2. Rourk
Chapter two
Rourk
I t’s not until I drift back into consciousness that I realize I’d fallen asleep. The pounding in my head has lessened, but the lack of movement in my legs is very disconcerting.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out for, but it feels like some time has passed. A shaft of white-hot sunlight is streaming through a gap in the hut flaps, which are softly billowing in the breeze. I can hear muted voices beyond the hut but can’t make out any of the words. Just indistinct chatter. And bird chirps, I think.
I should try to leave before that woman comes back, but it’s soon clear that my legs will not be supporting my weight any time soon. And I still feel a lingering fatigue in my bones.
They must have drugged me. The broken shards of the mug are no longer there, and the tea stain has dried up. The old blood stain is still there, as is the bone in the cloths .
I pause at the sight of a knife hilt on top of a small chest across the hut. A sheathed knife is there. Waiting for me.
A hidden weapon would do me just fine. I need to get back home and check on May. I need to know if she survived the attack on the city. She probably thinks I’m dead. Everyone must think I’m dead.
I sigh as I heave myself off the bedding and begin crawling on my belly, pulling myself along with my hands and elbows. My useless legs drag behind me. My left shoulder burns with pain, but I ignore it and keep going. I pass the remains of the fire in the center of the hut and maneuver myself around the large trunk. The dark stain has the metallic stench of old blood.
Gods, I hate how weak I am, and how heavy my head feels. I’ve never felt so useless inside my own body before.
But I’m getting closer to the knife.
The hut flaps fly open and the woman enters to find my arm reaching out, inches away from the sheathed knife on the chest. With a huff, she springs into action and kicks the knife away to send it falling out of view.
“I told you to reserve your strength,” she hisses. Her angry scowl tells me she means business. “I’m not dragging you around. You got yourself into this, you get yourself out of it. Now, back on your bed.” She throws an arm out and points at the bedding like she’s scolding a child.
“Just a minute,” I say, rolling onto my back and catching my breath.
Her eyes flash with something dark and she looks like she’s about to yell. I nod wearily and begin my long trek back to the bedding. I notice my legs shift as I twist around, but don’t bring attention to them. Maybe I’m not so weak after all.
“Why do you want me… to get better?” I ask between heavy breaths as I climb onto the bedding. I feel like an animal crawling through the dirt. “You’re just going to kill me, anyway.” I don’t mention the being eaten part.
She gives me a quizzical look, tilting her head. I hate how hard she is to read. I can usually guess what someone is thinking or feeling. But this woman is a rock.
“You are not a prisoner, and your life is not in danger. I promise you this,” she says with mild annoyance, like the idea of me being murdered in the Wildlands is so obnoxiously far fetched.
“Then I demand to go outside. I want some air, and to see my surroundings. If I’m not a prisoner, you will permit me this.”
She crosses her arms over her chest and eyes me, as if judging my character. “How will you go outside? I’m not carrying you.” There’s a childish stubbornness in her tone. Like she’s used to being given everything she wants.
“So I am imprisoned here?” I say. Without waiting for a response, I add, “You have made a big mistake bringing me here. You will have the full might of the Oathlands on your backs, and they will rain down hellfire if you harm me.” I do my best to sound fierce, despite my position laying on the bedding.
The woman almost looks like she’s about to laugh, which irritates me. “You don’t listen very well. I’ve told you. You are not a prisoner. You would be dead were it not for us.” She begins preparing things on the table again. Another tea ?
I allow myself a moment to master my breathing and collect my thoughts. “Who are you? What is your name?”
Beyond the hut, conversational voices become a little louder, although I still can’t make out the words. I think I hear a burst of children’s laughter, but then I wonder if that was a trick of the wind.
“What do you want from me?” I ask. After more silence, I add, “What’s in that tea?”
All of my questions go ignored as she sparks another fire and sets the pot over it.
Gods, why is this woman so frustrating? “I don’t know what your customs are,” I say through my teeth, “but where I’m from, it’s rude to ignore someone.”
That gets no reaction from her. I broke her cool exterior before, but it seems she’s honed it with steel now. I drop my head back and have no choice but to rest. Weariness is seeping into my bones and making my eyelids heavy.
The woman prepares the tea and places another clay mug beside my bedding. She leaves without another word. Steam wafts from the mug and dissipates in the air.
I consider searching for another weapon, but my thoughts drift away as exhaustion overwhelms me. Sleep embraces me. Sweet, sweet rest.
I snap awake at the sound of heavy boots approaching the hut. Judging by the sun still streaming in through the hut flaps, and the steam coming off the tea, I don’t think I’ve been out for long.
A bearded man in a fur cloak enters. He appears middle-aged, though it’s hard to be certain from his full beard and weathered look. A faded green tunic and dusty pants speak of a life mostly spent outdoors. His thick boots look made for cross-country travel and are caked in mud. His salt-and-pepper beard matches his heavy eyebrows and thick hair that’s tied in a loose tail.
“How is our guest?” the man asks, his voice deep and softly booming. A corner of his mouth rises, shifting his beard.
“Where I’m from, we treat our guests a little differently,” I say as I shift myself onto my elbows.
“I’m sure you do a great many things differently,” the man says with humor. There is something familiar in his deep, dark-blue eyes. He steps further inside and checks the full mug of tea beside me. “I apologize for my daughter. She… has a temperament. Her mother was the same.”
“Who are you?” I ask.
“My name is Aldus Tavaris. Some know me as a keeper of books. Others know me as a drinker of ale.” He gives me a crooked, humor-filled smile and clears a few things from a stool and sits with a heavy sigh.
“You are a Wildman?” I ask.
He grins at me, his dark eyes gleaming with mischief. “There is a lot for you to learn, Oathlander. Now that we can talk, might I ask your name?”
I consider that for a moment. “Tarin.” I give the name of one of my soldiers. I don’t want them to know my status. “I had requested to go outside and see my surroundings, but your daughter was more interested in ignoring me.”
Aldus rolls his eyes. “Yes. I apologize for that as well. Well, you going outside won’t be easy. I’m not a young man anymore, and you don’t seem the type to be comfortable being carried out like a babe. However, I believe I can make it work.”
He stands up with a grunt and eyes the tea beside me. “I suggest you drink that while it’s still warm. It has a nasty aftertaste once cooled. And if there’s one thing my daughter knows how to do, it’s make a good mug of tea.”
As he makes his way to the exit, I ask, “Can you tell me where I am?”
He stops and gives me a sideways look. “I will show you. Allow me a moment.”
I drop my head back and let out a weary sigh after he leaves. When I test my legs, I see they have a little more life in them. I can just about wiggle my toes and, with some effort, can slightly bend my knees. But the actions require a lot of effort and concentration.
The minty scent of the tea does smell good. No, don’t drink it , I tell myself. Not until you know more about your situation . If these Wildmen truly want to kill me and devour my body, I will not make it easy for them.
I sit up with some effort. At least the throbbing in my head is gone.
Aldus soon returns, and he is carrying two long sticks. A handle lashed with twine to both sticks tells me they are crutches. The bearded man has a gentle touch to him as he helps me up and hands me the crutches to support my weight. On my feet, the sticks take almost my entire weight. Thankfully, the tops of the sticks are padded with cloth tied with string, so they don’t dig into my armpits. That gesture alone is almost enough to have me relaxing, nevermind the fact that he gave me makeshift crutches at all. But I wonder if it’s meant to ease me, to allay my suspicions.
I don’t let myself fall for any of their tricks.
“How are they?” Aldus asks.
I take a tentative step forward. The right stick gets caught in a crack in the earth and throws me off balance. Aldus catches me before I fall.
“Easy. Easy,” he says. “Take your time. Go slow. Here. Come on.”
He stays close as he encourages me to take a few more steps. I manage to shift forward without falling, but I hate how weak my arms are. My whole body feels soft and frail. And I have to ignore the pain flaring in my left shoulder. I wonder if I've broken a collarbone or something in my shoulder. There are old scrapes on my arms, but no major signs of damage. I wonder how broken I was when they found me on the riverside.
Aldus has his arms out as though he’s ready to catch me at any moment as he slowly backs out of the hut. I get the sense that he’s a good man with a good heart, but I remind myself not to trust anyone.
I blink against the harsh daylight as I finally step out of the hut, the flaps falling away over my shoulders. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust.
It’s late morning or early afternoon. The sun is somewhere behind the clouds, mottling the blue sky. A vast field is before me, and many people are roaming about. Several smaller and larger huts are among enormous tent structures, rising over the huts like rooftops.
Everyone I see is in weathered clothing. Loose cardigans, baggy sweaters, open vests, flowing dresses. They seem to like browns, creams, and grays, as most are dressed in those colors. Some people gather by a circle of logs with a fire in the center. A stick frame suspends an enormous cauldron over the fire.
Children’s laughter cuts through the air. There’s a group of them playing by a muddy pond across the way. I look upon elderly women, young boys, and some women with babes in their arms. They are simply going about their lives. There are even clothes hanging on a line, billowing lazily in the warm breeze. Farther across the field, beyond a collection of trees, I see what looks like a river bank.
This is a town. A town of Wildmen. But not a town of feral savages. I never thought they’d be so organized. And so calm. I hadn’t been expecting this at all.
I turn to Aldus, who has been watching me closely. “I may have gotten the Wildmen wrong,” I admit. “I didn’t know you lived this… harmoniously.”
Aldus’s grin shifts his beard. “We are not Wildmen.”
I raise my eyebrows with surprise, and he seems to enjoy my confused look.
Then something crosses the sky and catches my eye. I straighten at the sight of a figure cutting through the air in the distance. It’s a person, and they are… flying in the air. A trail of golden dust-like light disperses in their wake. It takes me several seconds to understand I really am seeing someone flying.
I feel my mouth hanging open when someone sitting by the cauldron reaches out, and a spark flies from their fingertip. The spark hits the fire and strengthens it in a rush of hot air. Before I can recover from this, a small dog runs by me, yapping near my legs. But it isn’t a dog. It’s a fox-like animal with auburn fur. Three fluffy tails are wagging happily from its rear as it circles my feet. As it darts away, I’m even more stunned to notice its paws are not directly striking the ground. It’s effortlessly gliding through the air, a few inches from the ground.
Aldus is chuckling at my slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression.
“Come,” he says. “Allow me to show you around. We have a lot to explain.”