Baltine, Eganene
Jasper’s cairn at his back, Carl stalked across the field, past evergreens that grew in clumps and dotted the rising hillside. A few boulders pushed up from the hard ground, the river stones hidden beneath the snow.
Whatever the truth of the man’s story, Carl was familiar with the caves in the area. He knew where he was headed.
Not far from here was a fast moving river, its waters dropping from a high cliff. Rapids churned the pool below it, frothing the water into a dangerous crossing.
Carl moved into the forest and set a steady pace, his eyes scanning back and forth through the trees. The sky was as grey as the dirty snow.
Before leaving Baltine, he’d taken the time to strip Jasper and Tran of their belongings. The two men had little money between them. He’d taken Jasper’s knife and would give it to Austin the next time he saw him. Orlenia would be the right place for that steel.
Tran’s sword was an unfamiliar weight against Carl’s thigh, the scabbard sliding against his leg. It felt wrong. His own sword he wore over his shoulder, beside his pack and bow.
The night had been a long one. He was tired and sore, and dawn was already breaking over the mountains in the east. He wasn’t sure why he was hurrying. The group Jasper and Tran attacked were already dead.
Faenella was probably the direction he should have headed. The information he had was important, and if any of it was true, the Resistance needed to know, as would Jamison. He was sure the Bounty Master would have a few choice things to say about the whole situation.
But Carl couldn’t leave. These were his woods. If someone was still alive, injured, or dying, it was his responsibility to check. There was no one else. No one that cared, anyway. He swallowed his last piece of jerky and walked faster. He slipped the bow off his shoulder and an arrow from his quiver. The trail was covered with animal markings.
It didn’t take long. Mating season had just started, and there were rabbit tracks everywhere. He followed the prints off the path and flushed a nest. The animals dashed across the forest floor, their brown fur easy to see against the white snow. Crouching, he drew back the string in one motion, selected a target, guessed its next move. He pulled another arrow before the first one hit, but it was unnecessary.
He went to fetch his kill, gutted and skinned the meat. Afterward, he tied its legs together with twine and laced it through his belt loop. Once he investigated the camp, he would eat.
He considered what to do about Jasper’s information. His own ties to the Resistance were tenuous. Only a few men he knew had taken up swords. He was sure there were more in the villages, there had to be, but he didn’t know them. The Family was everywhere and people were scared. They had lives and loved ones. Folks kept things secret if they were smart.
With the number of Family operating in these mountains, Carl had to wonder what it was like down south. The Family’s center of power was in Orlenia, far, far down the mountain range and west to the sea. He’d never been there himself. It was months away on foot, but stories spread.
Built on a salty marsh and surrounded by coastal plains, the stone buildings of the city lay hard by a wide, silt-filled river. The people of Orlenia had suffered badly during the wars and even worse in the years that followed. Thousands died in the fighting. Everyone lost someone, a child, a loved one, a parent. The war had been bad, but the Purge had killed more.
Carl understood the people’s loss. They were afraid, worried that what remained would be taken from them.
But they needed to fight! If they were going to have a chance at a real life, they needed to risk everything.
The Family were monsters. They took what they wanted and killed anyone who opposed them. They stole young men and women, some hardly more than children. If the boys returned, they were Family men. The girls never came back. The recruits who fled the organization ended up thieves and murders, prowling the woods stealing from the weak.
Jasper and Tran must have been newly drafted. Carl couldn’t help but wonder what had been done to them to make them such monstrous men.
It was almost midday when he reached the campsite. The wind came from the north, crisp pine mingling with smoke and iron. Fingering his canteen and licking his lips, he tasted the air and spat. The whole place smelled of blood.
Beyond the clearing was a waterfall whose foam threw a fine mist over the carnage. The dead littered the forest floor beside an overturned, wooden carriage.
Carl counted the bodies. The rush and thunder of the water eclipsed the normal forests sounds. He was alone.
Kneeling down beside the pool beneath the falls, he stripped off his gloves, filled his hands with the water and drank. He splashed the rest on his face. It trickled from his beard while he paused, readying himself for what must be done.
Anger burned through him, and he wished he could kill Jasper and Tran again. They deserved worse than he’d given them.
He cursed whichever gods had abandoned these people, sure that they’d called out for rescue.
He shook his head, the gods answered only to themselves. He’d called to them too once, begging for mercy for his family. They hadn’t answered him either.
There wasn’t any point waiting, he’d do what needed to be done.
Three bodies lay near the smoking ruin of the carriage. Two of the men had been struck from behind, the blood pooling around their backs and necks. The last man had multiple cuts to his midsection. He was the oldest, his hair as white as the snow that caked it. A trail of red marked his last moments. Carl wondered if the first two corpses had been his sons.
First, he searched their bodies. There was no money and he hadn’t expected any. Jasper and his friend would have taken any valuables. Instead, he was looking for papers.
Part of his responsibility was to inform the deceased’s relatives. He hated it, saying the sad words, watching the bereaved faces crumble. Sometimes, there was no one to tell, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to wish for that.
The scattered pots and pans reminded him of home. A chill wind swept by, sending a few hand-sewn napkins fluttering into his boots. Some woman had spent her money on a fine needle to do that work, and her precious free hours sewing the tiny flowers. He took the napkins from the air, sorry to see such beautiful things ruined.
One by one, Carl pulled the bodies to the carriage. There was no way he could bury them in this ground. The forest floor was frozen and he was exhausted. The carriage was made of aged wood, however, and while some of it had burned, the rest would make for good tinder.
He searched out the rest of the corpses while avoiding their faces. Carl followed the footprints, his imagination supplying the details. After the woman and children bolted, they’d been cut down from behind. A few of the men must have tried to protect them, but there was nothing left of that battle. Severed limbs and gore splattered the line of brush, the pulpy remains a new and horrible discovery.
What could have done such damage?
Some kind of large round ammunition? Carl had never seen anything like it.
He hoped the Family didn’t have a new weapon. They’d employed the same tactics for years-- hunting down those with majic, leaving the murdered victims for the villagers to collect and bury. Carl had seen it too many times.
But, at least those men and women had died by the sword. This was something else entirely.
He’d tell Charlie and Jamison about it. The Resistance would need to know.
Carl wasn’t party to their plans, but if this weapon was used in Orlenia, it could change everything. He turned his back on the massacre, returning to the dead women.
Poor souls, he thought, drawing his hand gently down over their faces, trying to shut their dead eyes. The lids refused to be closed, their filmy surfaces staring at him in accusation. He’d known it wouldn’t work, but he couldn’t help but try.
He made a last pass through the forest, checking for missed bodies and filling his arms with dry wood. He dumped his pile and used his sword to hack the carriage, building the smoking embers into a decent fire. Done with the kindling, he went back for more.
Again and again, he returned with his arms loaded, feeding the flames higher and higher, his thoughts returning to the beacon he’d built on the ship’s deck. He worked until the flames were burning brightly and the force of the heat prevented him from getting close.
Keeping his hood over his face and his shirt over his mouth and nose, he pulled the bodies into the flames. Animals would take care of the mess. It was hard to hurry, but he tried, the familiar, pleasant scent of burning wood turning foul in his nose.
When it was done, he left without looking back. He had no words to say for these dead either.
Once he was far enough and the wind was trapped behind a good-sized mountain, he let himself rest. He sat on the ground while his weary arms tingled with exhaustion. He wanted to build a fire. It would have kept him warm, but he didn’t have the energy. And he didn’t want to think about the pyre.
He shoved his pack and bow beside the tree and using the former as a pillow, lay down to sleep. His sword he left unsheathed across his thighs. The ground smelled clean, and he took a deep breath, appreciating the scent of dirt, snow and pine. He closed his eyes and seconds later was out.
The forest’s sudden silence brought him to consciousness. Dirty and coatless, the girl followed the path he had come, her small feet, wrapped in hide, crunching the snow and leaves.
Carl opened his eyes a fraction and lay watching her. She was young, maybe five or six and her skin was the color of oak bark. She had wild hair, the curls decorated with leaves, pine and sticks. He must have missed her when he searched the camp. He hadn’t been looking for the living.
Carl waited patiently as she approached, not wanting to startle her. She was likely traumatized and he didn’t want to chase her down. The child must think he was safe to approach, however, or she wouldn’t have followed him this far. She could have stayed away and followed him back to town.
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Had she seen him burn the bodies? Carl felt a moment’s regret that he hadn’t treated them with more care. He could have said some kind words, but then again, he’d done them a service, sending them back to their gods as fast as the wind could take them. Death was never pretty, but at least the fire made short work of the remains.
The child shuffled forward with wide eyes and Carl could stand it no more. He sniffed loudly, and she froze, looking like she wanted to run-- a rabbit, catching sight of the fox. He let his sword slide from his fingers and yawned dramatically, raising his arms above his head.
“Hello,” he said, softly.
She stood silent, her eyes on his face.
He sat up slowly and let his hands fall back to the ground, away from his sword. “Hello, girl. I won’t hurt you. What’s your name?”
She said nothing, but she didn’t run.
“I’m Carl,” he offered. "Are you from the carriage, back there? Are you hurt?”
The girl wrapped her arms around her body, her teeth chattering.
He tugged off his gloves and undid the buttons on his jacket, pulling it off his broad back and offering it to her. “Here, come sit. Take my jacket. Come on, now, girl. I won’t hurt you.”
Still, she didn’t move, but Carl saw her eyes focus on his coat. “All right,” he tried, again. “I know you’re cold, I know. I’m going to get some wood for a fire. We’re both cold. You take my coat and wait. Once I get a fire going, we can have something to eat. How does that sound?”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t run when he stood and draped his jacket over his pack. He left his sword and bow and turned his back on the child. Sometimes, at least with wounded animals, it was best to give them some space, a chance to calm down and realize that you meant them no harm.
He took his time, gathering the driest of the wood in the area, feeling as though he had done nothing but make fires for the past twenty-four hours. Since he wasn’t worried about the girl stealing his things, it would be good to give her some time to settle. If she had a mind to run off, he’d track her, but his guess was she’d be there when he got back. She knew she needed food and shelter.
Returning, he found her huddled under his jacket. It was easily twice her size, enfolding her so that only her eyes and the top of her head were visible. She watched him carefully as he approached.
“There now,” he said, arranging the wood in front of her. “That coat’s nice and warm, isn’t it? That’s got to feel better.” He noticed that she’d been through his pack. The notes and papers he’d taken off the bodies were arranged in a pile beside her. “Can you read?”
She shook her head gently.
Progress.
He dumped a bit of liquid from his canteen on the flames and took the last pull, his head thrown back. He hadn’t expected to be gone so long or he would have come better prepared. Carl struck the flint a few times and fire blossomed from the tinder. “I took those papers from the people you were with so I can find their kin. I need to let them know what happened.”
The girl nodded, her eyes on the flames.
“Where are you from, girl?”
Nothing.
“Have you been traveling long?”
Nothing, but she was looking at him.
“Come on, kid. Have you been in these woods long? Are you from up north? Do you have snow? Is it warmer where you’re from?”
A little wrinkle appeared between her eyes, and for some reason that little crease bothered him. “I want to help, but you’ve got to tell me what town you’re from. Otherwise, I won’t be able to find any of your kin.”
She broke eye contact and snuggled deeper into his parka.
“You can pull the hood up, you know,” he offered, gesturing to his coat. “It helps keep the wind off your face.”
Her tiny hands appeared, pulling the hood over her head and then disappearing back inside his pockets. He wondered if he should ask about her parents, but decided against it. If the kid had anywhere else to be, she’d be there.
He left her again and broke some green sticks off of a nearby tree. Using the knife at his side, he shaved the wood into a spit and broke two more Y-shaped branches from the tree.
The child watched him, her eyes on his knife.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured her again. “We’re going to have something to eat.” Using one of the sticks and his knife, he dug two, narrow, deep holes on either side of the fire. Shoving one of the Y sticks into each hole, he spit the morning’s rabbit and hung it over the fire. Turning the meat, he regarded the girl.
He hadn’t any children of his own, nor did he have any cousins. Frankly, he didn’t know much about children at all, but she was cold and hungry and those things he could fix. The rest of it-- her family, what she must have seen, he couldn’t help with that, anyway. He shook his head. The sad fact was that no one could.
Where was the kid supposed to go? What if that had been her entire family in that carriage? Who was going to feed her? It was wintertime and people had troubled feeding their own. Who was going to take another?
Juice dipped from the meat, sizzling as it hit the flames. It wasn’t a large meal, even for him, but he didn’t mind sharing. It would be easy enough to catch something later. When the meat was cooked, he set it in the snow to cool. The girl watched the food, not meeting his eyes.
If Jasper had taken their camp at dinnertime, she probably hadn’t eaten in more than a day. He tore off a leg and handed it to her. Her hands were small, her nails like miniature clamshells, pearly pink and white. Pulling strips of meat, Carl popped them into his mouth. The girl ate in silence and he followed suit. Why try for conversation if she didn’t want to talk? He shivered and handed her the other leg.
Maybe Jamison would know what to do with her.
Sadly, the living had never been a problem before. He glanced at the girl, feeling guilty. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t know what to do. Still, he didn’t think they would make it back to Faenella today. Maybe if he carried her, but that wasn’t likely. He was larger than most men, but hauling wood for days took its toll on anyone. It was better to wait until morning.
Sniffing the air, he wondered about snow. The sky looked ominous enough, a solid wall the color of wet ash, but he didn’t think it would storm. Perhaps tomorrow if the winds were right. “I’ll go and fetch us something else to eat and some more wood,” he said. “I’ll be back in a bit. Will you watch my things?”
She nodded, her expression serious.
It took him about twenty minutes, but he found rabbit tracks. He startled the nest and took three quick shots, missed the last, but felled two. Once he had retrieved his arrows, gutted and skinned the meat, he found some dry wood. When he got back, the child was curled up in his coat beside the fire, asleep.
He arranged the logs and pulled a blanket from his pack, wrapping it about his shoulders. He spit one of the rabbits and started cooking. His hands shook and he frowned. Damn canteen. He needed food.
When the meat was done, the girl was still sleeping. He ate the whole thing, even cracking the bones to suck out the marrow. He spit the second rabbit and had it ready when she woke.
“Mama?” the child whispered, opening her eyes into the dusky darkness.
Carl shook his head, “No, girl, your mother’s not here, but I have dinner for you.”
She sat up, peeking over the collar of his jacket.
“It’s all right now,” he tried again. “You’ve been sleeping, that’s all. You’re safe here.”
She shuddered, “Those men?”
“Gone, you needn’t worry about them anymore.”
She watched him silently. He didn’t blame her if she didn’t believe him.
“Truly, they’re gone,” he explained. “I met them far from here, that’s how I knew how to find your carriage.” He wondered if he should tell her that they were dead, but he wasn’t sure what she would think. Would she be relieved or would he terrify her?
Carl handed her a rabbit leg and she took it, pulling the meat from the bone in tiny, feminine motions. He smiled. “It’s good, isn’t it? We were both very hungry.”
She nodded and he handed her more.
“Are you from near here?” he asked, unbraiding his hair. The child watched him in fascination, and he recalled that the men from the carriage had worn their hair cropped close to their heads. Carl thought it was a strange custom. Their heads must get very cold.
His own hair was long, falling passed his shoulders. He pulled his fingers through it, removing the leaves and twigs, then deftly rebraided it. “You’ve got quite a bit in your hair, too. You want me to help you?”
She shook her head, her little body recoiling.
What was he thinking? Of course the kid didn’t want him to touch her, same as a wounded animal wouldn’t want anyone holding it. “All right,” he soothed, “I’ll not help you, then.”
Her eyes were on the last of the rabbit, so he handed it to her.
“You do need to tell me where you’re from, though. I’ve some things to give back to your family.”
She shook her head, her tight curls bobbing,
“Do you want to see? We can go through my pack together if you want, look for anything we should return to your kin?”
Nothing.
“Come on, girl,” he urged, “you need to tell me something.”
“Dead,” she whispered.
Pain spiked through Carl’s chest. “I know. But your village, where your home is, you have family there, uncles, aunts, grandparents, maybe?”
The child seemed to withdraw further into the coat. “Dead.”
He had hoped...well, it didn’t matter. Maybe her family had friends that would take her in. “I have things from your carriage that I need to give back.”
The girl’s hand darted to her pockets.
“Maybe you already found them in my pack?”
She pulled out the napkins he had taken. They looked enormous in her hands.
“Yes, and a few other things. Did your mother make those?”
She nodded.
He was on dangerous ground now, but he needed to find out where to take her, “They’re beautiful. Who taught her how to sew?”
“Grandmother.”
“Of course, she must be very talented. I’d like to meet her, if I could. I can take you there, bring you to your Grandmother, I just need to know where she lives.”
The child shook her head again.
“Please, girl,” Carl breathed. “I can’t help you if I don’t know where to go. There’s got to be someone you want me to bring you to.”
Disappearing completely into his jacket, the kid began to weep, her tiny sobs muffled by the crackling of the fire.
He hadn’t meant to make her cry. Without knowing where she was from, he wouldn’t know what to do with her. If only he knew more about children!
He left to gather more wood, making several trips so that he would not need to search in the dark. Maybe there was a mother back in the village who could coax her into speaking. When he returned for the last time, the kid was curled up, asleep once more. He laid his blanket on the ground, as close to the flames as he dared, and looked longingly at his canteen. He knew it was empty.
He hoped he would be able to fall asleep quickly, his headache had been growing for the past hour and his hands were shaking. Perhaps it might have been better if he’d tried for Faenella. They might have made it. He’d made the right call, but it was hard not to think about the Inn and a nice brew. There was a small stream nearby, but that wouldn’t quench this thirst.
Sighing, he lay down and closed his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d needed to go without a drink and it wouldn’t be the last. He was tired enough that he’d probably be asleep soon anyway. The normal sounds of the forest reassured him that he was a decent distance from Baltine. As long as the animals and birds moved and made their calls, he was safe. As safe as he was going to be with a fire.
The light made them vulnerable. It was an easy thing to use a fire to track people. He’d done it enough times himself. Swallowing his anxiety, he listened. He’d spent a thousand nights in these woods and he knew he’d wake the moment the sounds changed. Soft wind, the scraping sound of a vole, the high chattering of a squirrel defending its hoard, there was nothing to fear. Maybe it was his headache that was so unsettling.
He must have fallen asleep at some point though and he woke confused. The first thing he noticed was that their fire had burned low, the embers red in the darkness. His pack and bow were where he’d left them. He looked for the girl, but she wasn’t lying on the other side of the flames. Quickly, he searched the darkness, his eyes changing the shadows into trees and rocks.
The child was behind him, her body hidden in his jacket. She’d been standing over him as he slept, her hands outstretched, her eyes closed. Startled, he pushed away from her.
“What are you doing?” His voice was harsh.
Her eyes blinked open, and she took a few steps away from him, dropping her arms.
“What were you doing?” he demanded.
The child retreated to the other side of the coals. She seemed surprised he was upset. “Pain,” she whispered, “you were speaking.”
Carl sighed. He must have been talking in his sleep. He usually slept alone, so he didn’t always know when he did it. It had happened before though, usually when he’d been too long from supplies. The girl was watching him carefully, and he made an effort to relax. “Sorry about that. I was asleep. What did I say?”
She studied the dying coals. Carl pulled a couple of logs from the side and tossed them on. What had he said to her? If it had been bad, wouldn’t she have run away instead of standing there with her eyes closed?
“What were you doing when I woke?”
A smile twitched the edge of her lips, transforming a wounded animal into a beautiful child. Carl felt himself smiling back.
“Helping.”
“Helping what?”
She seemed to be responding to his grin, leaning forward. Her head emerging from the coat, not unlike a turtle. “You were in pain.”
He nodded.
“I fixed it.”
“What?”
“No pain.”
Carl realized she was right. His headache was gone. The throbbing feeling that had been growing behind his eyes had disappeared. He pulled off his gloves and held his hands in the air. They were still. He felt wonderful, actually, his tired muscles at ease. His forehead furrowed. “What happened?”
The child grinned again. “I fixed it.”
“But how? Why?”
“You killed those men.” It was a statement. She knew.
He must have been dreaming about it, speaking aloud. He shook his head. She shouldn’t have had to hear more death, she’d seen enough of it to last a lifetime. “I’m sorry,” he offered. “I don’t always speak while I’m sleeping.”
“It is good they are dead. They will not hurt anyone if they are dead.”
Carl nodded, “Yes, you’re right.”
“You don’t seem like a bad man,” the child said.
What could he say to that? After adding more wood into the coals, he returned to his blanket, facing away from her, alone with his thoughts. He heard her lay back down and imagined her curling her legs into the body of his coat, making herself as small and warm as possible.