By Ways Unseen Page 9

  Before five breaths could be drawn, the solitary camp was silent once more except the crackling of the fire and the hissing of juices dropping from the spitted meat. Haydren lowered his sword, the rush of energy still pumping through him as he surveyed the bandits who now lay lifeless.

  With a sigh, he pulled a rag from his pocket, wiping the blood from his sword. The rust flames were still charged, the same as when he had first held the weapon. The blade, once cleaned of blood, seemed in the firelight to flow within its edges like water.

  A second too late, Haydren heard the footsteps. White light exploded in his vision, and his head swam. Out of reflex alone he swept his sword backward as he fell, and felt a slight tug against the tip. He pitched against the ground, and knew no more.

  *

  Haydren’s eyes fluttered open, and he drew a breath. The fire before him had waned, and the meat was charred black on the bottom. There was only silence around him, except a light whisper as the wind washed through the grass. Painfully, he pushed himself up to his knees; his sword was still beside him, blood-stained at the tip. He rubbed his eyes, gingerly felt the knot on the back of his skull, and surveyed the camp. Five of the bandits he knew, he could remember how he had attacked them. Behind him, though, was a new corpse. The ground around the bandit’s legs was drenched in blood, though he had barely a mark on him save for a small slash on the inside of his thigh. The man was ghostly white, and his chest was still. Haydren moved over to him, holding a hand above his mouth to feel for breath: the man was dead.

  Haydren sat back on his heels, glancing between his sword and the dead bandit. Vaguely, he remembered feeling the blade hit something, but it had not felt like much – enough to make the cut on the man’s thigh, but enough to kill him because of it? He looked closer. Of course: the main artery of the man’s leg. In a half-dazed motion, he had managed to hit the one spot that would end the bandit’s life and save his own.

  Haydren shook his head, and instantly regretted it. Placing his hand gingerly on the knot once more, he considered. He had nearly died, and except for some amazing luck, he would have. It was still a long way to Frecksshire, and he had not yet encountered any truly dangerous beasts. He needed help; on the knoll a few days ago he thought he might avoid that need, but it seemed less likely now.

  He retrieved the rag that lay crumpled on the ground, and resumed cleaning his sword. Even before finding help, however, he knew he needed a place to hide until he could figure out what to do. Perhaps, he thought, he might even wait out Guntsen’s search parties. But where could he hide?

  Geoffrey.

  The rag stopped swirling as Haydren considered the thought that had suddenly whispered in his mind. Geoffrey had been generous enough the first time, and had showed some measure of kindness toward Haydren. But would he do the same now, when Haydren approached him alone?

  He continued cleaning the weapon, taking some of the bandits’ water to moisten blood that had dried while he was unconscious. He thought of Kitrel: now there was someone he wished to have beside him now. Stalwart Kitrel; despite Haydren’s ribbing, he’d had a good head above those broad shoulders, too.

  Haydren pressed his lips together, staring toward the edge of the fire’s glow as he swiped the rag down his blade one final time. He had to stop thinking like this: he had no one to turn to; he was responsible for his own decisions now. He sheathed his sword and rose. What choices did he have? He knew absolutely no one else outside of Hewolucs, and he couldn’t go back there. It was Geoffrey, or no one. Even if the old man refused, Haydren might still find somewhere in Hodp to stay.

  Haydren removed the spit from the fire and drew a knife to carve some meat to take with him. And how many people, did he expect, lived in Hodp who would help him without being paid to do so? How could he expect Geoffrey to help him without promise of some sort of compensation?

  Haydren bit off a chunk of meat; it was horribly gamy and more than a little overcooked; but it was warm, and he was starving, and he had nothing else. He wrapped up another large chunk in some cloth and tucked it into his saddlebags. He rummaged through the bandit’s belongings, but found little of worth to him.

  He closed his eyes with an abrupt sigh, recalling his map. Hodp was a long distance away – probably over 150 miles. He opened his eyes; he desperately needed a horse. With a grimace, he remembered that on his first journey to Hodp, he had lamented having a horse and wished he could walk instead.

  “Good work, Haydren,” he said to himself, hitching his bags higher onto his shoulders and striking north-eastward. “Next time, be thankful for what you have, would you?”

  It would be eleven long nights before he would see the first farmhouse in the region outlying Hodp. The weather was his only adversary along the way, and with weary legs just finally becoming used to walking, he curled up in a small grove of trees to the south-west of the village. In the morning, he would test the luck which had served him so amply over a week ago in the bandit camp.

  He was not very hopeful.

  *

  Geoffrey rose before the sun. Yet another night filled with nightmares roused him to another morning before daylight. He woke from one form of darkness into another, with barely a blanket between him and his sins. With a heavy sigh he rolled out of bed and tugged on his boots. He threw a cloak around his shoulders and went out into the crisp morning, leaving Hodp behind for the solitude of a lonely and gnarled tree he had discovered shortly after arriving at the village. In the quiet of early dawn he could be alone with his thoughts; as the birds awoke and began calling to each other, his memories would slide away, allowing him to face the day once more.

  It was the first night like this in a while. The last time was when the soldiers from the Earl had come. Perhaps it was the soldiers who had awoken the memories; perhaps it was the young man, the kind young man who had reminded Geoffrey of his own youth and the foolish mistakes he had made.

  As many times as he had stood by the tree and watched the sun rise, it always surprised him how quickly it sprang over the horizon. The moments dragged by as the east gradually brightened, sluggishly bringing the day. Then, in one swift moment, the sun appeared and climbed the sky, leaping over the distant treetops and blazing forth, announcing to the world that it had returned.

  Whatever he might have expected after a night of sleep such as he had, Geoffrey was not prepared for what awaited him at the door when he finally returned to his home.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DEPARTURES

  “Did you know this even before?”

  “I believed, yes.”

  “You never tell me these things.”

  “You assumed you knew.”

  10 Tetsamon 1319 – Spring

  Haydren stood with head bowed, listening to the sounds of the village as it began to awaken. But there was still only silence behind the door in front of which he stood. He raised his hand once more to knock when motion caught his eye. He looked up quickly: coming around the corner of the house and stopping short was the man he knew as Geoffrey.

  The two stood apart, each silently studying the other. Geoffrey, too, had chestnut hair – or perhaps dark rust, now that the sunlight caught it – but close-cropped, instead of Haydren’s dusty scraggle; and deep black eyebrows with a strange, thin underline of white that relaxed over pale blue eyes. What bit of forearm stretched beyond his shirtsleeves showed strength, and Haydren imagined that strength continued in taut, wiry muscles like his own. They both looked older than what they remembered, and they both wondered what might have transpired in the past weeks to make them appear so.

  “I’m not sure if you remember me,” Haydren said, finally breaking the silence.

  A wry grin flashed on Geoffrey’s face and was gone, and he nodded solemnly. “If I remember your captain correctly, your name was Haydren,” he replied.

  “It still is,” Haydren said, the jest surprising even himself. Geoffrey’s grin returned.

  “You came directly to my door,” Ge
offrey said. “Do I still owe something to the Earl?”

  Haydren paused, considering. It would make his request far easier to simply say the Earl required Geoffrey’s services. That would probably take more to explain, however.

  “I came to ask…may I speak to you inside?” Haydren asked, switching tacks abruptly.

  Geoffrey nodded hesitantly and ushered Haydren through the door. There was still that odd familiarity to the room. Geoffrey went to the table, gesturing for Haydren to sit down.

  “May I get you something to drink?” he asked cordially.

  Haydren lowered his saddlebag to the floor, but still did not sit. “Could I have some water?” he asked.

  Geoffrey nodded, filled a pewter mug from the sink, and handed it to him. “Do you have any other questions?” he asked.

  Haydren took a long swallow, and nodded. “Please understand how difficult this is for me to ask,” he began. Geoffrey gestured for him to continue as they sat down. “Please also know that I have no one else to ask. I have thought long and hard about this, and you are my last…I have no idea where else to go.”

  “Haydren, do you have a horse outside of the village?” Geoffrey asked abruptly.

  Haydren blinked quickly several times. “N-no, I don’t,” he replied.

  “You have walked here?”

  Haydren swallowed. “Nearly from Hewolucs,” he said, losing his voice in a whisper. He cleared his throat and took another drink.

  Geoffrey sat back. “That is far to walk.”

  “It was unavoidable, believe me,” Haydren replied.

  “Who pursues you? The Earl?”

  “His son.”

  Geoffrey gazed at him a moment. “You have been walking for some time, I see,” he stated. “The new Earl has no son; he is only eighteen.”

  Haydren gripped his mug tightly. How had he forgotten that it would have been a matter of days for Guntsen to take over the throne? He brought the water to his lips, but could not drink and set it back onto the table.

  “Why does he pursue you?”

  Haydren smirked. “Because I defeated him in sword fights many times over,” he replied. “Because…” he paused. How much did he want to tell Geoffrey? Certainly not everything. “Because I was an orphan, and in Guntsen’s view should not have been a swordsman in the first place.”

  “And you have a duty to serve in his ranks now, correct? That would be his legitimate claim,” Geoffrey said, folding his hands on his lap.

  Haydren nodded. “Presumably.”

  Geoffrey sat silently for some time, gazing at Haydren. He drew a deep breath and glanced toward his front window, then looked at Haydren once more as he exhaled.

  “You can use your former room for today,” he said. “No one should bother you, here. But I do not know how long you might stay here.”

  Haydren glanced at him quizzically. Something in Geoffrey’s voice gave Haydren a sense there was more to his last statement than met the eye. Ignoring it, he said: “Thank you, Geoffrey. If that is all you do for me, it is far more than I could expect.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Geoffrey replied. “I did as much without knowing you.”

  Haydren grinned. “But under the threat of the Earl,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” Geoffrey replied without smiling. “I will leave some food, and a basin of water to refresh yourself. Remain in your room until I return. And don’t answer the door.”

  It was impossible for Haydren to tell when Geoffrey was not serious, so he let the last statement go. “I can never repay you for this,” he said.

  Geoffrey’s eyes went distant, and he gazed at the table. “I do not seek repayment from you,” he said quietly. When he glanced up, Haydren was again looking at him quizzically, and maybe even with some worry – Geoffrey could not tell. He smiled.

  “Do not concern yourself with it,” he said.

  After his guest had retreated upstairs, Geoffrey threw a brown cloak around his shoulders and exited to the warmth of the outdoors. He walked a measured pace to the smithy, and went inside without glancing around. He hung his cloak on a peg in the back.

  “A little warm, idn’it?” the blacksmith, Wesla, drawled.

  Geoffrey rolled up his sleeves, regarding the smith out of the corner of his eye. “I am accustomed to warmer climates,” he said simply. He pulled the broad blade of a plow from a nearby shelf, thrust it into the fire, and worked the bellows till the metal glowed. He tied his apron, grasped a hammer, and set to work.

  He enjoyed the smithy; enjoyed the simple, hard work – and enjoyed making plows and wagon parts instead of swords and halberds. The sparks flared, and settled against the stone beneath the anvil with the rhythmic blows. Heat it, beat it, repeat – he could almost hear the song in his head.

  There was a rush of movement nearby, and he looked up to see a raven perched on the window beside the forge. It peered at Wesla first before its head fidgeted a moment and fixed Geoffrey with a soul-searching gaze. It knew him, somehow, and nodded in solemn recognition. They shared something, Geoffrey and the raven; they shared spilled blood, and the picking apart of near-dead victims. It knew Geoffrey as close kin, long ago.

  “Will you never let me forget it?” he whispered.

  “What?” it screeched at him.

  Behind Geoffrey, Wesla gave a start and glared at the raven. “Git!” he shouted, throwing a rag at the window. With another cry, the raven took off, leaving a feather behind. Geoffrey glanced at it, then returned to his work. He had been chased from every roost between Burieng and North Pal Isan; something was left behind at each home, a part of him he could not retrieve. Eastern Burieng had proved no safe haven, as he had hoped so long ago in Andelen. Chased too much longer, there would be no feathers to help him fly, and predators would pick him apart bit by bit: poetic justice, the writers called it. Geoffrey only called it death, with no more chances for salvation.

  Unless.

  Unless his chance for salvation had already come. Unless with one last flight he would be free of those who pursued, free to roost not as a raven, but as a gull, a bird welcomed for its guidance and the hope of land to sailors lost at sea. He had heard much about Frecksshire, and the Earl there; and any words spoken in contempt were spoken by those who daily proved to be Geoffrey’s enemies. There would be some price to pay the Earl, that much was assumed; but it might not be his life, either death or servitude. It would be a terribly long flight, with danger pressing on each side; far more than feathers could be lost – but what might be gained!

  The hammer renewed its strokes as embers flared from the forge, and from the glowing steel. He was not bound to wield only a hammer just yet, though the hammer had kept him alive and young. He would need it all in the coming months.

  *

  Haydren awoke to a sharp knocking on the door below. His eyes snapped open; the room was cast in darkness. Every fiber of his muscle strained to reach for a light; every thought in his mind warned him a lamp’s glow might give away his presence to whomever was outside.

  The knocking came again, and Haydren jumped. His breath came in strained gasps. He heard boots crossing the floor downstairs, and the door opened.

  “Yes?” came Geoffrey’s muffled voice.

  “Sir,” a much stronger voice returned. “We come from the Earl.”

  What if they want rooms? Haydren’s mind screamed to him. As the voices continued below, and with greater ease and patience than Haydren felt he had, he rose slowly, picked up his boots and sword, and moved toward the door.

  “We are searching for a man, a swordsman of the Earl’s ranks named Haydren Loren. He’s - do you have it? Yes: this man here. Have you seen him?”

  Haydren eased open the door, stepping quietly into the hall by the stairway. He kneeled down beside the railing, listening to the conversation below.

  “Yes, I have,” Geoffrey replied.

  Haydren gritted his teeth, and grasped his sword. There was a clink of armor below, and a whispered question Haydr
en could not make out.

  “My dear boy!” Geoffrey said suddenly, loudly and laughing. Haydren jumped, and his sword came halfway out of his sheath. “That was weeks ago,” Geoffrey continued. “He came with several others of your fine soldiers, and two other young men; took up my only spare room and beds, too. They said there might be some kind of remuneration?” Geoffrey added meekly.

  Haydren sighed, easing his sword back in his sheath. The soldier below grumbled something, then said: “Of course not, old man: the Earl doesn’t pay men like you for services. It is your honor to serve him.”

  “Oh,” Geoffrey replied. “I’m sorry. I am new to this country. The God bless your search.”

  The door closed below, and Geoffrey’s footsteps sounded crossing the floor, approaching the stairway. Geoffrey ascended halfway up before catching sight of Haydren, who had his head pressed against the railing with his eyes closed.

  “Awake?” Geoffrey asked.

  Haydren’s eyes blinked open, gazing at him. “You scared the life out of me, just there.”

  Geoffrey nodded. “I must leave,” he said. “Tonight. You may accompany me if you still wish to escape the Earl, though you do not have to.”

  Haydren straightened, staring incredulously at Geoffrey as he continued up the stairs and moved toward his room. Geoffrey paused at his door, glancing at Haydren before stepping inside. He left the door open, and Haydren followed him.

  “Where are you going?” Haydren asked from the doorway.

  Geoffrey did not pause as he began packing a small bag with various items from his room. “Much like you, I am not sure,” he replied. “Though I have heard Frecksshire is more friendly to…outsiders, than they seem to be here.”