C. S. Friedman - Magister 01, page 14
I am going to die, he despairs. Not upon the horns of my prey or by the teeth of an angry predator, as it should be, but upon the blades of cowards while I lie sick and helpless before them.
How has he ever offended the gods so terribly, that they would do this to him? He tries to voice a howl of indignation but no sound comes from his throat. He senses something being swung at his head but he cannot dodge it… and then the night explodes in a veil of stars and the last of his consciousness pours out of him like hot blood, leaving him at the mercy of the predators…
For a long time after the flow of memories ceased he lay still, trying to absorb it all. Though he was not generally the kind of man who gave way to fear, this was a different manner of beast than a wild boar, or even a maddened lion. This… this disease did not care if he was brave or not, it was not affected by plans or preparations, and it struck from the shadows when he was least prepared for it. This time he was lucky he was not dead. A well-equipped traveler lying helpless along the roadside was an open invitation to theft and assault, or even slavery if the wrong person came along. He was clearly alive, there were no chains upon him, and someone had tended to his wounds, so the worst had not happened… but he might not be so lucky next time.
If the disease had progressed to the point where it would take him thus, without warning, perhaps this journey was indeed more than he could handle.
His mouth tightened at the thought; the bandaged spot on his head throbbed painfully. No.
Friends sometimes joked with him that he was not Danton’s son in truth. He lacked his father’s coloring, his harsh features, his casual brutality, and nearly all the other qualities that were generally considered trademarks of Danton’s lineage. He understood the jokes that were made about that and smiled and laughed along with his cohorts. But there was one area in which Andovan was truly his father’s son, and that was his stubbornness.
He had gone out into the world with no royal name, no family ties, limited supplies, and no real sense of how his quest was to begin, just the stubborn determination to seek out the person who had caused his weakness, and an unnamed and untested spell that would allegedly help him find his way. He was doing that despite a weakness that sapped his very strength and left him, occasionally, as helpless as a babe. Nothing in that picture had changed now. Any idiot knew that the symptoms of the Wasting grew more and more pronounced as the end drew near. He’d never heard of anyone losing consciousness from it like he did, but it was not beyond imagination’s reach. Very well. If that was the newest symptom, then he would deal with it. But he was Danton’s son, and he would not abandon his quest simply because of an illness of the flesh. No matter how debilitating that illness was.
“You are awake?”
It was a female voice that spoke, gentle and perhaps a bit hesitant. He tried to raise himself up on his elbows to see its owner, and came near to managing the task. As he looked about he could see the room he was in more clearly. It was a small room lined in split logs, and patched with handfuls of mud and straw, inexpertly applied. He lay on one of many straw pallets near a cold fireplace; four others were currently unoccupied. Through a small window on one side daylight sent teasing streamers that trapped the room’s dust in glimmering rays, allowing him to see a few primitive tools hanging on iron hooks, a pile of dingy blankets, old pottery jars by the fireplace that once must have been gaily painted, now relegated to a cruder life. The whole of the place was dismally poor, but it was clean, and the rushes covering the floor smelled fresh. That spoke well for someone.
Then he saw the girl. She was young, not quite a woman yet, but with a prettiness that promised to become more than prettiness as she matured. Her clothes were patched many times over but clean, and her hair had been brushed till it shone. That was rare in any peasant’s home.
Blue eyes. She had blue eyes. They reminded him strangely of his mother’s. Was there northern blood in her?
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He managed to nod without his head splitting in two, which was a small miracle. Then he managed to smile slightly, an even bigger one. “As opposed to the alternative of being dead, yes, I suppose I feel well.”
“My brothers didn’t think you would live.”
“The gods were merciful, then… and perhaps, my nurse skilled.”
She blushed, which confirmed his guess.
Little do they know who or what they saved, he mused.
He managed to sit up. She helped him halfway though, so he was not yet sure he could manage it alone, but even that qualified triumph over weakness and pain bolstered his spirits considerably.
“What is your name, lass?”
Maybe it was something in his tone that made her lower her eyes briefly, as if she sensed the rank he had been born to. Or maybe… maybe it was maidenly modesty. She was still young enough for that to be the case, though among the poor such a state rarely lasted. Pretty young virgins were worth too much coin on the open market to be kept away from it for long.
“Dea, sir.”
“Dea.” He smiled, though it hurt his face. “Please don’t call me sir.” Her deferential manner concerned him. Was it so obvious he was not a townsman? That was something to address when he took to the road again. Maybe it would keep him from getting robbed and nearly killed a second time if he could pass for a peasant more successfully. “My name is—” He hesitated, trying to remember back past the pain to the one he had chosen. “Talesin.”
“Talesin.” She smiled. My, she would be a beautiful one when she filled out, if the world did not beat her down first, and crush the natural innocence which gave her smile such charm. Which it probably would.
With a sigh he tried to rise to his feet, and to his surprise, managed it. Evidently his body had resigned itself to living and decided to cooperate with him at last. “Where are your brothers? I assume they rescued me?”
“I found you. They brought you here. They said…”
Fezsf of Soufs
She hesitated. “They said that you were wellborn, by the look of you, and that maybe there would be a reward to be had, if you survived.”
There would be if they knew who to tell about it, he thought wryly.
“My hands are calloused,” he pointed out, showing her where a lifetime of riding and hunting had left its mark. “Is that wellborn?”
“Your fingernails are clean,” she pointed out, showing him. “And trimmed to the shape of fine crescent moons, not worn down by labor.”
He chuckled. “So they are.”
And so I shall have to learn to chew my nails. Though if I had done so before this, I would have been left for dead by my mercenary benefactors. A curious irony, that
“Tell me of what you know,” he said. And, “tell me how long it has been.”
“I found you last night, as I left the town. You were lying facedown by the side of the road, where carriage wheels might strike you. Your face was covered in blood and your clothes…” She blushed ever so slightly and looked down. “Your clothes were half removed, as though someone had searched through them.”
No doubt looking for treasures to steal, he thought. He was lucky his attackers had not needed a new wardrobe. “Go on.”
“I went and got Viktor, my brother, who brought the others. They brought you back here, and fetched supplies for nursing. They thought you were going to die, but I… I could see the strength in you.”
“So it has been only one night?”
She nodded.
He felt about his person, feeling for all the various things which had once been stored on his body. All of it was gone, of course. Anything the thieves did not take his benefactors would have.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“If I am standing and talking, I am well enough.” Actually the standing part was a bit hard, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “Whatever trail remains is growing cold.”
“Trail?” She blinked. “You mean you are going after them?”
“It seems the thing to do, does it not?”
“But your injuries… you need to rest…”
He shook his head. “I can go after them now and take my chances, or take time to heal and lose any hope of finding them. After all,” he said, meeting her eyes and smiling, “I can hardly reward you and your brothers if all my coin is gone, can I?”
He reached up to feel the bandages again, and then, with a wince, peeled them from the wound. The flesh beneath was crusted with dried blood, but it felt sound enough. The pain was now reduced to a hot throbbing that blazed behind his left eye. He had survived worse.
He looked about the stark room, searching for tools that might serve his purpose. At last he saw a length of hemp rope coiled in one corner, which he gathered up. Then he went to the fireplace, where he removed the long iron bar from which a stew kettle depended, setting the kettle aside.
“I will need to borrow these, is that all right?”
Eyes wide, she nodded.
“Come then,” he said. “Take me to where you found me.”
There were no clues at the site. Of course. A muddy road leading to the only inn within miles must be so scarred from wagon wheels, horseshoes, and passing boots he would have been hard pressed to pick out a single human footprint, much less know which one mattered to him. He settled for checking the surrounding brush for any items of his possession that might have been left behind. He had hoped they might have missed his knife, but apparently not.
He sent the girl away, then. He did not want to put her at risk.
A short distance from the road he found his encampment, surrounded by dense enough brush that he had hoped his attackers would not realize it was there. No such luck. His horse was gone, along with his saddle packs and all the supplies they held. Fortunately he always hid his most valuable possessions when leaving a camp unguarded, and a brief foray into the surrounding woods showed him that his hiding place had gone undiscovered. At least he had some coin now, though he would have traded all of it for a good knife. The next time he would have to hide one with his valuables, in case of a repeat of this dismal experience.
Are you sure you want to hunt them? he asked himself. They are many, you are one. They will be armed, you have only household implements. They will be well-rested and healthy, while you—
A muscle along his jaw clenched tight. It was an expression eerily like Danton’s. He felt like Danton in that moment—stubborn, cold, determined. His father’s strength flowed through him… and his mother’s.
You are a hunter, he told himself. One whose prey does not expect him to strike. There is power in that.
It was surprisingly easy to pick up the trail starting from his encampment. They had led his mount away on foot—probably arguing over who would get to ride him—and that had left sharp crescent marks scored in the damp earth, a perfect marker. The hoofprints led away from the small town, which told Andovan that his attackers had not been locals, but rather itinerant scum who preyed upon legitimate travelers and then moved on. Good. He followed their trail moving quickly, quietly, straining his senses to the utmost. Shortly he found a mound of horse droppings that he judged to be at least half a day old, which told him that it had been some time since his attackers had passed this way; but night had been approaching when he was attacked, and with luck they had made camp not far from here and were only just stirring now.
Silently, silently he moved, a ghost among the trees, his passage as soundless as an owl’s flight. All those skills that allowed him to sneak up on a hunter’s prey were now doubly valued, being turned against men. As it should be. They had the advantage of numbers, weapons, and condition. He must have the advantage of surprise.
It was possible that his head still hurt, but he was too wrapped up in the hunt now to notice it. It had been like that the day a boar had gored his side as well; his mother had raised bloody hell over it, but he hadn’t even noticed the blood streaming from his flesh until his quarry was brought down.
Soon he caught the scent of a stale campfire on the wind, and he knew he had found his quarry. He circled wide around the area to where the breeze favored him, and let the scent guide him while he scanned the early morning woods for the sort of terrain that would favor a thieves’ encampment. They had left him for dead and probably did not expect pursuit on his behalf; nonetheless they would have taken basic precautions and tried to place their campsite where passing travelers would not notice it. They would probably set someone on watch while they slept as well, and though it was dubious they would keep that up once they were awake, he watched closely for signs of a lookout.
At last he saw the sort of place he himself would have chosen for a blind, a gap in the trees where sunlight had encouraged a thickening of underbrush, which in turn provided a dense screen some ten yards wide, obscuring what lay beyond. He crouched behind a tree trunk and just watched the camp for a while, alert for any sign of human activity. It seemed now that he could hear voices from just beyond it, intermittent, the kind of sounds one made when doing something other than talking. He could pick up the scent of dying smoke, now, and human scents as well. After a moment longer, seeing there was no movement in the blind—guessing that such men would not be disciplined enough to remain perfectly still on watch as soldiers might—he crept forward carefully, placing each foot so that he made no rustling noise, broke no twigs, gave no warning.
At last he found a place where he could see beyond the screen of foliage. They had camped there, all right; four of them, with his horse tethered nearby. There were no other mounts present at the moment, though if they had his gold they’d be able to buy some at the next town along the road; robbing Andovan had improved their fortune immensely. They were as he had guessed they would be, coarse and grimy men dressed in a catch-all medley of stolen bits and pieces of clothing, occasional treasured trinkets glittering from beneath shirt and jerkin, perhaps as trophies.
Two were just beginning to gather their things, while another smothered the fire that must have recently served to heat food or drink for them. He watched them closely and decided they were more brutes than professionals: men who had learned that a pack of four working in unison could take down the strongest prey with no need for complex planning. That was good; such a group was unlikely to be prepared for a stealthy assault.
Andovan’s head throbbed hotly for a moment, reminding him of his own weakened condition, but he was too focused upon his prey to let it bother him. With care he lay down the rope he had brought as he had planned,
taking care to move quietly, freezing when there was not enough noise in the camp to cover his own movements. But the thieves were not watching for trouble. They were joking now about some woman they’d shared in a distant town, which apparently was the reason they were not anxious to stay in the vicinity. Andovan’s jaw clenched tightly as he crouched down in the brush to watch them, waiting for the moment that must surely come, if they had just broken their fast.
And soon it did. Laughing, the tallest of the men made some crude comment about female sexual habits and then moved into the brush surrounding the camp, one hand reaching under his shirt to loosen his clothing. Andovan knew the thief would be but a moment at his business and must be taken swiftly. Fortunately for him the man had eaten well the night before, and had something more substantial than piss to offer to the gods of the woods; Andovan came up behind him like a cat while he crouched, and had his arm around his neck before the man even knew he was there. It was a less effective move than crushing his head with an iron bar would have been, but it was quieter; Andovan’s muscular arm choked the man’s windpipe before he could utter a sound, bending him upward and backward so that he had no purchase on the ground. He had choked a mountain lion that way once, though the claws had raked him dearly in the process; at least this time he could grab his quarry’s wrist and keep him from getting hold of any kind of weapon.
The man was enough of a fighter that he did not struggle wildly, but tried to strike at his attacker. But Andovan’s grip was uncompromising, and the kicks and blows that were offered were but weak things, with no power to dislodge him. After a few minutes the struggles ceased. Andovan held on, still, until he felt that special, eerie limpness which meant that life had left the flesh. Then he let the body down, slowly, lowering it to the ground with care so that it made as little noise as possible.
All was quiet, if not utterly silent. He braved a glance back through the brush, parting the leaves until he could catch a glimpse of the clearing. The men were too busy chattering among themselves to have heard him. That meant he had a few moments to prepare himself. He searched the body quickly, cursing under his breath when he saw the man was unarmed. He’d have given much for a knife right now. Hefting the iron bar he’d borrowed, Andovan slipped back to the spot he had prepared nearby, and then waited, listening carefully.
Finally a man’s voice called, “Tomas?”
There was a pause, then another came to his ears. “… should be back by now.”
“Tomas?”
Only silence.
“Damn it all, has he gone off somewhere?”
“Could be an animal got him—”
“Well then we’d have heard it, wouldn’t we?”
“Like you ever stop chattering long enough to hear anything.”
“Like you ever shut up long enough to listen.”
“Tomas!”
Andovan let out a groan then. It was hopefully that kind of groan which any man might utter, devoid of the kind of tone or detail that would identify its owner.
“Ah, damn!”
“Tomas, you hurt?” Andovan said nothing. “Shit, man, I told you to watch where you walked. Probably another damned snake.”
“Probably bit him on the prick this time.”
Cursing under his breath, one of the men began to head into the brush, near where Andovan was waiting, calling for his lost friend. The fugitive prince could not have asked for better. He fell back behind the bulk of a tree trunk, letting the man pass by him before he swung the iron bar at the back of his head. The sound of the impact cracked through the forest, silencing whatever discussion was going on in the camp. As he had meant it to.
