Chapter 17

Day Six – Dusk

Leading a second horse from the saddle of his own, Buron headed the group towards the shore. Followed by Breg, with Zaber leaning against his chest, the veterans set the pace. The youngest, Torm, was last and hadn’t said a single word since they moved. A small temple with adjacent buildings, the convent of St. Cathedora, was ignored by them. Only a few Stella Sororum, the Star Sisters, were left in the dwindling sisterhood of laity. Their priora, a proper Aurora, lived in Teblen and only visited her tenure on the usual holy days. To hold lectures and sing to her parish. Only one elderly sister cleared some weeds from the walls of her home. The temple was overshadowed by the dual monastery on Tun Isle, the residence of the Margrave.

“Greetings,” waved the woman cloaked in black, many stars dotted all over her robes. “Is your friend alright? Does he need help?”

“Thank you, dear sister,” replied Buron without looking at her. “He just fell from his horse. Not the first time.”

“He’s a klutz,” added Breg and patted Zaber’s on the chest.

Torm, the only one smiling at her, nodded gratefully. The older men, living in the wilds, knew that the sisters tended to their garden and scriptures all day. Rarely did they leave the convent. The two hamlets were responsible for their physical well-being and their spiritual well-being was cared for in return. Thus, Buron and Breg knew that nobody would look around the temple, close to Lake Teblen. This woman or any fishermen that might see them didn’t matter; it was too late to report them back to the city. Two very long river ferries, rented from Teblau and Stelitz, awaited them between the shrubbery. Exhausted, Torm struggled to lift the nine yards long boat. Seeing how Breg flipped the other one around without help made the boy gulp. He ceased his own attempt, as the second ferry wasn’t needed. When forced to choose between Zaber and even the slightest chance of saving Sagir, Ryck stood no chance. But deep inside him, Torm made a vow to return and make up for it.

They had planned for thrice the horses. Now there was way more space and additional oars got left behind. Buron and Breg took over the rowing after balancing everything out.

“You made the right choice,” said Buron and smiled at Torm. “Keep him company. We’ll row until dark.”

With a meek nod, the boy sat down and looked at the water and his mentor, back and forth. Still covered in gutter, the run-down veteran had finally calmed down. Never had Torm seen Zaber sleep for so long without interruption. But he hasn’t seen him hurt or sick like this either…

Buron was sweating soon after they steered the ferry across the lake, regularly taking a sip from his waterskin. His colossal companion, though, could have done it on his own if his arms were long enough to grab both paddles.

“Shh–” hissed the scrawny veteran and rubbed his left knee.

“Same as always?” asked Breg, concerned.

“The usual,” nodded Buron and shook his leg out. “Sun’s down soon. I can see the marshes, let’s land and make camp.” He pointed forward to a suitable part of solid soil between its boggy surroundings. Many alders and willows grew from the moist earth. Plenty cover and the bald man knew that there were no settlements near-by, nor was it a hunting area.

Even with whatever Buron had going with his knee, the veterans acted smoothly. They landed without a flaw and began to unpack. Torm didn’t spend much time with them since they arrived in Teblen. These two decided to stay outside and met with Asher and Zaber every couple of moons. After the mentor and his apprentice had settled in, Torm stopped accompanying them. But he remembered how inspiring they were when he first met Zaber. Especially in a moment like this. Of the quartet, Buron and Breg had to be most in shape, as they were living off escort jobs. Always complaining about merchants and other richfolk. Posted in the hamlets around Teblen, staying in inns when the winter became too severe. The boy found all four of them odd in their own way, but they were undoubtedly strong. And yet, Asher…

“Wake up,” said Buron while Breg grabbed Zaber. “Ferry can’t stay, it’ll give us away.”

After everyone got on the peat, the unreasonably tall man pushed the boat away into Lake Teblen and threw the oars away. Buron had already picked up his crossbow and gave his colossal companion the polearm. Seeing them handle all of this with such ease, the same thought that got Torm slapped previously intruded his mind again. He had to shake it off; what happened, happened. And if the other one slapped him, he could not simply turn his head.

“Psht.” Buron’s voice demanded a quiet attention. “Over there,” he whispered and pointed Breg’s gaze ahead in the dark.

“Hrmph,” grunted Breg and lowered his stance, as did the bald one. “Boars or bears?”

The scrawny veteran’s nose twitched and he closed his eyes to take a sniff. “Neither,” he said and moved further away, Breg following him closely. “Fire.” Almost forgetting, Buron turned around and looked at Torm. “We’ll scout ahead, you stay with sleepyhead.”

“No kissing before dark,” added Breg and his and Buron’s eyes met for a brief moment. A faint smile flared up before they moved on.

Not only did he feel like shit, Torm also felt mocked. Being alone with these two had been awful, on top of this day being the second worst day of his life. He was furious, again, but his last outburst made him learn the harsh lesson that they weren’t doing well either. This wasn’t fair. Looking at Zaber, he pressed his lips against each other and closed his eyes so hard that they teared up. Falling to his knees, he hugged his mentor angrily.

“Wake up, please,” uttered the boy.

“–my onl–” replied Zaber, as if he was about to cry too. Senseless, without any tears. “–frien–”

“Man, fuck you,” laughed Torm when he heard the drivel.

The sky was clear and the stars shone down on them. This was the first time in four years that Torm has seen them as beautiful as they were. A reminder that the Bear was ruling them from above. Strength, calm, vigilance, affection and restoration, but also wrath. It’s not like they could have chosen, but maybe this wasn’t the best Constellation for their undertaking. Breg was birthed under Bear, his namegiving coming up soon. And it was only in the middle, the thirteenth. Just a couple of days ago, Torm was still making plans for his eighteenth and now he had betrayed Kell and left everyone behind he knew or liked. But looking at Zaber, again, even with Breg being such a jerk… this was the right choice.

Time flew by before Buron and Breg reappeared out of nowhere and startled Torm. Regardless of the heavy armor, and his size, this beast of a man was impossible to see if one wasn’t looking out for him.

“Tracks aren’t human, but on two legs,” whispered Buron and checked on Zaber.

“A bear after all?” Torm got up on his feet and imitated the crouched former mercenaries.

The scrawny man walked towards the horses and took all four reins. “Possible,” he said. “Fire’s a little hut with two women inside; so a man has to be somewhere around.”

“We gotta move quick; leave the horses and baggage behind,” said Breg and placed the bardiche next to the rest of their belongings. He drew his seax instead and looked demanding at Torm’s blade.

“Wha–” Torm halted and gulped once more. “What are we going to do to them?”

“Get good shelter and food.” The unreasonably tall man’s grizzled voice didn’t sound pleasant.

Torm recognized the darkness in Breg’s face. “Are they armed?”

“Unknown,” said Buron and cocked his crossbow with a goat’s foot. “You’ll detain them, I’ll keep them in check. Breg takes Zaber; to show him to them and then you have to explain we’re not here to hurt anyone.”

“Why me?” Overwhelmed, Torm drew the lange messer, unsure about what he was actually doing here. “I–”

“He’s strong and I’ve got this three-hundred-pounder here.” The scrawny veteran put away his reloading tool and didn’t take any more bolts with him. He smiled and winked at the boy afterwards. “Also: You look and sound the nicest.”

“You gotta make sure that we don’t wanna hurt them, but we could,” added Breg.

“So we’re going to raid their home?” Torm ran his hand through his grimed up hair. “Out of nowhere?”

In unison, Breg and Buron replied, “Yes,” and nodded. “Don’t worry, we got this,” said Buron after a pause and the two veterans prepared to move out.

“Fellas!” hissed Torm, trying to hold them back. “I don’t think Zaber would agree with this. By the Stars, can we slow down and–”

Both men stopped and turned around. Buron gasped and Breg built himself up once more. “Listen, boy,” he said. “You’ve got no idea what he’s capable of…”

“… and willing to do,” finished Buron and waved to get going. “Now man up and do as ordered.”

“–st… p bleed–n…” murmured Zaber, desperate.

Fixated on Zaber, Torm sighed. “Fine,” he replied, but didn’t look up. “Man, I wish I knew what’s going on with you.”

“You wouldn’t get it,” said Breg and knelt back down to pick his old friend up. “And you don’t wanna.”

When everyone was ready to go, Buron placed a hand on Torm’s shoulder. He stared at him and pushed a rope into the boy’s hands. “He would do nothing less for me,” he said. “Or handsome over here, or Ash.” Not waiting for a reaction from the gloomy boy, he turned around and ended with, “Or you.”

“It’s just–” Torm thought about what got them into this mess. Him not finishing off that mage, while Zaber murdered those patricians without doubt. How they were already going for Sagir, to keep his word to Ceyhan and Hanifa. “Yes, he would,” uttered the boy. “But only to bad folk–”

“Living alone in the wilds means you’re hiding something,” said Breg, spiteful, and stepped away. “We gotta see how innocent they are.”

…

A melody made of two beautiful voices came to an end, cooking supper together. The song still resonated with their surroundings and in the younger one’s head. She was still humming while dipping a wooden spoon into broth. In her mid-twenties, she wore her otherwise rugged brown hair tamed with a bone barrette. The other woman, twice her age, wore her hair in one long braid, bound with flowers. Their kirtles had no sleeves, patched together from animal hides, made from flax. With only light undergarments peeking out, their shoulders and arms lay open, held up only by thin straps. The nights hadn’t reached the warmth of the day yet, but their little home was unusually warm. The pair was well-fed, plump and healthy. The spitting image of each other, if it weren’t for the older one’s age showing in her hair and around her eyes and mouth. And a gaping scar along her neck, with old burns painting her entire hands red, up to her elbows.

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“Fawn,” said the older woman and spit out a trout’s bone. The strong smell of chowder filled the hut. “Have you finished ‘Ohra and the Old Croaker’?” Her lowered voice was pleasant and filled with warmth.

“No, mother,” replied the younger woman, joyful. “I caught a mouse in the flour and gave her a stern speech,” she smiled, her voice playfully rising and falling between octaves. “Until she peed on my hand and I had to wash it off.”

“Hurry!” The mother laughed in-between spoonfuls of soup. “I love the ending, the Old Croaker has the most amazing transformation.” She clapped twice, unable to contain her excitement.

“Mother! No spoilers,” replied the daughter and spilled some on her lap.

Their modest home consisted of one large, round room. Built from sticks and stones, mortared and hammered together with moss and greenery. Above an open hearth hung a cast iron pot, left and right were sleeping alcoves, separated from each other. A makeshift wooden table and sitting stumps with felt cushioning were next to a window. The remains of rodents, deer, fish and birds were scattered all around them. Some had been carved into art and jewelry that both women were wearing. Some had become part of the furniture and decor. The floor and walls were plastered with pelts and fur and feathers. But most remarkable were the dozens of leather bound books that lay around. Peppered between clay pots of all sizes and small glass containers.

In contrast to the messy interior, the outside was nearly idyllic. Raised beds for herbs, flowers, onions and leek, incorporated into the stone walls, right under the wooden windows. A chopping block for the stacks of firewood, under a canopy. And nesting boxes hung around the roof and nearby trees. Neither of the women had the working strength of a peasant, but a life under these conditions was harsh enough. It was their home, made and maintained by them. They'd never expect what was waiting for them outside…

Veiled in darkness, no tingling of maille gave the approaching rouges away. Buron raised his fist as a sign to hold, but Torm did not notice it. Gone were the many lessons that Zaber drilled into him over the past few days. He had to be held back from walking further, much to Breg’s annoyance. They hid behind scrubs, close enough to be in charging range. The scrawny veteran pointed at the door and mimicked a kick at the youngest among them. Crossbow raised, a couple more signs followed that tried to picture their entrance.

Torm and Buron moved first. The unreasonably tall man was the only one not rushing, as he was carrying Zaber. There was no knob, only a loose latch to keep away animals. It broke easily and the door burst open. The two smaller men swarmed in, while Breg stayed outside. This door was not made for a man of his size, especially with another man over his shoulders.

Two surprised screams rang through the forest. The younger woman threw away her spoon and nearly fell from her seat, while her mother gave a deathly inhale and grabbed her chest. Torm held out the lange messer of his mentor and Buron raised his crossbow. With a looming giant in the background, only half his face and parts of Zaber’s body visible, chaos broke out.

“Hands up!” yelled the wiry bald man. “Do what we say and nobody gets hurt!”

The daughter did as told, but the mother held her spoon and knife firmly grabbed. Gaze resting on the weapons, her burned hands trembled.

“Please, misses,” said Torm and lowered his blade ever so slightly.

“Ar–” the young woman stumbled over her own words. “What are you, villains?” Her chest was quivering as she tried to reach as high as possible.

“Not what; who are you?” interjected the mother. Her initial surprise had already faded away. She slowly lowered the cutlery before also raising her hands, just as sluggish.

“Tie them up,” ordered Buron and also lowered his crossbow after pointing at the rope.

“Answer me,” ordered the mother back. “This is my home, at least tell me who you are.” Her voice was steady, more curious than fearful.

“Misses, I’m very sorry about this, but–” Torm walked in front of her and her daughter, holding up the rope with one hand. He reeked of dry sewage, his boots and legs were still wet. No matter how much he tried to fix it, his hair was still a mess and his face wasn’t doing much better. He thought about the hardened veterans behind him and how small and weak he must have looked to these women. Like a lowly goon, nothing but criminal scum. The opposite of what he aspired to be.

“I’m not a misses,” said the mother in her beautiful, lyric contralto and spread her fingers above her head. She clapped twice… to start a rhythm. “Hauzija miz, hauzija miz, hit is–”

Buron’s and Breg’s eyes widened, unable to react themselves, as Torm blocked the line of fire.

“Shut her up!” yelled Buron.

“Kill her!” yelled Breg.

“NOW!” they yelled in unison.

Overwhelmed, Torm’s eyes met those of the daughter. He was confused, but she was terrified. The bald man behind him bumped into the boy, trying to push him to the side. Torm recognized the melody too late and his frustration brimmed over, letting go of the rope and sword. He couldn’t do this again, he had enough of it…

“Shut up!” he screamed. “Everyone calm the fuck down!” He shifted in front of Buron, not budging to his attempt at forcing himself closer to the woman. His fists were clenched, but resisted to use them. “Listen to me!”

The mother hummed on, sung a few more words, but the hands of her daughter made her stop. She stared up at the boy and the bald man. Shifted back and forth between them and the giant in the back. Something inside the youngest eyes spoke to her.

“This man over there–” Torm turned around and pointed at Zaber. “He needs help. He is badly hurt and needs a place to stay, nothing more.” His shoulders hung low and so did his voice. Looking at Breg and Buron, pleading with them in silence, he confronted the women once more. “Please, he’s all I have.”

It was Buron who tossed aside the bolt of his crossbow first. Breg tried to do the same while holding Zaber like a yoke.

It took some thinking before the older woman replied. “Leave your weapon at the door,” she said. “We’ll hide you. Turn against us and I’ll raise my voice against you.” Mustering the men, she looked at her daughter last and nodded so they would lower their hands.

Buron uncocked the crossbow first, drawing attention towards himself with a ‘thwang’ and ‘clack’. “We don’t talk about you, you don’t talk about us. Promise,” he said and walked to the door to place his weapons next to it.

The boy collapsed onto his knees and clutched his chest. Emptying his lungs, his hazy blue eyes met the hazel eyes of the daughter. Seeing her terror give way for sympathy made him calm down, trying to fix his hair again.

“I–” Torm gasped and nodded at the women. “I’m Torm.”

“I am Thyra,” said the daughter. “You don’t look so good. Are you sure only he needs help?” She looked at Zaber, handled by Breg, and hesitantly came closer.

“And I am Tonna.” The mother stood up and met the unreasonably tall man at the door frame he barely fit through… with the package he brought. She took a look at Zaber, next to Buron. “You are way too young to be with these ruffians, Torm,” she said. “Put him over there, on the hides.”

Tonna found her composure unusually quick. She directed these veterans around the hut and checked on the unconscious man in a similar way Buron had. Her daughter though, Thyra, stared at their visitors. She was only a couple of years younger than the former mercenaries. The sight of a half-naked man and someone she could only describe as a giant, was plenty for the evening. They just wanted to have supper and talk stories…

“What is up with his face?” asked Thyra, peeking over her mother’s shoulder.

“Ghosts,” said Breg, stoically watching over his friend from the background.

Turning around with kind eyes, Tonna smiled at her daughter. “May you please make a fire for the tub, Fawn?” When her eyes wandered over to the intruders, her voice and face lost that kindness. “You stink. You have to bathe if you want to stay,” she said and ran her fingers through Zaber’s hair and smelled it. “Foremost, this one.”

Zaber hadn’t spoken in a while, but his teeth were grinding. Placed gently on a pile of hides and fur, his shoulder had turned blue.

“We got horses and baggage,” said Breg and turned around to leave. His bald companion followed after he saw how Tonna handled their friend. He only looked back once. “Lakeside, not far.”

“Horses?” Thyra’s eyes brightened while she was also leaving to prepare the baths. “Can I–” She halted, ignored by the men.

“Well, get them. I’ll take care of your friend,” replied Tonna, without looking back.

Reluctant to pass Buron and Breg, Thyra had fallen silent. She noticed how neither of them had looked her or her mother into the eyes. Only the tired boy had dared to do so. “Should I get water when the fire’s done?”

“No,” said Tonna. “After that show, they can work for our hospitality. Bring a couple more onions and some herbs though. Our guests have to eat as well.” Putting a hand on Torm’s shoulder, she smiled for him.

The young woman was invigorated by the word ‘guests’. A joyful whistle played through the marshes, dampened by a shutting door… as well as it was still able to.

Torm waddled over to Zaber, on his knees, and sat down cross-legged to watch Tonna. He tried to smile back but couldn't keep it up for long because of the shame he felt. Nothing he had done today filled him with pride and it robbed him of his senses. Or maybe he was too tired…

“Tell me, Torm–” The older woman inspected the broken veteran’s shoulder and every scar she found. She pulled open his waistband, taking a peek at his privates, and let it snap back without a change of expression. “What happened to make you ambush defenseless, weak women in the woods?”

“Sorry,” whimpered Torm. “I mean–… thanks?” He stumbled over his words, leaning back against the cobbled together walls of the small room. “I–, I’m not sure–”

“Spit it out, your friends know what me and Thyra are.” Her hand rested on Zaber’s forehead, feeling the warmth. “It’s only fair that I have something against you too.”

“What do you mean, they know–”

“Evil witches,” interrupted the woman. “We curse men in their sleep, spit poison and eat children.” She smiled at Zaber’s face distorting at the right moment. “Don’t try to distract. Tell me.”

The boy took some time to think about the day, get his story straight, and focus on what mattered. “We’re from Teblen, west of the lake,” said Torm and got a knowing nod from Tonna. “A friend of ours is going to jail in some mining camp. We tried to bust him out and failed. No, we’re on the run. But we’ll only stay until he–” The apprentice leaned forward and looked into his mentor’s face. “Until we can try again.”

Cleaning Zaber’s face with her fingers, Tonna pulled out the piece of bark from under his tongue. She casually wiped off the strings of spit on her skirt. Zaber looked angry afterwards. “Good that you put that there, he’s got quite the fever.” On the table that Tonna’s and Thyra’s chowder was waiting for them, the woman got two small glass vials, well sealed, without any label on it. One a reddish-brown tincture, the other a clear oil. “Your story does not explain why you two are covered in shit. And… did he jump down a house or the city walls?”

“Ooph–” Torm exhaled. “This is… complicated,” he said. “Buron–” He gesticulated around his head. “The bald fella gave him the bark. He’s kinda good with this stuff.” Another look at the weapons at the door followed, then back to their dinner table and then at the vials next to Zaber. “His name is Zaber. He came up with an escape route through the sewers. So when everything went down the shitter, I jumped down the shitter.” Thinking got hard and Torm needed to pause. “He got thrown around by–” He rubbed his eyes. “They call it a line magician. Like y–”

“I am not like that.” Tonna did not let the boy insult her. “A war chanter was guarding your friend? What–” She stopped. “You know what? I do not need to know the details. Your brother needs rest, so my daughter and I will sing him onto his feet. The moment he can walk, I’m kicking you out.”

Before Torm’s head could come up with an answer, the door opened and Thyra entered with a couple of onions and some thyme and a bucket of water. “He’s your brother?”

“What?” Torm shook his head. “No, he’s–” He inhaled as long as he exhaled before. “This day is way too long.”

Thyra wiped bark and ash off her patched together dress. “Sure, sit down and eat some of mine,” she said and smiled invitingly.

“No. Later. Maybe,” babbled Torm. “I’m like his student. Apprentice maybe? He’s teaching me–” He looked through the room. “Things. Do you have a privy? I think I’ve swallowed some gutter too, and–”

Thyra and Tonna looked at each other and suppressed laughter. “Around the house, there’s a spade right next to it,” said Thyra and made room for him to leave.

With a tired nod and a hand running over his own face, Torm got up and found a quiet space to collect himself before Buron and Breg came back. He left Zaber back with the women, hesitating for the length of a blink.

Picking up the spoon she flung across the room, Thyra sat down again and looked at her mother. How she tended to the stranger. “What are we going to do now?”

“They were about to kill us, Fawn,” said Tonna. “Don’t be nice to them; do not trust them. I know this is… hmmm.” She was very careful when speaking to her daughter, thinking and choosing her words wisely. “This is your first taste, but believe me when I tell you that everything about them screams bloody murder.”

“Even the boy?” Thyra’s voice pitched up, enjoying her food. “Maybe–”, she said between chewing. “Maybe they’re like The Hanging Forest Hoodlums, or the Brigands of the Breck.”

Tonna placed a wet piece of cloth from the bucket on Zaber’s forehead. “Nobody’s like that, Fawn,” she replied and smiled gloomy at Thyra. “But yes, the boy isn’t a threat.”

Seeing her mother like that, Thyra stood up and sat down next to her; still savoring the soup. The young woman held a spoon full in front of Tonna’s mouth, which she ate, and nestled up to her. “What’s he dreaming about?” She looked at Zaber’s worsening grimace.

“I don’t care,” muttered Tonna and embraced Thyra afterwards. “Ghosts, probably.”