The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 7

King William should have known it was too much to hope for that his celebration should proceed without incident.  Today’s games were to be the capping entertainment.  They were nearly a disaster.  While he was relieved that Daven survived the contest mostly unscathed, he was supremely disappointed in his son’s lack of control.  The games were to entertain, an opportunity to display skill not blood lust.  It should not have been forgotten that the point of this festival was to celebrate how they had risen above their violent history.  As Daven stood over his fallen opponent, his face sprayed in his blood, William honestly believed he had killed the young man.  Perhaps he ought to be grateful they had both survived.  No one else appeared to mind the dismemberment.   

William poured more wine in his cup paying no heed to server shivering at his elbow.  King Waldhar tapped his cup with his ring and winked at the youth. William tipped his cup while he scanned the room for Gilchrist.  His brother had forced his way into Lisseon using the linen robes of his newly purchased position as Bishop of Gulistan. He declared himself a holy representative of the church and not one of William’s border guards could conceive how to deny him. William let him remain for the sake of not offending any of his foreign guests.  Their opinion of his brother was governed primarily by the pomp of his present office.  He was not fooled by his wanton displays of piety.  No amount of white linen or purple sashes would change the fact that he was a traitor.

The banquet room was haze of grey and deep shadow from the effects of poor ventilation. Festoons of lavender and rosemary mingled with the smell of smoke, sour ale and sweaty bodies.  It was a heady mix that was increased by the stupor induced by what they were serving. Half of the men and women had already passed out or crept off to whatever dark corner they could find.  The celebrations of this night would assure more mouths to feed in the coming year.

He peered through the haze looking for Stephen and Daven.  Neither was present.  Stephen had taken it upon himself to escort his uncle about for the entirety of the celebration.  As for Daven, William had not seen him since the games.  He must have decided to shake off the day’s events far out of sight.

“You are too hard on the boy.”  Waldhar said interrupting his thoughts.  

“You refer to Daven?”  William’s frown deepened.  It was disconcerting how Waldhar could instigate a conversation with him as if hearing his thoughts.

“Who else?  He is not one to be controlled and that troubles you.”

“You had plenty of time to observe and formulate your opinion on the road.”

“That I did.  Though what I saw even today was enough for my good opinion.”

“Indeed.”  William answered judiciously.  “Did I find fault in his victory?”

Waldhar chuckled lightly.  “Not in word.  We are hardest on our favorites lest someone find out our real weakness.  But what I wouldn’t give for just one of your sons.” He winked and sighed.  “Alas, the lord has seen fit to bless me only with daughters.  Though the priest they sent to reform me advised that it is because for too long I have prayed to the wrong god.”

“Every priest has his opinion.  You are too old to care what any of them say.”  William envied him the seeming simplicity of his kingdom.  Whether by age or intent things always fell just as Waldhar wished them to.

“I have ten daughters.  I told that son of a half wit that if ten daughters is what praying to the wrong god brings me, praying to the right one might very well kill me.”  King Waldhar’s eyes crinkled with amusement.  William smiled in spite of himself and drained his cup and this time let his attendant refill it.  The outline of the room was getting smaller and fuzzier. 

“Come I have better wine in my chambers.”  William felt his wine more than he would like before the company of his men.  If he was going to try to keep up with Waldhar they had better do it elsewhere.

“What and leave our men?”

“We won’t be missed.” 

As they walked through the double doors he ordered one of the servers to have one of the special casks taken to his chambers, wine from his personal reserve.  The boy bowed curtly and sprinted down the corridor.  Waldhar waved off his guards and happily followed William toward his room.  He leapt briskly over snoring guards and slapped his hands together eagerly.  William spotted several groping couples in the shadows and for a fleeting second he thought he saw Engle entwined with a dark haired lovely in a red gown with gold thread twisting through the hem, like the one Isabel had worn.  The knight looked up somewhat sheepishly as soon as he made eye contact the illusion was broken.  The man’s build and his wavy hair were very like Engle’s in younger years and while the woman’s dress was in a similar color to Isabel’s, her figure was not.  All at once he realized Waldhar was waiting for him to say something.  The couple retreated into the dark with the woman’s giggle reverberating down the hall and the young man’s clumsy effort to shush her.

“You’ll make your men feel irrelevant.”  William remarked.

“They are irrelevant.”  Waldhar kicked an unconscious attendant and the man jumped to his feet red faced.  “They are fine lads.  Their hovering over me like a mother hen makes me jumpy.  We are among friends here.  And I can still handle a sword better than either of them.” 

What he said was no mere boast.  He was the finest swordsman William had ever seen, except perhaps Engle.  Waldhar distinguished himself in several battle campaigns and thwarted more than one assassination attempt without any benefit of a personal guard.  He used his guard now only at the behest of his nervous young wife.

The doors of his chamber swung open to receive them.  There was a cask tapped and waiting.  A kitchen boy was just finishing laying out bread and cheese to compliment their drink.

            “Your people work quickly.”  Waldhar raised his brows. 

            “Yes.  Perhaps your wife will work as quickly providing you a son?”            Waldhar’s eyes narrowed and then he burst out laughing.  “Aye, aye, that she might.  But we are discussing you and your fine sons.”

“Daven to be precise.”  William groaned a little as he imagined what mischief he would brewing tonight.  He might have been one half of any of the number of couples they passed on the way to his chamber.  His build was not so different from that knight that they startled in the hallway.

“He tests you.  Sons ought to a little.  You should have seen how he handled himself with that mess on the road.  It doesn’t take his father to know he had never seen anything like that before.  It does things to a man to see something like that but then there was the way Daven took after that wee they found.  Caught him up on the front of his saddle when the babe took a liking to him.”

             “I am sorry you had to see that.  We have not had any trouble for many years as you well know.”

            “Until Engle was gone.”

William took a long drink and pretended not to hear for the sakes of both their nations.

“They were unfortunate souls,” Waldhar continued.  “You are not the first king to have to fight such a plague nor will you be the last.  Just the same you can be proud to have sons that are not squeamish to such things especially now.”

“They had a good teacher.”  William said a under his breath.  He knew he ought to be proud but lately all he could do was find fault.  Daven had made the last several months a misery.  William wanted to applaud his accomplishments not diminish them.

“They have a fine father!”  Waldhar corrected, slapping him heartily on the back. He raised his cup and emptied its contents.  “I see now why you asked me to private audience.  This is far too good to share.  Now can I have anyone of your boys for a son in law?  They can have their pick of the lot.  Take them all off my hands if you like.”

“Are you proposing a marriage?”

“I am proposing a harem if your priest did not die of the shock of it.  And why should he.  They say King Solomon had a thousand wives.  His is a god I can pray to.”

“Too many mouths to feed.”

“Ridiculous.  I’ve had three wives.”

“In succession, not at the same time.  What are we talking about?”  William smirked a little.  Waldhar’s persistent good humor was infectious.

“Living like the ancient kings.  Take as many wives as we wish and pick from a dozen sons.”

 “That is hardly a sane practice in our times.  It might very well get us expelled from the church.”  William laughed heartily, wondering what his brother would do if Lisseon suddenly refused to acknowledge any church authority all.

Waldhar raised his cup and William followed suit.  “I am in the beginnings of a delightful stupor.  Truly your sons are fine men and I should like to have the problem of choosing between them.  An advantageous marriage could make either sons claim to the throne more certain.”

“It doesn’t make my decision easier.  Are you not troubled by that display this afternoon?” 

“The fool had hate in his eyes.  Anyone could see that.”

“That young man lost his wife and son less than a fortnight ago.  He should not have been allowed to fight.  Daven knew this.”

“Did he have a choice?  The man entered into the circle.  Would you rather have him branded a coward for refusing to fight?”

William took a long slow drink.  He knew Daven had done the best he could.  Byron entered under a false name.  “If we could manage to get through a fortnight without incident I could make a decision.”  He mumbled into his cup.

“You mean for Daven to succeed you.”  Waldhar said directly.

William’s spine tightened to hear the words spoken.  He raised his eyes to study Waldhar’s expression and saw that haze of wine had faded from his eyes. 

“You do mean for him to succeed you.  Don’t you?”  He repeated.

“I mean to choose which of my sons will serve this kingdom best.”  William struggled for equal command of his voice.

“You could do no wrong by selecting either.  Stephen is a born diplomat, respected though not necessarily feared.  Daven is a valiant man and time will add to his distinction.  His rashness will yield place to heroism.  He is one born to inspire the bards.  He reminds me of me.”  Waldhar laughed lightly but his expression remained sober.  He leaned in toward William.  “It is pleasant to see everything so clearly black or white.  It works so well in song, but you and I know that it is not the way of the world.”

 “They are good men, both of them.  The war of my conscience is more to do with my pride than any hesitation over their ability to protect and lead this people.”  The words came out calmer than he expected. 

“From what I can see there is no worry of one revolting against the other.  You have raised them better than your father did by you and Gilchrist.  Of course Engle was a good strong hand to them both.  Then I suppose that is the primary point to your brother’s present arguments.  No doubt it is his influence that stays your hand from finally settling the matter.”

 The wine diminished William’s ability to control his anger and his desire to do so.  He grabbed hold of Waldhar’s tunic and hissed between his teeth.  “I ought to know better than to trade confidences with strangers.”

 “We are not strangers you and I.  I think value as an ally has been proven more than once.”  Waldhar returned evenly, his tone neither threat nor submission.

William released Waldhar and sat back, his hands still shaking. “I know how we have relied on you through the years.  But I take both the credit and the shame for the actions of my sons.  I know my court and am well acquainted with my brother’s intentions.”

“I do not wish to raise quarrel but I would not confess to your priest.  He is calculating time about your sons. All I am saying is that he will make of it what he can.”

 “I think you have said quite enough!”  William rose.

“Indeed I have.  Your wine makes fools quickly.  It is time I retire.”

“It is a strong drink. I forget what we have been speaking of.”

“Then it was a very good cask, as wise.”  Waldhar rose and shook his hand warmly before starting for the door.  “Just one thing more.  You said that young man was not meant to fight.  A man with nothing to lose and skill equal to nearly succeeded in killing your son, steps into the arena unchallenged by his fellows.  Perhaps Daven’s trouble was not of his own making.”

William imagined the outcome of Daven’s swordfight as Waldhar insinuated. The old king would have him jumping at shadows. What purpose his death would serve other than to tear out his heart?  William took another sip from his cup and the wine turned to ash in his mouth.  He picked up the half empty cask and hurled it across the room.  It smashed into splinters against the wall and the stones bled wine.

The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 6 pt 2

Three days passed.  Tim still could not recall the boy’s name so he called him Willow, in honor of the trees along the path that so often sheltered them.  Other than objecting to being poked he was a quiet boy with blue eyes and rosy complexion.  He was a little unsteady at times but did his best to keep up with Tim.  Their progress was slow.  Tim kept the close to the road, even though he knew it was dangerous.  He guessed that the highwaymen would go north, so they headed south.  Willow needed lots of rest and they were both hungry all of the time.  Nighttime was the hardest.  Tim was not good at starting fires.  When they did spark, they were soon out.   

It was late morning when Tim and Willow were huddling under a blanket after a small feast of berries.  Their provisions were gone and Willow was getting weaker.  Tim did not have the strength to keep carrying him.  The ground began to pulse even before they heard the sound of approaching horses.  Willow looked up at Tim and his bottom lip started to quiver. 

Tim’s first thought was that the highwaymen had found them.  Immediately he grabbed what he could and ran into the trees, dragging Willow behind him.  His short legs could not keep up and he let go.  When Tim finally stopped and looked back, Willow was on the ground looking rather stunned.  Tim whistled and waved him over.  Willow sat there not moving.  The pounding of hooves was drawing near.  Tim dropped everything and tried to go to the boy.  His legs would not work.  He tried to call out but his voice was gone.  Louder and louder they came.

Tim ducked as they rounded the corner and filled the road.  There were four of them.  His heart pounded so hard he thought it would burst.  He prayed that little Willow would stay down and keep quiet.  The men were fiercely dressed.  They had full armor and long swords.  Their horses were powerfully built and looked capable of anything.  They came to a stop.

“Did you hear something?” said the first.

“Nothing except those foul birds.  Whatever has them stirred up is probably a good five miles up the road,” said the second.

“I heard it,” said a third.

Tim could hear only the thunder of his heart beating.  He was the one who was going to give them away.  Then Willow started to get up.  He waved at him to stay down but the small boy ignored him and got to his feet.

“There Captain.  Do you see it?”  Said the third. “Something stirs in the bushes.”

“Probably nothing but a fox.  We should be on our way.”

The first, the one the others referred to as captain got down off his horse and started toward Willow.  Without thinking Tim jumped to his feet and ran toward Willow, shrieking like a crazed animal. 

“What the devil?”

Willow started to cry.  Tim he grabbed rocks and branches anything he could get his hands on and pelted the captain with them.  The captain raised his arms to protect himself from the onslaught and his men drew arrows.

“Halt!”  One shouted letting loose a warning shot.

It flew wide of Tim.  He charged on, scooping up Willow in his arms.  He lost his balance as he spun round and went down on one knee.  He stumbled again as he started running back toward the trees.

“Cease fire!  Cease fire!”  The captain shouted.  “It is only a small boy.”

It was too late to stop the next arrow.  It sliced into a tree inches from of Tim’s face.  He froze.  He might be able to out run the men but he could not out run their arrows.

“I said cease fire!  You there, stop!” 

Tim clutched Willow tighter and felt his little heart racing even faster than his own.

 “We mean you no harm.  We are soldiers for King William.”

Tim swallowed hard.

“Where are your parents?”

“Gone.”

“How is it you are here, alone?”

“We were part of a caravan that was attacked.  We are the only survivors.”

The captain’s face turned scarlet.  “How long ago?”  His voice became harder as his jaw tightened.

“Three days back.  We were trying to get away.  His legs are too short to go very far.”

The captain reached toward him and Tim jumped back instinctively.  The captain took no offense and moved more slowly to take Willow from his arms.  He offered Tim his hand.  Tim let him lead them back to the road.  The captain ordered two of his men to ride on ahead and investigate.  He then handed Willow over to someone he referred to as lieutenant and got on his horse.  He ordered the lieutenant to give them both his water and whatever other provisions he had brought with him.  Before the lieutenant could comply the captain was back on his horse headed back where they had come from.  They were all part of a scouting group and it seemed to Tim they had not expected to find any trouble.  

“Who is this with you?”  The lieutenant asked taken in completely by Willow’s sweet look.

“His name is Willow.”  Tim offered not wanting to admit he had forgotten the boy’s real name.

The soldier glanced up briefly to meet Tim’s watchful gaze.  He smiled before turning his eyes back towards Willow.  “You are going to be a fortunate boy from now on.  The royal personage we are escorting is magnanimous.  If he’ll not make you his ward our prince has a soft heart.  They’ll probably be fighting over you.  Both of you,” he amended. 

Tim smiled, very aware that his appearance made him easily forgettable.  The entourage caught up with them an hour later.  In the commotion Tim was able to slip away unnoticed and the lieutenant was afraid to admit his lost him.

 

The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 6 pt 1

Tim shifted his weight to his left hip.  A knot on the bough that had served as last night’s bed had been digging into his thigh all night until he could no longer feel his foot.  The sharp pins and needles pricking down his leg slowly woke him and he opened his eyes and squinted at the daylight.  He wondered how he could have slept so long.  Usually Elsa woke him at dawn but the sun was already high above the trees.  His ears were ringing shrilly.  He shook his head to clear it and ignited another shower of pinpricks, this time down his neck.  The ringing only got louder.  There was nothing wrong with his ears.  The sound was coming from above and below.  Discontented birds screeched and squawked at one another from all sides.  They circled overhead then darted sharply to the ground back up again.  He rubbed his watery eyes and slid down the tree wondering what the commotion was about.  As he reached the bottom he stumbled over something.  He fell on top of Bas, who lay on the ground at the base of the tree looking up with a blank stare.  Tim twisted and landed hard on his backside.  A curse tickled his lips until he looked a little closer. 

Bas’ skin was unnaturally pale.  His eyes stared up blankly and his face contorted in an expression of pain or horror.  Tim gasped as he scrambled to get away.  His foot knocked Bas’ head askew and the dead man’s tongue rolled out of his mouth in ragged pieces.  Tim covered his mouth to stifle a scream.  His chest tightened and he could not breathe.  As he tried to get up he realized he had fallen on something soft and slick.  It was all over the ground.  He rolled away not wanting to know which parts of Bas had cushioned his fall.

Tim shoved his fist in his mouth to choke back the urge to vomit and ran several yards into the shelter of the trees.  He hid behind the biggest one and closed his eyes.  He counted to ten.  When his heart did not slow, he repeated the count until it did.  There was no sound except the birds.  He was alone.  He looked back at the camp.  Everywhere there were bodies lying in pools of blood with the same vacuous expression in their eyes.  Nothing stirred.  Tents and carts were knocked about.  Some had been pushed onto fires and were still burning.  Others had been busted into pieces and their canvas covers shredded.  Whole families murdered.  No one was immune to the violence.  Livestock that could not be led away was slaughtered where they stood, along with a number of dogs and cats the pilgrims had brought with them.  The birds were feasting on choicest parts.  The cacophony that had wakened Tim was an ongoing argument over the best of the dead. 

He armed himself with stones and began hurling them at the birds.  Every hit was a battle won.  He killed and wounded several of the carrion birds.  He kept throwing until he ran out of rocks and fell to his knees weeping.  He vomited down the front of his tunic until there was nothing left.  It was all his doing.  His mother had warned him never to tell anyone about who he was or where he was from.  He had been so careful only to tell the sparest details about himself but the birds and the trees had ears it seemed.  He clutched the pouch around his neck.  The muffled clinks of the stones rubbing against one another inside soothed him.  He took small comfort in knowing they were still safe.

After awhile he wandered back toward the camp.  Most had died with their eyes closed and their faces serene as thought they had slept through it all.  Valiant men slain without ever waking, their swords never touched.  Some enchantment more grim than highwaymen must have been at work. 

Tim felt woozy again so he sat down on a log to think.  He remembered very little of last night even before he went to bed.  He did not remember climbing the tree or what happened after they ate supper.  One thing he did remember was the sweet taste of the berry punch one of the women made for their celebration.  A purple stain on his sleeve still smelled sweet.  He held his arm over his nose as he picked his way through the bodies looking for anything that might be useful.  The stained sleeve was a good block against the stench of death.  It was also familiar.  Tim inhaled slowly as the world tilted.  His mother used to keep something similar in a clay jar.  It was impossible to mistake.  A few drops would induce euphoria, a little more caused sleep and large doses could kill. Even dry the concoction was potent.  No wonder they did not wake.  No wonder they did not fight. 

He was afraid of breathing in their death.  He ripped a length of cloth from the bottom of his tunic and tied it around his nose.  Tim had no supplies of his own.  It was necessary for him to salvage what he could of the food and water if he was to continue.

He stepped between the bodies as though they were asleep until he came to Elsa and Ivan.  Their eyes were closed and they did not move.  He felt the tears well up behind his eyes and his throat constrict.  He could not stand the notion that the birds would pick their flesh.  He placed a blanket over their bodies and weighed it down with rocks.  After awhile he found the courage to pick through what remained for anything he might use.   The highwaymen were thorough but he found a few light tools, hardly more than toys to a big man like Ivan but had served her well.  He hesitated when he came across a hunk of cheese folded in cloth and hidden among the tools.  She must have laid out the night before so that she had something to put in his sack for the day’s journey.  Tim imagined her refusing to let Ivan finish it off and the small smile that might have played across her lips as she tucked it away where he would never think to look.  With difficulty he pushed the image aside and shoved the cheese in his sack.  Amongst the rest of the camp he found half a loaf of stale bread, a skin of curdled milk and a few apples.  He closed the eyes and covered the faces of as many as he could, including Bas and Claus.  He did not see any of the rest of the kantorei among the dead.  He wondered if Claus had forbidden them to drink.  Whatever the reason their abstinence had saved their lives.  Tim hated them for not helping the rest escape but he could not waste time thinking about where they may have gone. 

Tim cut a large square from one of the tents.  He tied it up into a sling that he could hang from a walking stick he fashioned and inside he placed his scant provisions.  His labors had taken most of the day. He knew he could not follow the road so he turned into the woods.  He passed the last campsite and heard what sounded like a whimper.  His blood turned cold.  He must have imagined it.  The sound repeated.

“Hello.”  He whispered back.

He was answered by a trembling intake of breath.  The sob was very near.  The fear emanating from the creature was palpable and absolutely human.  He moved slowly in the direction of the sound even though his mind screamed for him to run the other way. 

“Who’s there?” he demanded only a little more loudly.

Sniff. Sniff. 

Tim took his staff and poked at a lump in the nearest downed tent.

“Aaahhh!” was curdling reply.  

Tim pulled at the cloth and the lump started thrashing about.  After a little struggle he managed to reveal the bare foot of a small child probably two or three years of age.  He was deeply entangled and it took some effort for Tim to pull him free.  The boy threw his arms around Tim’s neck and did not let go.  He recognized him.  It was only the night before he had found the child and led him back to his parents. 

Tim looked at him long and hard trying to remember his name. 

“You complicate things.” He muttered into the boy’s blond curls.

The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 5 pt2

The smoke thickened the closer he drew to the farm.  Whether it was day or night he could not see, the grey mass blocked out all the telling.  He made his way toward the cottage in a blind scramble.  He could not imagine that this was anything more than an accidental fire.  What he remembered of the places was hardly enough to support a family and nothing he would expect to attract a band of thieves except perhaps sport.  The place had a quaint one-room cottage, serviceable barn and a few pens large enough to house only a handful of animals.

The air was heavy with the unmistakable smell of burning flesh and the choking fumes of some kind of burning naphtha.  He reached the smoldering ruins of the barn first.  The fire snapped and hissed just before igniting several explosions that expanded the flames to the tree line.  It was impossible to know whether those who attacked them brought it with them or if the occupants were unfortunate enough to be storing the stuff.  People who lived in the wetlands were usually doing so for a reason.

The wind shifted and cleared away some of the smoke.  Engle made a wide circle of the barn and moved toward the cottage.  Tongues of flame lapped at the roof.  He prayed he was not too late. Trampled chickens and a dead cat littered his path as he half stumbled as his vision blurred.  Lying on front of the door was the bloody body of a goat, throat torn out and its intestines spilled out on the dirt.  Who ever had done this likely used hunting dogs locating their prey but the carnage was rankly human. 

The door had been barricaded shut using the timbers from the destroyed fence.  The methods, the smell, he had seen it all before though he never expected to see it again.  If his instincts were right, there was little hope that anyone had survived.  Engle struggled to remove the barricade and open the door.  As he did the sudden rush of the wind and a wall of smoke and fire slammed him back.  Flames exploded through the roof several feet high.  Engle let the violence subside and crouched down.  The escaping heat singed his hair and burned his throat as he moved inside.

“Hello,” He choked.  “Hello.”

The roof and the support beams collapsed inward with the expansion of the flames but the walls were made of stone and could have provided some protection.  There was a slim chance that someone might have survived the initial attack if they had been able to keep below the flames.  If there was going to be anything worth saving he had to get inside now.  To the right of the dead goat was a trough of water.  Engle doused his head and soaked his cloak.  He rushed back through the doorway.  Broken bits of pottery ground under his boots.  He could not see anything.  The heat singed the hair on his hands and every fiber was screaming for him to get out.  Under the roar of the blaze, he thought he heard a moan.  

Engle dropped to his knees and felt around until his fingers contacted something soft.  He grabbed hold and pulled as hard as he could, eliciting a sharp cry as it moved.  Engle felt arms and a torso and grabbed hold with a final burst of will he pulled the soul free of the rubble.  He half carried, half drug them to safety and they collapsed together on grass a step from the door.  Engle’s hands and shoulders covered in burns and he could feel them blister.  His lungs ached and he could hardly draw breath.  He turned toward the body next to him.  He could only guess that it was once a woman though her burns covered enough of her body and were severe enough to bear the question.  She was bare except for with just the blackened remnants of a shawl.  Her nose and lips were gone exposing her teeth in a freakish smile.   When he touched her hair it crumbled into ash.

“Please be dead.”  Engle exhaled.  To his horror her eye rolled back and she looked up at him.  Her jaw moved as though to speak but the words were only gurgles I her throat. 

“Don’t speak.”  He whispered.

Her eyes sharpened and she tried again. 

“Hush.”  He commanded afraid to touch her less he cause more pain.  “I’ll get you some water.” 

She shook her head and beat his knee with her raw fist, her jaw twisted in a cry of pain that could not escape past her throat.  He realized she was trying to open her hand, to give him something. The woman’s eyes shrieked as he tried to open her hand.  He stopped, unwilling to hurt her further but she started beating his knee again.  He closed his eyes, giving throat to her agony with his own cry until he at last had her fingers open.

“This?”  He said pulling free a small coin on a leather thong.  On one side was a pagan cross and on the reverse was something that looked like the jaws of a creature about to attack.  The likeness was chilling and the threat unmistakable.

“This is from the men who attacked you?”

She nodded her head yes and immediately her body began to convulse. 

“You need to be still.  Let me help you.”  Engle tried to comfort her.  He rubbed his hand over his face and his beard and brows crumbled to ash.  Mercifully she lost consciousness. 

Aside from her fatal burns, there were other nonfatal wounds.  Some of her fingers had been broken, her pelvis crushed and her tongue split to her throat.  The latter was an ancient tactic used in interrogations when all that could be learned has been gained.  Their use of it on her was likely symbolic.  They probably believed she was dead when they set the fire.  The viciousness was beyond anything Engle had seen on Lisseon soil.  He found her husband’s body in the barn.  Not even their animals had been spared, becoming sport for whatever beasts these men used in their hunt. 

Engle made her as comfortable as he could. He carried with him the small black seeds of a flower.  It was potent at dulling the senses, inducing a state of euphoria and eventually bringing sleep.  He gave her a generous dose but the little seeds were little match for her pain. The damage to her battered body was too great.  By evening she was dead.

The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 5 pt1

Engle had been on the road for weeks.  Anger, disbelief and guilt had each taken turns robbing him of a purpose.  He found himself at the southern tip of Lisseon, only a few days from crossing the border into Androna.  There was where Traimiss met Drake and Duessa.  The Eurene River frequently flooded, feeding miles of marshlands and obscuring any real claim of border.  Workers loaded silt from the river and hauled out in wide wheeled carts.  They would cross the border with there heavy loads and sell it to Andronian farmers, just as they done every year for thousands of years.  He watched them work and tried to find some feeling of peace. 

King William had granted him safe passage to his home country, Duessa.  He went there first hoping for comfort.  He traveled as far east as the Alendine Valley.  There was no rest for him on that fabled ground.  The sights and sounds were like echoes to his failure and the salt tinged dew made his guilt more palpable for its generosity.  The last time he set foot in the valley was to lay his father in his grave.  The first time he set foot there was when he a boy.  His father set him before the mirage of the crescent shaped palace.  They watched the gleaming walls materialize in the setting sun as his father explained to him that they were born of a long line of stewards.  They had served the kings of Duessa for generation upon generation, duty bound to find and protect the royal heir.  The last king, King Archipest, died without revealing a clear successor.

For many years Engle believed his father to be a deluded old man aspiring to grandeur.  During his travels he witnessed atrocities against their people that changed his mind.  He returned home with a clear purpose to take up his father’s quest.  To that end he gained power and position believing those resources would at last bring his family honor and success.  King William was sympathetic to their cause and generous.  With or without the heir, he strove with Engle to raise the prospects of the Duessites.  Some accepted his help but few followed his lead.

            In the days since his exile, he had much time to ponder what went wrong and consider how to make it right.  He remembered how every year at the wine harvest celebration King Waldhar of Androna jestingly offered him a place in his kingdom if he would ever leave King William service.  Engle wondered what the good king of Androna would do if he did show up.  Had he turned on him like the rest?  Perhaps it was the hope that Waldhar could be persuaded to help that lead him south.

            Engle had stayed clear of the roads, choosing instead to follow the deer paths and sheep ways across hill and field.  His long cloak the sole disguise he needed though he might just have easily flown his Duessite colors for all that these farmers cared about him.  His precautions were prudent but unnecessary.  He encountered hunters and once or twice shared a campfire.  They passed the dullness of the night by telling stories of a great black beast preying on unattended females in solitary cottages.  The tales’ primary purpose was to entertain.  It was always involved a black beast, sometimes a wolf or a bear, led by a predatory bird spotting their victim from afar.  The tales were very similar to ones Engle’s father told him about an ancient and vicious enemy.  The carnage was always human by design and the beasts were a means.  It was more myth than reality and yet his senses sharpened to his surroundings whenever he was reminded of it.  He spent half his life searching out and destroying such men until he could hardly tell the difference between his methods and theirs. 

He listened to the calls of the coyotes, their throats sometimes deepening to remind him of their more menacing brethren, the black wolves.  They were unusually large beasts with haunches that could sometimes reach the shoulder of a man.  They were not native to this region, preferring Ogalon for their breeding grounds.  The beasts were first unleashed in the forests Duessa after the war.  Their purpose was to destroy and otherwise drive out those who remained in Duessa.  Engle had only seen a handful in his lifetime.  The last one he saw was fifteen years ago.  The scars from that battle still ached. 

The night was wind was like a myriad of tiny daggers stabbing into his flesh.  He passed a small cottage earlier that day.  They paid no attention to him as he passed.  Engle made his camp a mile east of them.  He built a small fire and roasted a rabbit he had snared.  His skill with a bow was not what it ought to have been and he had not eaten any larger game in weeks.  Engle picked the carcass clean and burned the entrails on the fire.  He did not want to leave anything behind that might attract a predator.   He walked a quarter mile radius around his camp.  Nothing, not even a raven disturbed the air.  Confident that he was alone, he fell into a light sleep and kept one ear open.

Engle did not know how long he had been sleeping but consciousness drew him back as the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise.  His nerves and muscles tensed as he awakened his fingertips to the touch of steel at his side.  The air was heavy and damp though he could not tell whether it was the evening mist or the morning dew.  There was a whisper of smoke on the air but the warmth he felt was from a presence not the fire.  The ground trembled near to him and a warm exhale brushed his cheek.  He held his breath as the image of a black wolf flashed through his mind.  He knew better than to underestimate them.  The hot breath traveled the length of his body and paused above his throat.

His father’s words repeated in his head; “No trick or weapon can help you if you’re dead.  One word.” 

Any beast will react to fear.  To a predator, it was an intoxicant they tracked across great distances.  He must control his.  No cold sweat, though it crept along his spine just below his skin.  His heart must not quicken even one beat faster.  Each breath must come as easily and rhythmically as the slumber they found him in.  Curiosity moved the creature to explore over his chest, lingering over his heart before moving lower.  He curled his fingers around his sword and gently squeezed.  The cold metal steadied him.  The wet nostrils were back over his mouth.  Engle froze.  No fear.  Eradicate fear.  His skin grew hot under its breath, its saliva wetting his throat.  The prick of its fang grazed the tender skin that shielded the pulse in his neck.

“One word.”

As Engle chanted to himself his heart began to slow. He knew the reach of his sword would not help him if the creature did not move off.

“One word.”   

The creature inhaled every part of him looking for the best place to begin.  Only when it reached his abdomen did Engle dare to open his eyes.  Its shoulders were massive, muscles rippled beneath dense fur.  If he were to have any chance he had to get his arms around its head to control it.  It swung its head back toward his throat and Engle shouted his battle cry.

“Live!”

In one fluid motion, he grabbed hold of the creature’s throat and rolled to his knees, turning his shoulder into the beast.  He threw all his weight into the creature’s heaving side.  He had to make it stumble and make a killing strike before it tore him to shreds.  The creature fell.  Engle drew back his sword and opened his eyes.  The animal was fearsome and black but not the nightmare he imagined. 

The golden eyes dazzled and it took Engle’s push for the instigation of play.  A mottled tongue flicked between its jaws and licked his hand and his face.  Engle took hold of its neck.  The dark creature shook him off easily.  It lowered its head eager for the next phase of the game.  Engle was dumbfounded.  He recognized it.

“Where is your master?”  Engle breathed a sigh of astonishment. The hound’s withers reached Engle’s chest and its massive jowls dripped steadily.

 “Did you think you were alone?” The voice was gentle yet commanding and decidedly feminine.

“I begin to doubt that I’ve ever been alone since leaving King William.  But I’m sure you know about that better than I.”  Engle returned, reaching around to scratch the hound’s neck.  The beast beat its hind leg into the ground appreciatively.  

“Now you’ve done it.  Everyone will know we’re here.”

“Only you are that sensitive these days, milady.”

“You ought to be.  Used to be that not even I could get so close to you while you slept.”

Engle sighed and slowly turned around.  She was seated on a rock next to the dying embers of his small fire.  The firelight illuminated her snowy hair and the whisper of her diaphanous gown wrapped her in a golden halo.  He had seen her twice as a boy and once more when he buried his father.  Though he could not count the many times he saw her in his dreams when the wine flowed freely.  Engle took the fingers of her outstretched hand.  This was not another one of his dreams.  She was warm and real.  A second hound of similar size and color sat at her side.  He sniffed Engle’s hand with a curled lip until satisfied he was not a threat.   

 “Howard should not have been able to approach you.  But you did well to control your terror.  Artegall is less easily appeased.”

“Then I am very grateful that you held him back.”  Engle rubbed his throat.  “I did not know Milady ventured this far from Alendine, at least not at this time of year.  I think some of your favorites are actually out of season.” 

The marshes were home to unique plants and she was a gifted healer.  Some said she was much more.  Once, as a boy, had he the courage to ask her who or what she was.  Her reply was that she would tell him the next time he showed the same courage.  He had yet to ask her again.

“You remember?”  She returned as if reading his thoughts.  “No, I think you guess well.  Either way you are right, it is not the time of year for those weeds.  You know well enough why I am here or you will soon.  I come where I am needed.”

“And I go where I am sent.”

Her eyes widened.  “And who would send you hither?  It was not I and King William no longer commands you other than to forbid you his kingdom?”

“I ride to King Waldhar.”

“You seek to command King Waldhar’s men.  Yet you would not come to me.  Have I grown so tiresome?  Or irrelevant and old?"

“You are tireless.  I am old.”  Engle said graciously.  His heart added:  “And irrelevant.” 

“You’d have flattered me better if you said ageless.”  Her lips smiled but her eyes narrowed for a moment, a look that pierce the heart of his very soul and examined his doubts and fears.  Her eyes softened and she added.  “Even I have my vanity.”

“I might have been accused of being insincere if I spoke only to your vanity.  In truth, you look no different to me than when I was a boy.”

She giggled and for a moment he saw what she must have looked like at sixteen-her white hair golden brown, roses warmed her cheeks-then the cares of her returned. She sighed and the gold in her hair faded to white.  “At my age I suppose that is easily accomplished.  To a boy an old woman is an old woman.”  She took a deep breath and let her eyes burrow deep into his soul, plucking out of his heart things he had yet to see for himself.  “He will have no more answers for you than King William.”  She pronounced at length.  “But I see that you are determined.  Give him my regards.”

“You could join me.” 

“I would not risk his ardor.” 

Engle stifled a chuckle.

“You think me in jest.”

“No.  I know for a fact you are not.  He still speaks fondly of you.  Though having lately taking vow with his third wife I think you may be reasonably safe.”

She shrugged her head.  “Good.  You may tell him I have not forgotten him, though I think that when this latest wife has gone to rest, he will finally be too old for me.”

Howard and Artegall took position on either side of her and laid down, heads resting on crossed paws.  Each could swallow her whole if they wished. “I come in part to chide you.  I thought you would return to me after everything.” 

 “I had a little trouble finding my way.  I knew that things would get bad after.  I didn’t want to lead anyone to you. ”

“Did he make you an offer?”

“In a way.”  Engle hesitated.  He bent to stir the fire so she could not see his eyes. “What I seek is the means to continue my quest, to keep looking for the one.”

“He means for you to work for your keep and as before you will fail in what you want most.  Live as you must but the one will find you and not the other way around.”

“Yes.   You’ve told me that before.  You also told me I would find the means.  This is the means.  I won’t give up.  I will see our people proud again.”  Engle stopped.   

She was no longer listening.  The creases in her brow deepened and her eyes squeezed shut.  She doubled over in intense pain.   Engle reached out to steady her and his hand was greeted with a pair of low growls.  He remembered hearing that some of the aged ones of their people felt the pain of others even over great distances.  He even heard they sometimes carried the same wounds.

“Milady, you are unwell.”

“I am well.”  She smiled tightly and straightened.

 “My father told me stories…” He broke off as she fell forward again this time her entire body trembling.  Her hounds howled and whined, a sense of helplessness that Engle felt also.  Then just as quickly the moment passed. 

She laughed tightly and showed him her wrists.  “See I do not burn without fire.  Do I have wounds I can’t account for? Do not ascribe to me anything of unusual.”

Despite her protestation Engle thought he saw a brightening of the skin on her hands and face.  He remembered her constant presence in his mind and would not be deterred.  “My father told me stories of how our people were hunted and tormented after the war.  I saw a little of what they may have experienced on my travels.  It is happening again isn’t it?  Have I brought this upon our people?”

Though her eyes brimmed with tears her voice was steady and strong.  “Your King William would do well to take heed.  I do not have the luxury of waiting for King Waldhar to give you an army or King William to recant.  His brother’s poison has saturated the land.  He has resurrected an old enemy to serve his ambitions.  If we doing nothing it will mean our end.”

            Engle’s stomach dropped.  “I think King William is well aware of the depths Gilchrist will sink to.”

            Her lips tightened and she shook her head.  “You do not comprehend the nature of the evil I speak.  But you will.”  Her brow furrowed and her many years were suddenly upon her shoulders.

Engle seized her wrist.  “Tell me.”  Howard and Artegall snapped at him and he released her.

“I can linger no longer and you must go.  It may be that you are already too late.”

An angry gust of wind cut through the camp.  It fanned the flames so they shot up and engulfed him.  He twisted away and fell hard on his side.  He rubbed his eyes to clear the ash and smoke, smelling the singed hair in his nostrils.  When he opened his eyes again, he was lying on his bedroll staring up at the sky.  The fire was out and the coals were cold.

She was gone. There was nothing, not even a footprint from her mighty companions.  Even his collar was dry where Howard had drooled on it. Engle’s eyes burned like the ash and smoke had just flashed into them.  His fire was out yet he was surrounded by smoke.  It had same putrid quality as when he burned the last of the rabbit.  He grabbed his sword and tore through the trees toward the farm.   His feet would carry him faster through the trees than Gavran, his black courser, could take him.  His broad body would limit Engle to the path instead of the straight line he tore through the trees.

The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 4

            No one noticed the child crouched behind wheels, hiding behind mules and sleeping in trees.  His possessions were meager and his needs few.  He carried with him a small knife with a bone handle, the sort women used to peel potatoes or cut reeds.  It was dull and the blade nicked but it was sufficient.  What he treasured most in the world he hung around his neck in a leather pouch his father made for him.  It was much like the pouches worn by the other children.  It held something more than the collection of superstitious herbs and bitter barks usually filling such pouches.  Inside was a collection of carefully etched stone beads that were once part of a beautiful necklace.  It was the last memento of his mother.  A woman he knew had nurtured him but he could not picture her that way any longer.  His memories were of watching her brutalized and murdered while he hid in a cupboard.  She promised not to let anything happen to him.  She kept her word.

He had been alone now for many months, drifting from one relative to the next, all of them on his father’s side of the family.  No one wanted him.  They said he was cursed after what had happened to his parents.  He knew what they were most afraid of were his precious beads.  It was of little consequence to him.  He was happy to leave his squeamish relations behind finding the freedom of life on his own far sweeter. 

He ran away at night.  No one came looking for him.  At night he slept in trees to avoid the wolves and various other predators.  None were so vicious as the ones that occupied his nightmares.  When he closed his eyes he watched her die all over again, her muffled cries and the smell of her terror.  He relived the moment when her body released all her fluids and fecal matter, a shameful last confession wrongly expressed in a selfless death.  Sometimes he felt the nightmares during the day and he would walk away from the wagons to scream at the trees.  Most of the time what he felt was disbelief and a yawning cavern of emptiness in his heart, black and silent. 

In time he encountered a group of pilgrims. He followed the caravan from Androna and across the border into Lisseon.  The child did not care where they were going so long as it was away from his relations.  There was nothing he left behind that was not brutalized or destroyed beyond all recognition. 

The boy had not particular direction he wished to go.  He shadowed them first out of curiosity and then for the need of hearing human voices again.  He stayed well out of sight.  Sleep was no friend so it was easy to remain vigilant and avoid detection by the watchmen at night.  He learned that filth was a good defense.  After a few days on the road the mud and soot along with the smell of the pigs they brought covered them all.  He smelled no worse than the rest. 

After the first few nights he realized it was not always advantageous to steal away to a secluded spot for the night.  In the caravan there were far worse things hunting at night than the wolves.  When he kept to the trees he was safe but he saw many from the camp, men and women, skulking about engaged in games he did not fully comprehend.  Sometimes the woman was an unwilling partner.  Some tried to scream and beat off the man while others laughed and seemed to enjoy themselves.  No matter what the game, he wanted no part of it. 

When a father or brother in the family was a light sleeper, the daughters and sisters were less likely to suffer.  Among such men was a man named Ivan.  He had a very young and pretty wife named Elsa.  At first he took them for father and daughter rather than husband and wife.  Their fire was always big and Ivan had a pleasant laugh.  The boy liked to stay close to their camp.  Ivan was very protective of Elsa and he needed to be.  After giving one man a fair thrashing the others steered clear.  The threat of reprisal outweighed the reward of raising a kirtle.  The boy admired that about him.  He wished he might have done the same for his mother.   

Among their caravan was a kantorei.  Most of them young men or boys and they sang while they marched but had little skill for anything else.  Most of them were novices hoping to take orders at Gulistan.  They hoped to sing before kings and lords along their path, counting on the gold they earned to purchase their keep when they finally reach the monastery.  Their love for god and song was only equaled by their love of wine.  And when they drank, they roamed as bold as foxes. 

The members of the kantorei were as bold as foxes.  Their leader was a friar named Claus. Claus wore a rough brown robe and a large wooden cross.  He spoke with a voice gentle like a woman’s.  He was white, round and doughy.  For all his outward pretense of gentleness, the boy did not trust him.  He paid little heed to women on their journey but took particular notice of the boy.  Indeed, he could hardly escape him during the long days that they marched.

“Do you have a name child?” He asked every day.

The boy refused to answer him the first half a dozen times he plied him.  When he could avoid him no longer;  “You may call me Tim.”  He replied.  The day was long and he had fallen far behind Elsa and Ivan.  He was forced to march with the port friar.

“I see you walk by yourself quite often.  Who among these fine folk do you belong too?”

That was not a new question either.  Generally, the answer had been to point to the wagon furthest away and run ahead to catch it.  The ploy had reached the limit of its success.  Claus remembered which wagons he pointed to.  In the evening he searched for him among those families.  One advantage Tim had was that there was more than one boy called by that name in their caravan.  It did little more than create confusion and afforded him some minor entertainment.  When morning came, Claus would find him again.  Tim knew that if he was found out the men might force him to stay behind at the nearest village or settlement.  That is if they allowed him to continue any distance at all with them.  A lone child was considered a harbinger of ill will. 

Claus deduced his true situation and he used that knowledge to force him to walk with the kantorei.  At first he presented the advantages of not being a lone traveler.  He mentioned curses that sprang up because of foundling children.  Tim remembered the words of his family and the horror the happened to his mother, all because of him.  At least Claus was not afraid of him and there was the advantage that there was plenty to eat.

However, Claus insistence he walk among them left him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.  The more time he spent with the cleric he noticed how intently he watched the younger ones. The novices and smaller boys feared him.  He had a way of putting things that made it hard to argue.  He used this logic to try and to get Tim to sleep in their circle.  Tim did not always have an answer.  He walked with them and ate with them and at night he stuck to his trees.  Claus was too fat and clumsy to climb them. 

One day Claus complimented him on his hair.  That evening Tim used his dull knife to shave it off.  His predicament did not go unnoticed.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days.”  Elsa shouted at him as he ran past her in the early morning.  “You stay clear of the fat one if you know what’s good for you.”  She added catching him by the sleeve.

“I will try my best.”  He stammered, his face getting hot.  He knew she was right.

“No.  You hear me, keep far away from him.  He may be a priest, may God forgive me.”  She quickly pressed her hands together and tipped her head before continuing.  “He is no holy man.  You heed my warning.  Come find me if anything should go wrong and I will call Ivan on him.”

“I promise.”

Tim felt uneasy the rest of the day.  Claus looked at him often in a way that made all Tim’s senses crawl.  When they stopped, he ate quickly and searched for a higher tree.  He heard the steps behind him and scrambled up as best he could.  Claus caught him by the leg and pulled him back down to the ground.  It was dark and no one was around.

“Stand with me a little while.”  He urged.

Tim felt the hair rise on the back of his neck.  His throat went dry and he could not speak.  Claus grip was insistent.  They stood for a while as the camp settled and the fires died down.  Claus smiled.  He set aside his walking stick and grabbed the hem of his surcoat.

“We are friends …” He started to say. 

Tim did not think.  He grabbed hold of the walking stick and swung it down hard on Claus forearm so that he let go.  Next, he struck a blow between his legs and another to the cleric’s kneecaps.  Amongst the blows Tim heard something crack.  Claus’ shrill scream brought half the camp running toward them.  He was on the ground, one hand below his belt and his other arm bent in a peculiar way.  Tim dropped the stick and backed away.  He tried to run but his legs felt like they were caught in deep mire.  Elsa’s arms were around him the next moment.  Ivan was with her.  He bent over Claus to check his injuries and smiled up at Tim.  Three men had to carry Claus back to the camp, with him wailing and moaning all the way. 

Elsa took Tim back to their camp.  Ivan told the camp that the priest had fallen out of a tree.  Claus was in too much pain to contradict the story.  That night Tim slept next to Elsa and Ivan’s fire.  She insisted he have a place with them every night.  Ivan grumbled but did not argue, a smile threatened the corner of his lips. 

As for Claus, his arm was broken.  More than that Tim’s blow curbed his perverse appetites for several days.   Tim soon realized that even if he were no longer the focus of Claus’ attentions some other boy would be.  The youngest members of the kantorei were not much older than he was. Everyone understood his predilections, yet no one was willing to do anything because he was a priest.  They were all afraid of him.  What was required was a far more permanent solution. 

Bas was one of the kantorei, second to Claus in status.  Before discovering his gift in song, he apprenticed a physician.  He attended to the wounded cleric and gave him special drops to ease his discomfort.  Curious, Tim watched him mix his draughts and it kindled an idea.  His mother had been a healer and he had watched her mix many potions for their neighbors.  He used to watch her for hours, hanging from rafters when he was supposed to be outside helping his father.  Necessity aided his memory and he recalled a particular tincture she made for a woman to give to her husband.  She was plagued by too many children and an over eager younger man.  If he could find all the ingredients and mix it up right it could solve the problem.

He looked through Bas’ bags and found most of what he needed.  The rest he had seen growing in the forest.  It took three days to procure everything.  By then Claus was walking with his stick and starting to take notice again of the young ones.  He would soon return to his predatory ways.  Tim had to act fast.  The primary root was very fragrant and extremely bitter, the rest of the ingredients were to mask its odor and taste.  Since Claus was dependant of Bas’ drops so it was easy to swap the two.  The first time Tim watched from under a cart as Bas administered Claus his daily draught. 

“You did something different.”  Claus said. 

Tim’s heart caught in his throat.  He should not have been able to taste the difference.

“It is the same as always.”  Bas soothed.

“It tastes and smells,” Claus paused.  Tim scooted forward on his belly a little further but he still could not see his face without giving away his hiding place.

“It is better.  Much better.”

Tim saw the shadow pass the vial back to Bas who sniffed loudly. 

“I’m sure it’s just the same.”

“No, no, this is far better.  The first I could hardly get down.  This I would order at the next pub.”

Bas chortled,  “I did add a bit more of the lavender to help with the smell.  It might effect its potency but…”

“I guess I should just drink more.”

“It doesn’t always work like that.”

“You are just a student, yes?  You left before you completed your apprenticeship.”

“Aye.”

“Then I as a priest shall be the judge.  I say more.”

Tim covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.  The first test was over. 

The following days showed no renewed interest in the youth but an increasing appetite for the drink.  After nearly a week, Tim judged that his groin injury should have healed enough for his predilections to revive.   They did not surface, at least in any manner he could observe.  Tim was relieved.  Feeding his thirst for the draught became another matter.  It was a challenge keeping up.  It seemed only a matter of time before Bas discovered his tampering. 

Elsa helped get him whatever he needed to make the draught.  And Bas was never the wiser.  Ever since that night Tim joined Elsa and Ivan at their camp every night.  Ivan was a gruff yet generous man.  She was a fine cook and had an infectious laugh that soothed Ivan’s moods and chased Tim’s terrors away.  He persisted in the lie that he was attached to another family in the camp and kept to the trees when it was time to sleep.  Elsa smiled and nodded.            

She gave him a blanket and a skin bottle so he could carry his own water.  She also patched the holes in his sack.  He broke fast with them every morning and he could be assured that there would be an apple and a lump of cheese set aside for him every day. They were the first people since his parents to want him around.  When some of the group broke off to head west into Ogalon Tim was heartbroken that they might be going.  He heard Ivan asking the men lots of questions about the prospects for work and the size of the ports.  It was the one place Tim could not follow and yet he did not want to be alone any more.  He approached Elsa that morning with a glum heart.  She handed him his breakfast. 

“What’s troubling you that you have such a grey face?  I thought to put roses back in those cheeks if you a not to much of a man for me to say that.”

Tim blushed at her greeting then frowned again.

“Well that is a fine good morning.”

“You’re leaving.”

“We most certainly are not unless you are wanting to put the idea in our heads.  We may go someday but not till after we spend some time in Traimiss.” Elsa winked.

Traimiss.  The name held a kind of power over him.  His mother had visited there once.  She spoke of a man who had been of great help to her family, their family.  It was long before Tim was born, when she was only a girl.

Later that morning the wind picked up.  It was foul and razor sharp, carrying with it so much more than the chill and the rain.  The two groups parted ways with cheers and good wishes.  Tim shivered as he watched them go.  Not even Elsa’s arms around his shoulders could stop the cold.