies in this city. On second thought, I prefer privacy. Is there an empty room available?”
“I’m a professional, sir,” the clerk leveled his eyes at Gus, regaining composure. “My silence comes without cost.” He plucked up the silver and tucked it into the pocket of his orange trousers. He pointed down a hall to the left. “Take the stairs at the end of the hall. Keep going until you reach the fourth floor. Your bed is in the last room on the left.” The clerk leaned over his desk. “We keep a bed in the supply room,” he whispered. “For especially busy days.”
“Good man.” Gus smiled at the clerk, then followed his directions up, up, up. At the end of the hall, the door to the room stood shut. Gus strode into the small space. Four shelves stood in a row against the wall on his left. Two sconces embedded in the right wall offered light. A little window across from the entrance looked over the docks. They tucked the bed in the far corner, hidden behind the shelves. It had four blankets stacked neatly on top, folded by professional hands. There was no hearth, and the window was drafty. Gus threw off his cloak, then his packs, then his weapons. Unburdened, he lay his aching body down. I bet the Mysterium are warm at the Oat and Barley. Skiggi will pass out with a full belly. Dori and Rose will be gambling. But what about Padair? His mind wandered as his thoughts led him deeper and deeper into the blackest slumber.
Morning came too soon, and with it came the urge to flee, to move, to run. Yet every movement pained him. His fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. His shoulder blades complained as he lifted his shirt over his head. Undressed, he inspected his bruises and scrapes. The swelling was gone, but the discolorations of flesh turned his stomach. Gus lay in bed. The cold air through his open window washed away the mugginess of the storage chamber and blunted his pain.
He dressed and made his way downstairs, where he asked a new clerk–an older gentleman with a stiff demeanor and the same garish orange–where to find food. The old clerk pointed him to a door on the first floor that led into a parlor befitting minor nobility. Four silver chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Long windows with arched frames ran across the back wall, allowing the furthest tables a splendid view of the docks. The stout smell of fish spoiled the picturesque setting of white tablecloths and polished silverware. The current clientele were clearly dockhands–gruff, grimy fish wranglers. A young waitress caught Gus’ attention with her orange dress. She led him to a table, took down his order, and then hurried across the parlor, disappearing into a far door.
Gus sat, waiting for his food, staring at the empty table, ignoring the world around him.
“Is this seat taken?” A voice sounded near. Augustus raised his eyes to find a bald man dressed in a brown vest and black trousers standing behind the chair opposite his own. The man was young, perhaps Gus’ age. “Do you mind?” He sat down, anyway.
“I don’t know you,” Gus started. “And you don’t know me. I want to be left alone.”
“You know me,” the bald man smiled. “Unless you’ve forgotten your good friend, Murph?” The words hit Gus like a tidal wave, crashing into a coastal cliff, breaking something within its foundation free, unleashing a landslide of memories. Cold chills covered his skin. “Yeah, you remember.” He leaned back in his chair. “How are you, Ardwin?”
“I’m alive,” Ardwin replied. For now. But if you’ve found me, then–
“I’m glad.” Murph leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We all made it this far. You, Gregory, me. We all got what we wanted.”
“How do you figure?” Ardwin asked.
“Gregory is home in Alexandria. You got your freedom,” Murphrey pointed out, thrusting his hand toward Ardwin. “And I’ve found a family in Ottoburg that appreciates my talents. After all is done, I might rise further than Gregory.”
Ardwin opened his mouth, but a blur of orange arrived with a fish platter beside baked potatoes smothered in herbs and onions. “Will you be eating?” The server asked Murph.
He waved her away. “You think you know why I’m here, don’t you?” Murph eyed Ardwin.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, and we’ll compare,” Ardwin offered. He leaned back in his chair and forced himself to breathe, steady his nerves, and focus on the problem at hand. Still trying to prove you’re clever? That you’re more than the runt of our litter? What can you tell me, Murph?
“You have Ninathril,” Murphrey explained. “I have your friends.”
Ardwin’s heart plummeted.
Murphy scooted his chair around the table, moving closer to Ardwin. “If we can make an exchange,” he lowered his voice. “I will set your friends free.” Murph placed a hand on Ardwin’s forearm. “You may think I am cruel or disturbed, but you were my brother once. We’ve saved each other more times than I can count. I want you to have that freedom you so desire.”
Ardwin looked Murph in the eye. Is he bluffing? He could not detect a lie. “Where are they?”
“I will take you,” Murph offered. He moved to stand.
Ardwin held up his right hand, scooped up his fork, and scooted his chair closer to the table. The smell of the baked fish was too much to refuse. His weakened body needed strength to face what was to come. And Murph had plenty more to tell him. He plucked a hunk of meat free from the fish and ate it. “What have you been up to all these years?”