2.1

Smoke pt.1

The pair stood in silence for a moment, Grimvald’s hand gripping nervously at the hilt of his sword.

“Tie up the horse,” he said, the old man’s voice no louder than the wind that had carried the smoke between the trees.

Harald hadn’t been able to smell the smoke, not at first. But he had noticed a thickness in the air, a terrible smog, that he hadn’t remembered being there before blacking out. It had become more difficult to breathe, much harder to catch even a shred of fresh air as he hopped from his horse into the wet ground below. His boots, which had almost dried completely in his lack of time on foot, quickly became sodden once more, as mud and water seeped through small holes that Harald had been unable to repair properly in his time away.

“Why don’t we just take another route?” Harald asked as he reached for the reins of his horse, the thin leather strips, weathered and worn, and brought his horse to the nearest tree.

“There is no other way,” Grimvald said, “this is the quickest route north. Any detour would take us first further south, then a much longer way around.”

“Would it not be safer—”

“Safer, yes. But we don’t have the provisions to last us a longer journey.”

“So we must meet whatever danger lies ahead of us here?” Harald said, hoping that Grimvald would change his mind.

“Yes, now come on!” Grimvald was already making movements down the hill, taking careful steps so as not to stumble and fall on upturned roots or ancient stones. He moved, Harald noted, like someone twenty years his junior; each movement was made with such free-flowing dexterity that no age was shown, no fading in ability. Ah, Harald thought, so the old man still had this left in him?

Harald tied his horse loosely around an outstretched, limb-like branch. This much, he thought, would keep the beast here for long enough, but would allow it to free itself with enough force should they not return any time soon. He followed the old man off the gravel road, tumbling much less deftly than his elder companion. Unlike the old man, he did stumble on multiple occasions, finding himself thrown to the dirt below enough times that one might think it was where the world intended him to go.

Slowly, they moved onward. Behind them, Harald’s horse had made initial huffs of protest against their absence, but eventually those had quietened and fell silent, leaving the pair alone against the wilderness and what lay below.

The stench of smoke only grew as they descended. The smog became thicker and darker, consuming the air entirely. Harald had to keep himself from coughing, burying his face in the crook of his arm. He would let neither himself nor Grimvald down by being the one to give away their location. Who knew what evil-doers they were headed for, and who might be listening out for them?

By this point, Grimvald had grown too impatient to keep his sword sheathed, and it now gleamed proudly, sharp end pointed toward the ground. The blade showed lingering stains of darkish red, smudged from where the old man had attempted to scrub the thing clean.

Now, Harald thought, the man seemed entirely different than the one he knew. Broad, cloaked shoulders, hair, which from Harald’s height still looked as though it covered his head entirely, and a warrior’s stance: it was as if he purposely mimicked the stories told of him in the halls of Nyrback.

Finally, as the hill gradually became less steep and eventually flattened, Grimvald brought his arm up, signalling Harald to stop. The man’s cloak slipped off it, revealing his armoured wrist and blotched hand which gripped tightly to his sword, veins popping out like rivers carrying blood down his mountainous limb. “Up ahead,” he said, pointing forward.

Harald took a few steps to one side so that his view wasn’t obstructed by the hunk of a man. Emerging slowly from behind the old man’s silhouette, perhaps only a skilled stones-throw ahead, bursting balls of flame sent light flying between the tall trees.

He continued stepping so that the rows of trees seemed almost to align perfectly at either side of his vision, creating an opening between themselves for him to see through. Grimvald, who had crept silently behind him, grabbed at the back of Harald’s cloak. It tightened around his neck, choking him. Grimvald dragged him back behind one of the trees before letting loose his grip.

“Don’t move any further,” the order came, “not if you wish for us to stay hidden.”

Harald nodded. “What is it?” No, that question was wrong. “Who is it?”

“I don’t know,” Grimvald said, “bandits, maybe. It could just be travellers, for all we know.”

“And how many normal travellers have we seen on our journey so far?” Harald asked smugly. “Who but us would find themselves in the middle of the forest when winter has only just begun to settle into spring?”

Grimvald fumbled with the hairs of his beard, stumped. Harald had stumped the wise old man! A minor accomplishment as he quickly remembered their situation.

From behind the tree, they had difficulty working out who accompanied the fire. Harald could make out four or five huddles of brown and black cloth, gathered closely. Little could be seen of their appearance but that they were thin, their shoulders no more than half the span of Grimvald’s. Children, then; or impossibly thin adults. They couldn’t tell from where they were. The fire did little to help either; its snaps and crackles conveniently covered any muffled talking – if there had been any in the first place.

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“Do we get closer?” Harald asked. They were minutes from the gravel road, minutes from the quick escape of his horse. Whatever lay ahead, they needed to deal with it now, while they had the benefit of surprise, or return quickly while it was still safe to do so.

“Careful,” Grimvald said, gaze focused entirely on the makeshift camp before them, “it is unlikely to be anyone we know. More likely, it is those who ambushed us in the first place! Who else would burn such a confident fire?”

The old man was right. Who would be stupid enough to set such a beacon in the otherwise pitch-black forest, unless they thought they wouldn’t be attacked, or had the power to defend themselves if they had been? But, Harald thought, they did not look like the one that he had seen. Sure, they were similarly thin, but they were not nearly as lanky.

“You might be right,” Harald responded, “but how are we to know if we won’t get any closer than this?” Harald’s stomach grumbled, and he fell silent, worrying that it might have been too loud. It wasn’t. The cloaked group showed no signs of alert. “And what if it is someone that we know? What if we might be able to help?”

Grimvald shook his head but started forward. “Not too close.”

They moved so close behind the group now that, should the fire huddlers turn to face them, they would be caught as if in broad daylight – such was the intensity of the spotlight fire.

They were silent; even more so than they had been during their awkward journey downhill. For a moment, Harald thought he might even have to stop his breathing. Grimvald, scarily, managed to make silent the movement of his feet and the clinking of his armour. He moved as an assassin might move, like a cloud of darkness that disappeared in and out of the smoke and fog. That was a skill which he would ask the old man to teach him should they make it home safely.

Behind a hedge of brambles and bushes at the camp’s outskirts, they found themselves a ditch to crouch in. It was barely deep enough to contain Grimvald’s huge figure, and his head poked like a rabbit’s might, watching.

They watched the camp dwellers for what seemed an eternity. From the ditch, the figures had been made more obvious. To their delight, they were not in fact creatures, but men. That, or the creatures really had shrunk in the last passing of the sun.

The figures chattered obnoxiously – as if they feared not the forest, nor anyone who might inhabit it. They made no effort to conceal themselves; perhaps Grimvald was right, and they were strong.

One stood up from the fallen log on which they all sat, walked to the fire, and poked it with a long, knobbly stick. This sent sparks erupting from the ashes, and bright orange flickers rose into the night sky like flying lanterns. Once satisfied with his prodding, the figure turned back with such sudden movement that Harald was forced to duck quickly into the ditch, catching his knee on a protruding stick. He span, lying with his back against the wall of dirt. He hadn’t been seen, had he? He was sure their eyes had met!

Grimvald being Grimvald, he had pulled himself into the ditch before he could be seen. His face showed evidence of anger with Harald, but in their need for silence, he let none slip. The pair sat wearily in the moist dirt, the stuff oozing into their cloaks, matting the fur.

It seemed that the camp had fallen silent, too. No more was the tavern-like babble that had erupted in the moments prior.

“What was that?” A soft voice said.

“What was what?” Another asked.

“I saw something. I’m sure I did!”

Harald’s stomach twisted. His heart skipped multiple beats.

Squelching steps ensued, sloshing through the melted snow toward them. Harald panicked, gripping at the hilt of his sword, teeth chattering – a mix of fear and bone-shattering cold. Beside him, Grimvald already had his sword between the palms of both hands, pointed upward, ready to pounce.

The footsteps got closer, and closer, and closer, until eventually they could have been no further than ten steps away. At that point, they stopped, crunching a final print in the snow.

Through the brambles, Harald could make out no more than he had been able to from afar. The figure’s cloak covered its face with a shroud of darkness. Harald traced from its head downwards, where the cloak opened up to reveal a lightly armoured body. At its waist, a rough, partially decorated sheath hung. A blade! These were no normal travellers.

A drop of sweat dripped from Harald’s hairline, caressing his brow, slipping effortlessly across his thinned cheek and finally falling from his jaw. He watched it as it fell. It must have taken an eternity, or at least that was what it felt like. The thing moved in slow motion, and he even managed to make out the shimmering orange light of the fire as it reflected off the droplet.

In the corner of his eye, Harald noticed, Grimvald had begun to move. As one thing fell, the other rose from the depths of the ditch like a wild beast. The old man made one quick motion, throwing himself in the direction of the soft-spoken one. He caught the figure with an unorthodox bicep across the back of the head, wrapping his arm around and knocking them to the floor. Grimvald fell with them, landing atop the figure with all his weight, pinning them down.

The figure squirmed. Flailing about and squealing like a pig sent to slaughter, the cloaked figure tried to escape the grasp of his captor, sending weak punches Grimvald’s way. Few made any real contact, though one caught him across the face, and he pinned one of the arms back in retaliation.

The squealing made the others of the camp aware, and they had turned around now. However, none stepped further, instead stuck completely still where they had stood. Harald thought he was out of his mind as, for a split second, he was sure that he had seen one of them smiling from his position in the ditch. That could not be right, though. What reason would they have to smile as their companion was attacked?

Then, one finally took a step forward, beginning to remove their hood. They were going to gang up on the old man! Harald reached for an upturned root, pulling himself from the ditch with lacklustre speed. His leg, damaged by the earlier dive, stung where the fabric of his bottoms caught the gash. By the time he was out, Harald could see that the second cloaked one had taken a few more steps toward the scuffle. He would have to speed up.

“Sir Grimvald?” The second one said as his hood finally fell from his dome. Black hair fell simultaneously, falling in locks that sat at shoulder-length. Green, tired eyes sat centrally on an all too innocent face.

Grimvald stopped his battery for a moment, though still pinning his target down with enough strength. He stared at the second figure for a moment as if caught in some terrible act and unable to get his words out. “Marlin?”

The figure pinned to the ground stopped its squirming, cloak falling lifeless as a rug in the wet snow. “Sir Grimvald?” a muffled voice managed from beneath the old man’s weight.

All parties seemed entirely confused. As the smoke dispersed for a second, faces became more easily seen, and Harald’s heart turned from stressful beating to that of joy.