Love As It Was Made to Be: 11.
Mar. 24th, 2012 09:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
clare_dragonflyJourney took the lead once more, now that they had returned to a path he could follow easily. (He did not know why he was always the leader, but he suspected it had something to do with the name he had been given and had willingly taken on.) Hemlock, saying he was tired, mounted the donkey, and Cicatrix took its bridle.
The path here was wide and clearly marked, for which Journey was grateful, because the light was fading and the walk through the cloud had taken more of a toll on his limbs than he had expected. He was already looking for a good site at which to camp, though he despaired of finding one so close to the bare top of the mountain.
Just as he was deciding that they could cut down or bend away a few smaller trees to make a space for themselves, something caught his eyes through the trees—a glimmer that, in a few steps, resolved itself into a fire. Someone else was camping here. If they had found a space, perhaps he and his charges could join them… but perhaps they were brigands, such as they had encountered before. He stopped on the path and called softly to Cicatrix.
When the witch had reached them, he gestured toward the fire. “Can you tell us what manner of folk are at that fire? Will they welcome us?”
She was silent for a moment, then shook her head, her lips pursed together. “I cannot tell,” she whispered. “The Sight does not always come when I call, Journey, and it cannot see into men’s hearts.”
He nodded, feeling obscurely ashamed and guilty. “Then we will take our chances. You must be ready to run if it becomes necessary.”
“Of course.” Her voice was like that of a cynical old woman. She dropped back to tell Hemlock to hang on tightly.
The trail switched back twice before they found the source of the campfire, and due to the donkey’s continuing belligerence, it had fallen fully dark by the time they reached it. Silently, Journey drew his hammer, holding it half-concealed at his side so that the firelight would not shine off it. He wanted to be prepared, but not look a threat. The barefoot young woman and the half-asleep child who were with him should contribute to the appearance of harmlessness.
Finally, he stepped into the firelight, Cicatrix by his side. The men—three of them, grouped around the fire on logs—did not notice him at first, so he cleared his throat. All three of their heads snapped up, eyes glimmering in the light—and they roared as one, with pleasure, raising flagons that sloshed with ale.
“Welcome to our campfire!” cried one, a bulky, muscled man with a thick black beard. “Join us! Have you any ale?”
“We have meat, but no ale,” said Cicatrix, stepping forward and surprising Journey—he had thought to be the one to speak. “But we will join you, if you will have us.”
Another man, with dark skin and reddish hair, laughed wildly. “Well there’s plenty of ale to go around, isn’t there, boys?” This was answered by another roaring cheer, and all three of them tipped up their mugs, drinking deep.
“Is there room for three in your camp?” Journey asked, surreptitiously sliding his hammer back into its loop. “We have not found another cleared place, and your fire looked welcoming.”
“By all means, by all means,” said the black-bearded man. “But where’s your third?”
“I think he is already asleep,” said Cicatrix, lifting her son from the donkey’s back. He muttered and turned his face into her shoulder. This just made the drunken men at the fire laugh.
Once Journey and Cicatrix had unpacked the donkey, turned it out to graze, and put Hemlock to bed, they joined the men at the fire and were immediately handed their own mugs of ale. Journey tried a sip and found it thin and weak compared to others he had tasted on this journey, but he supposed it did the job.
The third man, who was enough like the black-bearded man to be his son or brother, but did not have a beard, did not seem quite so drunken as the rest. “What brings a little family over the mountain to Atash? Are you emigrating from Skareya, perhaps?”
“One of us is,” said Cicatrix, who seemed to be enjoying the ale. “But you mistake us—we are no family.”
“I am only a bodyguard,” said Journey, feeling uncomfortable; he wanted to clarify his role, but he did not like the way the red-haired man turned his eyes to Cicatrix when he said that, or the way everyone fell silent to listen to his words. The forest was full of night sounds, but no animal would venture anywhere near them.
Then the black-bearded man began telling a story, and the ale flowed freely.
For the rest of the evening they shared stories, ale, and bits of meat. After some time, the black-bearded man fell asleep; after some further time, the red-haired man and Cicatrix slipped off. (Journey had not been drinking heavily, but he did not see when it happened or where they went; after he noticed they had gone, however, he heard soft sounds coming from the trees, and turned his mind resolutely away, draining his ale.)
“So you’re a bodyguard,” the black-haired man said unexpectedly. He nodded toward Journey’s hammer. “That’s an unusual weapon. You know how to use it?”
“Of course,” said Journey, raising his eyebrows. There did not seem to be any accusation in the man’s tone, but it was an odd question to ask. “If I did not, we would not have gotten this far.”
“No, I suppose not. You’re all three Skareyan? Ever been to Atash before?”
“Never. Are you Artash?”
“Yes, indeed, my brother and I are. Our companion is Southern. But we make a good team, the three of us.”
Journey considered that. “What is it you do, the three of you?”
“Transportation. Not too many people want to cross the mountains, these days. It pays well.”
Journey studied the man’s eyes, hard and narrow across the fire, and decided that he should not ask what they were transporting, for fear he did not wish to know. “I am glad for you.”
“And you? How’s the bodyguarding business pay?”
He smiled. “Better than you could ever imagine.”
“How’s that?”
“She is a witch.”
“Hmm.” The man took a swig of his ale, then blinked. “Oh, yes, I see. Well then, good for you, boy. How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen.” As soon as he had said it Journey wondered if he should really have given this man the information. They were camping together, but not traveling together, and there was no need for such personal sharing. They had not even exchanged names.
“Plenty old enough to strike out on your own.”
“Well, yes.”
“And the witch—does she really need you?”
Journey had to smile at that, for he had wondered the same thing himself. “To be honest, I am not entirely sure. She certainly knows more than I do.”
The man nodded, then studied Journey silently. Journey, uncomfortable, turned his head away and began poking at the fire with a stick. When he had broken up the stick and tossed it in for the flames to consume, the other man spoke again. “I was not being entirely candid when I told you that my two companions and I made a good team. We were once a team of four, and we worked better that way. It has been too long, and we have not found another man who could fit in with our group and was willing to cross the mountains. We pay in cash, not promises.”
Journey was so shocked that he could not speak for some time. Was that a job offer? He could certainly not accept it. Or could he? This would be a viable career for him, even if it did seem to involve smuggling. He felt no particular loyalty to the nation that had borne him. And he did think he would enjoy crossing the mountains again.
But he did not trust this man. And he had made a bargain, and must keep it. He shook his head slowly. “I thank you for your offer, but I cannot abandon my duties.”
“Are you sure?” The man’s face betrayed no emotion. “If it is the witchcraft you fear, I know ways to stop it.”
Journey had not even thought of that, and now that he did, he found it unlikely that anything could stop Cicatrix if she wanted to find him again. He shook his head, more decisively this time. “I am a man of my word. Perhaps, when this job is over, we will meet again.” But he did not think they would.
The black-haired man frowned slightly, and seemed about to say something, but at that moment Hemlock wandered up to the fire, sleepy-eyed and complaining of hunger, and Journey turned aside to feed him the remnants from their dinner. The black-haired man did not speak to Journey again.
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The path here was wide and clearly marked, for which Journey was grateful, because the light was fading and the walk through the cloud had taken more of a toll on his limbs than he had expected. He was already looking for a good site at which to camp, though he despaired of finding one so close to the bare top of the mountain.
Just as he was deciding that they could cut down or bend away a few smaller trees to make a space for themselves, something caught his eyes through the trees—a glimmer that, in a few steps, resolved itself into a fire. Someone else was camping here. If they had found a space, perhaps he and his charges could join them… but perhaps they were brigands, such as they had encountered before. He stopped on the path and called softly to Cicatrix.
When the witch had reached them, he gestured toward the fire. “Can you tell us what manner of folk are at that fire? Will they welcome us?”
She was silent for a moment, then shook her head, her lips pursed together. “I cannot tell,” she whispered. “The Sight does not always come when I call, Journey, and it cannot see into men’s hearts.”
He nodded, feeling obscurely ashamed and guilty. “Then we will take our chances. You must be ready to run if it becomes necessary.”
“Of course.” Her voice was like that of a cynical old woman. She dropped back to tell Hemlock to hang on tightly.
The trail switched back twice before they found the source of the campfire, and due to the donkey’s continuing belligerence, it had fallen fully dark by the time they reached it. Silently, Journey drew his hammer, holding it half-concealed at his side so that the firelight would not shine off it. He wanted to be prepared, but not look a threat. The barefoot young woman and the half-asleep child who were with him should contribute to the appearance of harmlessness.
Finally, he stepped into the firelight, Cicatrix by his side. The men—three of them, grouped around the fire on logs—did not notice him at first, so he cleared his throat. All three of their heads snapped up, eyes glimmering in the light—and they roared as one, with pleasure, raising flagons that sloshed with ale.
“Welcome to our campfire!” cried one, a bulky, muscled man with a thick black beard. “Join us! Have you any ale?”
“We have meat, but no ale,” said Cicatrix, stepping forward and surprising Journey—he had thought to be the one to speak. “But we will join you, if you will have us.”
Another man, with dark skin and reddish hair, laughed wildly. “Well there’s plenty of ale to go around, isn’t there, boys?” This was answered by another roaring cheer, and all three of them tipped up their mugs, drinking deep.
“Is there room for three in your camp?” Journey asked, surreptitiously sliding his hammer back into its loop. “We have not found another cleared place, and your fire looked welcoming.”
“By all means, by all means,” said the black-bearded man. “But where’s your third?”
“I think he is already asleep,” said Cicatrix, lifting her son from the donkey’s back. He muttered and turned his face into her shoulder. This just made the drunken men at the fire laugh.
Once Journey and Cicatrix had unpacked the donkey, turned it out to graze, and put Hemlock to bed, they joined the men at the fire and were immediately handed their own mugs of ale. Journey tried a sip and found it thin and weak compared to others he had tasted on this journey, but he supposed it did the job.
The third man, who was enough like the black-bearded man to be his son or brother, but did not have a beard, did not seem quite so drunken as the rest. “What brings a little family over the mountain to Atash? Are you emigrating from Skareya, perhaps?”
“One of us is,” said Cicatrix, who seemed to be enjoying the ale. “But you mistake us—we are no family.”
“I am only a bodyguard,” said Journey, feeling uncomfortable; he wanted to clarify his role, but he did not like the way the red-haired man turned his eyes to Cicatrix when he said that, or the way everyone fell silent to listen to his words. The forest was full of night sounds, but no animal would venture anywhere near them.
Then the black-bearded man began telling a story, and the ale flowed freely.
For the rest of the evening they shared stories, ale, and bits of meat. After some time, the black-bearded man fell asleep; after some further time, the red-haired man and Cicatrix slipped off. (Journey had not been drinking heavily, but he did not see when it happened or where they went; after he noticed they had gone, however, he heard soft sounds coming from the trees, and turned his mind resolutely away, draining his ale.)
“So you’re a bodyguard,” the black-haired man said unexpectedly. He nodded toward Journey’s hammer. “That’s an unusual weapon. You know how to use it?”
“Of course,” said Journey, raising his eyebrows. There did not seem to be any accusation in the man’s tone, but it was an odd question to ask. “If I did not, we would not have gotten this far.”
“No, I suppose not. You’re all three Skareyan? Ever been to Atash before?”
“Never. Are you Artash?”
“Yes, indeed, my brother and I are. Our companion is Southern. But we make a good team, the three of us.”
Journey considered that. “What is it you do, the three of you?”
“Transportation. Not too many people want to cross the mountains, these days. It pays well.”
Journey studied the man’s eyes, hard and narrow across the fire, and decided that he should not ask what they were transporting, for fear he did not wish to know. “I am glad for you.”
“And you? How’s the bodyguarding business pay?”
He smiled. “Better than you could ever imagine.”
“How’s that?”
“She is a witch.”
“Hmm.” The man took a swig of his ale, then blinked. “Oh, yes, I see. Well then, good for you, boy. How old are you, anyway?”
“Eighteen.” As soon as he had said it Journey wondered if he should really have given this man the information. They were camping together, but not traveling together, and there was no need for such personal sharing. They had not even exchanged names.
“Plenty old enough to strike out on your own.”
“Well, yes.”
“And the witch—does she really need you?”
Journey had to smile at that, for he had wondered the same thing himself. “To be honest, I am not entirely sure. She certainly knows more than I do.”
The man nodded, then studied Journey silently. Journey, uncomfortable, turned his head away and began poking at the fire with a stick. When he had broken up the stick and tossed it in for the flames to consume, the other man spoke again. “I was not being entirely candid when I told you that my two companions and I made a good team. We were once a team of four, and we worked better that way. It has been too long, and we have not found another man who could fit in with our group and was willing to cross the mountains. We pay in cash, not promises.”
Journey was so shocked that he could not speak for some time. Was that a job offer? He could certainly not accept it. Or could he? This would be a viable career for him, even if it did seem to involve smuggling. He felt no particular loyalty to the nation that had borne him. And he did think he would enjoy crossing the mountains again.
But he did not trust this man. And he had made a bargain, and must keep it. He shook his head slowly. “I thank you for your offer, but I cannot abandon my duties.”
“Are you sure?” The man’s face betrayed no emotion. “If it is the witchcraft you fear, I know ways to stop it.”
Journey had not even thought of that, and now that he did, he found it unlikely that anything could stop Cicatrix if she wanted to find him again. He shook his head, more decisively this time. “I am a man of my word. Perhaps, when this job is over, we will meet again.” But he did not think they would.
The black-haired man frowned slightly, and seemed about to say something, but at that moment Hemlock wandered up to the fire, sleepy-eyed and complaining of hunger, and Journey turned aside to feed him the remnants from their dinner. The black-haired man did not speak to Journey again.
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Date: 2012-05-13 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-13 05:17 pm (UTC)