Lill Sommerfeldt knelt over the face-down young man who occupied her son’s cot. He stirred in a feverous frenzy but didn’t wake. With only a towel draped over his backside, she examined his wounds.

Several knife scars marked his body, and even a few that she figured to be gunshot wounds. She had never seen a gunshot victim, but she concluded nothing else could have made the round, jagged scars. Those scars told a story from years ago and weren’t the problem.

The problem was the cuts that lay across his back. Obviously, the mark of a whip, those she had seen before. More curious to her than the man’s wounds were his tattoos. No respectable Relrin or Sharderin even thought about getting tattoos; maybe if he were a pirate, that would make sense. But she had never heard of pirates sailing up Rulkite River, so she doubted that.

She set her role of clean bandages to the side and stirred the steaming ointment she had prepared.

“I don’t like it,” her aged father Frode declared from the doorway, leaning on his cane. “You fished ‘em out of the river. What do you know about ‘em? He could be a criminal or a runaway debtbond.”

Lill frowned at her unconscious patient. The shade of his burning gray skin showed that he was only part Sharderin. It was likely he was undebted.

“I don’t think so, pa. I searched his body. He doesn’t have a debtbond brand.” Her debtbond brand seemed to itch just under her collar as she said it. She and her whole family were debtors of the Prime Paramount Alred, slaves in all but title. Not that she ever complained. Comparatively speaking, they were treated better than other debtbonds, and besides, she was one of the last Sharderin women to exist, having been in Chimgar at the time of the purge.

“The only brand he had is this one under his eye,” Lill elaborated. “It’s fresh, but I’ve never seen a debtbond brand like this. It’s sharderin. I don’t know what it means.”

“Are you sure you searched his whole body?” Her older and lengthy brother Ivar snickered from the doorway.

With a huff, Lill seized a wooden cup that young Rasmus had left in his room (despite her command to clean up) and hurled it at the man, who leaped away with a yelp.

“That’s enough from you, I think!” she snapped. “And besides, he’s young enough to be my son!”

Ivar chortled, bounding back into view, and she cursed as there weren’t any other projectiles easily within reach. There was the strange metal trinket she found on the man, but she didn’t want to break it, whatever it was.

“But where did he come from?” Frode asked grimly, dismissing his children’s squabble.

“He probably washed in from Colgar,” Ivar said.

Frode leaned on his walking stick, his frown deepening. “If he washed in from Colgar, that would mean...he had to pass through Pit Forest.

Ivar groaned. “Right, the haunted forest!” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe he was raised by demons and will hex us with his Stigki powers for taking ‘em in and patching ‘em up, is that right?”

Lill sighed at her brother’s faithlessness. “You’ve never seen the demon wall.”

“Right.” Ivar dismissed with a wave of his hand. “And the witches that fly on black wolves. You’re right, I haven't seen any of that, and you know why?”

“Because you’ve never looked,” Lill muttered.

“Because they don’t exist!” He waved his hands emphatically. “God, devils, witches. I’ll believe when I see.”

“Kel, forgive my stupid brother,” Lill prayed aloud, making sure Ivar heard her.

The motionless man grunted and muttered something she couldn’t understand. She turned her attention away from her faithless brother and back to the mysterious washup.

Trygve’s little fingers dug into her skirt, making applying the salve difficult. The six-year-old’s wide eyes fixed on the stranger on his brother’s cot. Lill sighed. “Go to Grandpa, Trygve,” she shooed away the child, hoping for the space to work freely.

The thud of footsteps announced the entrance of Rasmus as he ran to the now crowded doorway, looking at the motionless figure in his bed. “Woah!” he cried. “Is he dead?”

“Yer gonna be if you don’t give me space and quiet to work,” Lill chastened, and the nine-year-old clamped his mouth shut apologetically.

“Okay,” she breathed and knelt to apply the ointment to the man’s cuts. The moment the steaming salve touched the man’s back, he cried out as he jerked awake, tipping the cot and the towel.

The Sommerfeldts cried out in surprise, jumping away from the now very conscious and very naked stranger.

The man rolled, splitting open his scabs afresh, and came up in the corner of the small room, snarling through bared teeth. He snapped at them in a tongue Lill didn’t understand as his eyes switched from one to the other. Ivar and Frode looked like they might faint, but Lill huffed and planted her fist on her hips.

“Get yer butt back on the cot, young man!”

The man turned to face her, but his eyes widened in horror when he saw her.

He gasped as he shrunk from her presence and then threw himself on his face.

“Mother, forgive me,” he cried. “I didn't mean to look at you!”

Lill stopped short. The man wasn’t speaking Relric, but she recognized his words. He was speaking Sharderic. He had spoken Sharderic before, but she didn’t attune her ears to pick it up right away, as it was a language she hadn’t used since she was a little girl. No one spoke Sharderic anymore.

As intriguing as that was, Lill’s face darkened as she saw the fresh blood trickling from his back. “Goodness, man, what are ya doing? I’m going to have to start over,” she lamented.

He stiffened without looking up and pressed his face against the wood floor harder. “I’m sorry! I meant no offense,” he continued in Sharderic. Though familiar to Lill, his words were difficult to follow as she was out of practice in the dialect.

“Do you speak Relric?” she demanded, shooting a fierce glance at her bewildered father, brother, and sons. Where this man looked ready to attack them with his bare hands, he shied from her as though she was a lioness.

The man nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.

“Where do ya come from?” Lill asked in wonder. “The Sharderian language is dying, yet ya speak it so well.”

The trembling man continued to hold his tongue.

Finally, Frode found his voice. “Now listen, ya lazy sack of dung, don’t you go makin’ trouble? You just let me at 'em, Lill; I’ll show 'em to pay your kindness with mischief!”

“No, Pa!” Lill said sternly. “He just startled me, is all. He isn’t making trouble.”

“Please!” the man said to Frode in Relric now. His words were slow and heavily accented, as though he had to think about his words before he spoke. “I didn’t mean to offend the mother!”

“Foreigner, eh?” Frode deduced from his accent. “Well, a lucky one you are. If my daughter didn’t fish you out of the river when she went to wash the clothes. I should suspect you would be fish food now.”

“Please! Where am I?” the stranger asked, disoriented.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Yer in Soutfel,” Frode said. “Where are you from, lad, and what were you doing in the river? A runaway debtbond, are you?”

The man looked utterly disconcerted, still not daring to look at Lill.

“Oi pa!” Lill chastened Frode. “I told you he doesn’t have the right brand.”

“Do you have papers of balance?” Frode asked suspiciously.

“Papers?”

“Yeah, papers.”

“No,” the man shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“He isn’t mad, is he?” Lill asked, at his ignorance, “You think he doesn’t know?”

“Look at his shape, though,” Ivar finally chipped in. “He’s a worker true as booze, not wasting away like the street greys.”

“Do we turn ‘em in to the authorities?” Frode asked, “We’re supposed to report runaway debtbonds.”

“But he’s got no bond brand,” Lill explained, “he’s in some sort of trouble. We could condemn him to much worse if we turn him in.

The man watched their exchange with a set jaw as though he struggled to follow. He turned to Frode, keeping his eyes off Lill as though a glance might turn him to stone.

“My name is Niklas Loga, Sir!” he barked unnecessarily loudly. “I am from far away. I don’t know where I am. I need your help!”

Frode jumped at the stranger’s militant voice.

“I’m Lill Sommerfeldt,” Lill introduced herself .“That old man is my pa, Frode Sorlie. That’s my idiot brother, and you – Oi, look at me when I talk to you!”

“Forgive me, Mother!” Niklas said not diverting his eyes. “I won’t look at you!”

“I’m not your ma, and what are you on about?”

The man looked confused, as though the comment made no sense. “But you’re a Mother?”

“Well, yeah,” she answered as she put a defensive hand on young Trygve, who had sought to hide behind the security of her skirt. “But that’s hardly something to call someone. Unless you’re talking to your ma.”

“Where are you from, boy?” Frode asked.

“Pit Forest,” he responded.

Frode paled at the mention of the forest, his grey flesh going white. “Nothing good comes out of that devil-possessed wood. Having ‘em will bring a curse upon us. Good Kel, have mercy on us.”

Ivar laughed at his father. “So it’s true? They think you washed out from the haunted forest, from behind the wall of faces. That you lived with demons or might be a demon yourself.” He jabbed a long finger at Niklas. “Are you a demon, boy?”

“No! I’m no demon.”

“Are there more like you?” Frode asked, “People, I mean.”

Niklas hesitated just a little too long. “Like me? No, there are many demons and spirits.” He smiled wryly.

“Hmm.” Frode scratched the whiskers on his chin in thought. “Did they do this to you?” He pointed to Niklas’ back with his cane.

“Yes!” Niklas nodded vigorously. “The demons are cruel to humans. They hurt me.” His blunt speech sounded unpracticed.

“So it’s true!” Frode marveled. “By Kel’s voice, Pit Forest is haunted.”

“Now, just wait!” Ivar cut in doubtfully.

“We can ask questions later! If this man dies in my house, I’m blaming you!” Lill chastened the older men.

“All right, all right.” The old man waved a dismissive hand. “Go on blaming me; looks like some things never change,” he muttered as he walked out, ushered by the other boys.

Niklas gasped at the comment but mostly looked startled. “You won’t speak to the Mother that way,” he said, his voice dangerously low.

“Back on the cot, young man,” Lill ordered as she tipped it back up.

Sure to avoid eye contact. Niklas hesitated.

“Let’s go. We haven’t got all day.”

Niklas climbed belly-down onto the cot, and Lill threw the towel back over him. She wasn’t disturbed by his exposure; she did have two boys.

Niklas fidgeted in discomfort as she worked. It didn’t seem to be from the pain. Instead, something about her presence was making him noticeably uncomfortable.

“Did you only now escape the forest?” she asked. “I’ve never heard of someone surviving that cursed place. No one has gone in and come out to tell of it.”

He bit his tongue and didn’t answer.

“Can you hear me?” she asked, more than slightly annoyed, “Or are you mad? Can’t say I would blame you if you were, considering the forest and all.”

He didn’t answer, but she caught sight of his face. His dark demeanor was pained but shrouded in a curtain of shame or embarrassment. Then, it dawned on Lill. She had taken off his wet, bloodied clothes to treat him. Maybe he wasn’t used to such vulnerability.

“Sorry about your clothes,” she muttered. “It’s not really indecent considering the circumstances. I couldn’t have you freezing to death. When I finish patching you up, I’ll give you some of Ivar’s clothes.”

He didn’t so much as grunt in acknowledgment.

“Won’t you talk to me?” Lill asked, growing frustrated.

“No,” he said with great reserve.

“Why?”

“It’s forbidden,” he said simply.

Lill didn’t press him for any more strange answers. She worked quickly on his back. He was perhaps the tightest human she had ever seen. His back, though slashed, was taught with defined muscle. His breathing relaxed as the balm did its job. She finished wrapping the fresh bandages and got some trousers and a shirt from Ivar. Leaving them beside Niklas’ temporary cot, she withdrew into the main room with her family, hoping to give the stranger a chance to rest.

The whole family sat around the table in their cluttered living area, astute to the day’s abnormality. Her father, brother, and two boys were present, but so was her humble husband, Tord.

“Mum,” Rasmus chirped. “Can I keep ‘em?”

“That’s enough from you!” she snapped. “He’s only a guest until he gets better.”

“How will we afford it?” Tord muttered to himself. Her husband was by no means a social man, always lost in thought, but in the confines of his own home, he didn’t hesitate to ask the hard questions.

Lill bit her lip. “Kel will provide. Helping the desperate is his work, after all.”

“I say we put ‘em to work,” Ivar said. “Who says debtbonds can’t have servants?”

“I say,” little Rasmus cut in as though he was the authority on the matter, “that we make ‘em carry me everywhere.”

All eyes turned to the child. Few things that came from the boy's mouth surprised them anymore. This was honestly unexpected.

“What?” he defended himself with the attitude inherited from his mother. “All the kids would have to respect me if I had a steed.”

“He’s a man,” Tord pointed out blatantly.

“Even better!” Rasmus declared. “Every merchant and noble has a horse to carry them. I would be the first to use a man. That makes me better than them.”

“We will not turn ‘em into your donkey!” Lill declared, and to the youth’s despair, that ended the idea.

“We are first going to make sure he doesn’t die and then decide.”

The boys room’s door opened with a squeak, and the Sommerfeldts froze as Niklas stood propped against the doorway in his undersized shirt and trousers.

“Back to bed with you!” Lill barked. “You are in no shape to be walking about!”

“I need to go,” he muttered in Sharderic before shuffling to the front door, seeking the chance to escape.

The whole family cried out in protest, but his determination carried through weak strides. Beating Lill to the door, he pushed the door open and froze. Outside, five women hurried about stoking fires with large cooking pots and chopping vegetables. They were the wives and sisters of the herdsmen who shared the compound.

With a despairing cry, Niklas spun and slammed the door. “What is this?” he cried at the men, still shying away from Lill, who stood ready to stop him.

“What are you talking about?” Frode asked.

[ Image: Drone Ch8.png ]

“There are Relrin Mothers outside!”

“I’m not sure what you think that word means,” Frode said.

“Non-men...Mothers.”

“Women…?” Ivar tried.

“What is this place?”

“Soutf–” Frode started.

“Soutfel, I know!” he snapped. “Where are we in relation to Pit Forest, to Relgar!”

“Relgar-” Frode said, startled. “You don’t know? You’re in it.”

Niklas put a hand against a barrel as he swayed at the announcement. Lill tried to read the stranger’s face, but she was more worried he might faint.

“Soutfel is in Relgar?” he echoed.

“Yes,” Fode said in amusement. “This is Prime Paramount Alred’s Soutfel in the Soutvor region. We’re his debtbonds.”

“What do you mean you’re his debtbonds–” Niklas stopped short as he put it together. “You’re slaves! I need to get out of here,” he said in alarm. “Frode, I need a…Pit, man, do you speak Sharderic?” he asked, switching back to his native language.

“Yes,” Frode responded in kind. “But don’t let anyone hear us using it. It’s dirty language.”

“Dirty?” Niklas asked, confused.

“Never mind that. What did you need?”

“A mirror.”

Frode dismissed Rasmus to bring back a mirror shard wedged in a small wooden frame that had at one point held the rest.

“Yer scuffed up bad,” Frode warned. “Might not like what you see.”

Niklas snatched the mirror from the boy and examined his damaged face. He traced his small brand with his finger. Lill noticed his neck tighten and bulge at the sight of it.

“That’s a rune seared into your face,” Frode said. “What does it mean?”

“It means I can’t go home,” Niklas explained dryly.

“You want to go back to Pit forest?”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “It’s where I belong…. Frode, how is it Mother Lill is here? Weren’t all of the Sharderin mothers purged?”

Frode looked at Niklas curiously. “We were already debtbonds in Chimgar before the purge. Our former debtor sold our balance to Prime Paramount Alred long after.”

“I need the mother to return with me,” Niklas said. “She’s far too precious to leave in Relrin Lands. That may even be a good enough reason for them to let me back! Are there any other Sharderin Mothers here?”

“Like pit I’ll go with you!” Lill snapped, joining the Sharderic conversation, causing Niklas to jump and scamper away. He stood petrified in the corner, refusing to look up, but slowly caressed the scab on his cheek.

“You know, it’s a shame.” Frode cut in, wishing to dispel the strange reaction. “If you were a Relrin, you could just have your scar removed.”

Niklas started. “What?”

“That scar. You could just have an esthetic operator remove it. Then, your face would be as unmarred as the day you were born.”

“Esthetic operator?”

“Yeah. Esthetic operators are a certain kind of Remnant Artificer. They use Remnant technology to change faces. The paramounts love to use esthetic operators to make themselves pretty.”

A flicker of hope darted past Niklas’ eyes. “You said if I were Relrin? Why couldn’t I do it now?”

Frode snorted in laughter. “That would cost you a fortune, and good luck finding a Relrin profile adjuster who would dirty his hands on a Sharderin face.”

Niklas nodded emphatically as he mused over the idea. Lill saw the calculations of possibilities behind his eyes.

“I wouldn’t go about planning on it, lad. It won’t happen,” Frode cautioned.

“But it could?”

“I suppose.”

“Then Frode, rest assured that it will.”

Lill had enough idle talk. “All right!” she bellowed at the terrified giant. “Back to bed with you!”

Like a child caught in disobedience, he obeyed.