1.17 AN UNCLAIMED TROPHY
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Glim woke up cold for the second day in a row. The fire had been doused, just like the day before. Glim’s arms still ached from thrusting a sword against tree limbs for hours. He rubbed his sore shoulders and got dressed.
To his surprise, Master Willow and his father spoke in hushed tones on the rampart outside the door. They turned at his approach.
“You’ll need your cloak again,” his father said. “And you’ll need to be armed. You’re going on another mission while I’m away on patrol.”
“What kind?”
Master Willow peered down at him. “You’re to accompany me to the base of Apricity Peak. If the signs are true, we’ll find the linden trees blooming. Their flowers make potent potion ingredients. We need to collect as many as we can.”
Glim knew better than to argue against the united front of his father and Master Willow. He went inside and grabbed his heavy cloak.
His fate was confirmed by the arrival of Garrick, who hustled up the stairway carrying a sword in a scabbard. The armorer headed straight for Glim and spun him around, fastening a belt at his waist.
“’Tis the short sword you picked yesterday. The sharp one, mind. The real one. Let’s practice drawing it. Grip the hilt. Now grab the scabbard with your other hand. Just here. Tug it once to release, then draw it the rest of the way out. One smooth motion, from scabbard to ready position.”
Glim gripped the hilt and tugged. Unlike the rusted sword, this one slid readily from the sheath. He drew it out and, with a fair bit of wobble, brought it to ready.
“Not bad, not bad. Now to re-sheath it, be absolutely certain that the tip is inside the sheath. Otherwise you’re likely to chop your own fingers off. Show me the placement of your hands, but don’t press the sword in just yet.”
Garrick fussed over him as Glim inserted the sharp point of the sword into the slot at the end of the sheath.
“Just so. Now hold the scabbard and slide the sword back inside, but not until you’re certain all your fingers are clear.”
Glim checked his fingers, and slid the sword back into its scabbard.
“Watch those thumbs! Always watch your thumbs. Again!” Garrick said. Glim unsheathed the sword and sheathed it a few more times, until Garrick was satisfied.
“Remember,” he said. “In the heat of the moment. Thumbs touch fingers. Do not draw this sword until you’re sure where your thumbs are. The quickest way to lose a battle is cutting off your own thumb.”
“He won’t need the sword,” Master Willow said, with a haughty tone in his voice. “He’s accompanying me. I’ve done this journey dozens of times, and I’ve no intention of letting my best pupil fall.”
Father handed Glim a handful of dried oat bars, a leather waterskin, and a few odds and ends such as a flint and steel, and clean rags. He held out a knapsack for Glim to stuff them into, then helped him snug it onto his back. “Good luck, son,” he said.
Before the morning sun had even cleared the wall, the pair set off. Glim nodded to the guards at the gate, who just yesterday had been covered in rotting compost the same as he. Master Willow trudged past the rift in the mountainside where he’d nearly fallen, and headed up the trail towards the Hiemal range’s tallest peak. The world turned gray, white, and cold.
“Linden blooms have many qualities,” he said at last. “Some consider them lucky. Some say they bring prosperity. Accentuate love. What all of these have in common is quite simple: linden blossoms, when carefully prepared, heighten one’s acumen. Something to do with blood flow, or heightened perceptions of other’s temperament. Whether you consider them to be of divine origin, or merely physical aids, the end result is the same: these flowers heighten one’s senses. So we seek them.”
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As they walked up the trail, the air grew thinner and colder. Chill seeped into the exposed corners of Glim’s sleeves and collar.
“Did you know,” Master Willow said conversationally, “that Algists have an advantage in the cold? Even if you’ve no intention of plying, the focusing ritual draws warmth from the environment into the plyer. If you get too cold, try it. It will warm you right up.”
Glim made every attempt to listen, but joy distracted him. He swelled with pride inside. Garrick and father had trusted him with a sword. Not a wooden one, or a dull one, but a real one. One so dangerous that Garrick had nearly keeled over with worry. Its weight pulled at his waist and made his steps awkward. But Glim did not care in the slightest. He pictured himself valiantly fighting off hordes of shadowy enemies, saving Master Willow’s life.
He saved me, his tutor would say, sobbing his gratitude to the townspeople. Glim’s prowess with the sword is all that kept us alive. Glim would tell them all: it was nothing. All in a day’s work for a guard of Wohn-Grab.
They crested a ridge. Lines of scrubby trees, barely taller than shrubs, lined the trail. Limp purple leaves shaped like hearts hung from the branches. On the sudden wind that kicked up as they walked into the open, Glim smelled a sweet perfume.
“Perfect!” Master Willow exclaimed, handing him a vial. “Find any flower you can and put it in here.”
Glim walked among the rows of trees. Each had produced a small handful of tiny white flowers. He pinched them off with his fingertips and dropped them into his vial.
Thumbs touch fingers, Garrick had said. With each pinch, Glim pictured himself drawing his sword, and valiantly saving himself and Master Willow from the enemies that surely hunted them, even now, from the shadows.
He looked around, and with disappointment realized there were no shadows. The noon sun high in the sky drove the shadows to the base of the trunks. Glim saw nothing but linden trees, snow-covered rocks, and a tiny puff of breath on the air from a nearby depression in the ground.
Breath?
Before Glim could ask himself who’d breathed it, the hinterjack attacked. It loomed so quickly in his sight that he hardly had time to process. One moment, he saw a puff of frosty breath on snow. The next, he saw a mass of spiky gray fur, intense golden eyes, and a maw full of white fangs leaping for him.
Glim dropped his vial, grasped the scabbard of his sword, and drew it. Without thinking, in a rush of pure reaction, he whipped it through the air in a clean arc.
Three things happened at once. First, a shard of ice whistled through the air and pierced the side of the hinterjack’s skull. It’s eyes dulled instantly. Second, the deadly swipe of Glim’s sword sliced it’s throat in half, spewing blood in a red crescent. Third, the weight of the dead animal barreled into him, sending Glim sprawling into the snow.
He shuddered under its weight and shrugged the dead beast from himself, scrambling to his feet. Glim swung his sword around in a panic, expecting more attacks. He saw only Master Willow, who walked over, frowning.
“Quite a mess. Swords are such indiscriminate weapons. I’m afraid you’ll need a new cloak.”
Glim looked down at the thick sheen of blood clotting in the wool of his cloak. It sickened him to see the steam rising from the throat of the hinterjack crumpled at his feet, staring at him with lifeless eyes and bared fangs.
“Well, go on. Claim your trophy,” the Mage-at-Arms said.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s your first kill, correct? You should take a memento. A paw, or a tooth.”
Glim looked at the pile of fur and limbs jumbled on the ground, leaking blood into the snow. It gave him no pleasure to see it dead. “I… I don’t want to.”
Master Willow raised an eyebrow, as if questioning his conviction. “Well, technically I killed it first. So there’s no need. Now let’s gather these flowers and get back so you can clean up.” He walked off, plucking white buds from the tree limbs.
Glim picked up the vial he’d dropped in the snow. With shaking fingers he pinched off more blooms, fearing another attack at any moment.
“There are no more hinterjacks nearby,” Master Willow called out from further down the row. “Pick as many of the flowers as you can find.”
When they’d finished their work, Master Willow handed Glim a handful of linden leaves. He accepted the sheaf of purple, heart-shaped foliage with a questioning look.
“Eat up. They’re delicious,” the mage said, chomping on a few.
Glim tried them and was rewarded by a sweet, almost pea-like flavor. Between that and the smell of the blossoms, the leaves made a delightful meal indeed.
As they headed back down the trail, Glim felt jittery. He searched every shadow for threats. The sword at his side felt heavy. It weighed his steps and his spirit alike. When he saw the watchfires of Wohn-Grab, Glim broke into a run. He did not stop until he’d reached his room. He shucked off the cloak, dove into his bedroll, and sobbed himself to sleep.