Chapter 16

Day Six – Noon

Into the woods, out of sight of the Margrave’s Road, Zaber was bedded on the cold soil, between packed bundles, ready to make a run for it. The hamlets of Waelan and Hoam were close by. Filled with fishermen, cattle herders, woodworkers and artisans awaiting their incorporation into Teblen. Buron and Breg knew the fringes around the city well, where to hide and where folk might stumble into them.

Torm was on his last leg and felt even worse when he saw how easy it was for Breg to carry their unconscious friend. Even in fully plated maille, this beast of a man showed no strain. His scrawny companion had carried the bardiche axe for him, looking concerned at Zaber all the way.

The unreasonably tall men stood above Zaber and looked into a distorted face, constantly twitching and gasping. “Wake up,” said Breg and slapped his friend with suitable care. Feet left and right of Zaber’s torso, the only response was more unsteady eye movement and a mumbled ‘Yessir’.

“Oy!” Buron slapped Breg’s arm. “That’s not helpful,” said the bald man and knelt next to Zaber on the ground, pushing his other friend away.

“It did that one time in Krasnia,” replied Breg and observed the situation.

Buron stripped more of Zaber’s clothes away. Piece by piece, until the filth-drenched gambeson was gone and only the breeches remained. “Right, one time it did,” said Buron and palpated his stinking friend’s upper body. “But he only fell from a horse then.” The scrawny veteran looked up at Torm and mused. “No cuts, that’s good. What happened? Where is Ash?”

The boy sat on one of the prepared knapsacks, gathering his thoughts. “I don’t know, man.” He massaged his knuckles and wrists. “We did that pincer maneuver, hiding in–”

“We know the plan, get to the point,” interrupted Breg.

“Asher didn’t get out. None of his squad did,” replied Torm immediately, running his hands through his hair.

“Are the Yesilians dead or caught?” The unreasonably tall man did not move from his friend’s side and barely even looked at Torm.

“The two with us are dead. Everything went as Zaber planned, until–” The boy looked at his mentor’s twitching grimace, stuttering. “A mage. They got a mage. Zaber mowed them down without Asher, but one began to sing and–” His hands were shaking.

“Sit back; we got this from here on,” said Buron absentmindedly, while Breg’s side-eyes hurt like knives. “Shoulder is dislocated.” He ran his finger over every bone, down to the boots that he subsequently removed. “Ankles swollen, but nothing’s broken.”

“–stop,” mumbled Zaber with the look of someone getting beaten.

With a held back smile, Buron placed his hand on the unconscious man’s forearm and straightened it with his other hand. “Let’s see if that wakes him up,” he said half-serious without any laughter around him. Just a raised eyebrow from the boy. With one push and an audible ‘crack’ snapped the bump on Zaber’s shoulder right back.

A grim gasp exhaled by Zaber made Torm also do so. He could have sworn that his mentor’s eyes might have opened for a moment, but no reaction followed.

“Alrighty,” said Buron and opened his patient’s eyelids one after another. “Great news, his brain works. But his eyes are damned big, so he’s jumbled up good.”

“I think he swallowed a lot of gutter,” noted Torm.

The bald man held out his hand to Breg who gave him his boiled leather bottle. Opening Zaber’s mouth, Buron nodded and poured water into it. Cleaning the inside with his fingers and trying to make him drink a bit.

“What about Sigur? The prisoner?” asked Breg, just standing there, unflinching. Unlike Torm.

“I doubt he made it.” It was hard to watch Buron work, so Torm’s gaze became glued to the forest floor. Fresh fern, moss and dry leaves from the linden and maple trees that made up most of the peninsula that split Lake Teblen into its upper and lower halves. “We busted the cage and chains; some fled. But I can’t see how they got out of the city.”

Breg’s gaze was so painful, piercing… judging. He hadn’t done much since Buron took over, but there was something to this beast of a man that paralyzed Torm. The scar that ran over Breg’s forehead, right into his hairline, is impossible to ignore. So was his nose, broken multiple times in the past. Even though they lived outside, he and Buron looked as if they took way more care of each other than Zaber himself did. The scrawny, bald figure kneeling over his mentor had no visible scars, but seeing Zaber on the ground, near-naked… all those old wounds. Shoulders, chest, ribs, small and big. These three, and Asher, were real men. And he himself, thought Torm, wasn’t even able to follow a simple order and kill that mage. He ran away, like a coward. Like a boy.

“Snap out of it,” barked Breg, flicking his fingers in front of Torm. Buron packed up Zaber’s clothing and gambeson and Breg moved to do the same. “We gotta go.”

“The sooner the better,” added the bald one, wiping the sweat off his neck. “He’s boiling up.” Buron opened a pouch on his belt and pulled out a pre-sliced strip of willow bark to place under Zaber’s tongue. “By the Kraken, if you choke on this, I’ll have to cut your throat open.”

The unreasonably tall man stroked his beard with both hands before grabbing the pre-packed saddlebags, ropes and chests to strap onto the horses. “He’ll make it,” said the colossus, more to himself than to his companions. “This ain’t his worst defeat.” For a brief moment, a strange dialect came through, unknown to Torm.

Buron patted Zaber on his left and right cheek, making Breg’s eyes widen in befuddlement. Without a word, the question of why not to slap him stood between them again. He smiled at the giant and the boy, gloomily.

“Hundred yards, that way.” Breg pointed into the woods and stared at Torm, who didn’t react. “Get your arse up; four horses. I’ll carry him on mine.”

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Blinking multiple times and shaking his head, Torm stood up again. Now that he was safe, he felt dizzy, but some of his vitality had returned. With nothing but a nod to show compliance, he wandered in the pointed direction. Breg and Buron were talking behind him, but his head had become mush and none of it made sense. Zaber would make it, and that was the only thing that mattered. Torm only thought about the apology he wanted to give. What words to choose and how to make up for his failure. And a promise to train harder and stop fooling around. And listen.

The horses had been kept away from their meeting spot. It was too hard to hide them so close to the forest’s edge and too many to explain if someone stumbled into them. When Torm found them, he remembered the actual number of planned survivors. Twelve rounceys, tied to a tree with a big stack of hay and most of the fresh fern around them devoured. And he had to leave most of them, five gulden each, good silver wasted.

“What am I going to do with you?” uttered the boy. Thinking about it for a good, long moment he tied the reins of the four he liked most together. He pointed the rest towards the fields. Raising his hand for a slap, he stopped and clenched it to a trembling fist, hitting himself against the forehead. “Fff–” he whistled and closed his eyes. “Almost messed up again.” Eight horses, saddled up, running into a field would be seen from the city walls and give away their position. But leaving them here, tied up? That would break his heart… and Zaber’s. He untied them and left them where they were, taking the four chosen ones with him.

Back at the glade, Breg was filling a bag with coins from the chest and kicked it shut afterwards. “Useless shitbrat,” said the unreasonably tall man and picked up a short spade from a package. He looked at Zaber and braced himself against the tree under which the chest was waiting to be buried. “We–” He was about to continue but was interrupted by a hand on his shoulder.

“He’ll make it,” said Buron. “As you said.”

“What about Ash? What if–” Once more, the giant was interrupted. This time by the warm embrace of his friend, wrapping his arms around the maille of Breg’s waist from behind.

“He’s gotten away. He always does,” said the scrawny, way smaller man to his colossal companion. His hands folded into each other on the other side and his cheek rested on the cold steel on the backside.

Breg put his hand atop Buron’s hands and leaned back. “Zaber’ll try again, he ain’t resting for long.”

Both of them remained silent, savoring the moment before the boy returned. Surrounded by nature, they felt nothing but each other and helplessness. Starlings and a woodpecker accompanied them. Only when the knocks on a tree ended did they move apart.

“There was a line magician,” said Buron and moved back to Zaber. “That he got away is a new high; and I’m sure the boy did his best too.”

“Why was there a line magician anyways? That blackhead special or what?” replied Breg, disgruntled, and began to dig. “We gotta sink the rest, ain’t enough horses. We can’t cross the border like that.”

“Nah, we can’t.” Buron kicked Zaber playfully against a part of his body that wasn’t broken. “He’ll want to try again. Like the dunce he is.” He smiled and sorted more of their belongings.

“Ay, why can ya’ hit him and I can’t?” asked Breg dryly, toiling on.

“Because I’m lean and you’re thick as fuck,” replied Buron, just as dry. Both continued their work in silence, occasionally watching over Zaber. “Boy really gave it his all,” added Buron. “Please, at least try.”

“Fuck the boy,” grumbled Breg, stabbing the ground with murderous intent. Digging deeper and deeper, no root could stand in his way. “Should have ditched him up north four years ago.”

“We should–” Buron halted and looked at the last package to stow away with tired eyes. “Maybe we should have joined them. Bite the Kraken; endure it for a night or two.”

Surrounded by the birds and winds, shame robbed the two veterans of their words. Focused on their tasks, the baggage was sorted and stacked neatly. Breg shoved Zaber’s chest into the hole and covered it up. He spread dry leaves and replanted some fern before grabbing his seax and cleaving a cross in the tree above. When Zaber and his ward brought it over with the rest of their junk, the three old friends had a quick conversation. Unbeknownst to Torm. What to do if something went wrong and how to handle Airich’s inheritance if they couldn’t bring it with them. There was only so much they could carry with just four folk before slowing down. It would hinder them in the heat of battle too.

“I’m back,” said Torm, looking back and forth between Zaber and the other two. “Who takes which?” He held up all four leashes.

“I’ll take the pinto.” Buron walked up and took over the reins, and an additional one. “And the dapple for cargo and Zaber when he’s recovered. He likes them light colored.” He gave both horses a nice rub over the muzzle before strapping bags and chests on them.

“Gimme the dark one,” grunted Breg and stashed away his blade. “We gotta bind Zaber to me after we land east.” He didn’t take the animal and instead knelt down to shoulder Zaber once more.

A flaxen chestnut with white feet was left over for Torm. He didn’t mind being last, the thought of how to even get on the horse was already troubling enough. It was chewing down on some low hanging leaves when Torm put his hand on its neck. He looked at Breg in sudden bewilderment. “Huh? East?”

“Yeh, change of plan,” said Breg.

“Wait, no–” Torm raised his hands and walked up on the pair of veterans. “We can’t, Ryck is waiting south.”

The scrawny one of them carried on without any reaction to the boy’s complaint, but Breg had already stood up instead of lifting Zaber from the ground. The giant looked down into Torm’s desperate face, standing tall, in full size. “Sucks to be him.”

When seeing his colossal companion act up, Buron jolted up and grabbed him by the arm. His hands were barely able to wrap around it. “Hoo,” he said. “Can you calm down?” His gaze wandered on and rested on Torm next. “You know ol’ knucklehead here, he’ll not rest for long. The blackhead isn’t free and chances are high they’re bringing him east; either this afternoon or in the morrow.”

“My friend is waiting, I promise I’ll–”

“We ain’t giving two fucks about your friend!” barked Breg. His head snapped forward and brought forth strands of his long hair. The unreasonably tall man took two fast steps, forcing Torm to retreat. He looked like a doll, ready to be thrown, in comparison. If it wasn’t for Buron’s gentle grip, all those muscles might have rolled over the boy.

“Calm down!” yelled Buron. “He’s as stressed as we are.” Hands raised, he walked up between the two, placing one on Breg’s chest to hold him back, staring at Torm. “Listen, if we go south we can’t get back on the river and have to ride around it. They’ll search everywhere for us. We have to go east now, get a head start for Zaber to get on his feet again.” Buron turned around and looked up, placing a second hand on Breg’s chest. “If the Yesilian is Zaber’s friend, he is our friend. Same goes for the boy,” he stressed to the enraged beast, whose eyes were twitching at the soft touch on his mailled chest… nodding in agreement

“Your friend ain’t in danger; that Sigur is,” said Breg in pain, turning away from Buron and Torm. “Not all promises can be kept.”

As he listened to these words, seeing this huge creature of a man barely holding it together, Torm couldn’t help it any longer. He moved closer to Buron, trying to follow Breg. His hands trembled in anger, about to grab him. “Then why the fuck didn’t you help?!”

Not the boy’s voice but a loud ‘smack’ lit up the forest around them and the birds fled in all directions. Buron had shifted around, on instinct, holding up an open hand that had left a red mark on Torm’s cheek. Not just Zaber’s face was distorted from torment.

“Pack up and get your arse on that horse,” ordered the scrawny veteran. When he walked away, his left knee acted up for a brief moment. “If you want to keep your promise, you can take one of the other boats. We’ll not need it anymore.”