Note:
I'm happy to present the third of seven chapters of this fantasy story. Many thanks to those who have read, voted, left comments or sent emails - your support, encouragement and feedback are appreciated. The fourth chapter should be out in a couple of weeks...
The story contains fantasy violence.
*****
"Ana is to the north," Gwen said, trying to filter the irritation out of her voice. "Why are we heading south?"
Gwen needed Harrow. Her daughter Ana needed Harrow. And after the way Gwen had betrayed him - costing him his house and livelihood and making him a fugitive - it was a miracle the mercenary had agreed to help at all. So she didn't want to push her luck with endless nagging and complaints. Her standing in his eyes was tenuous enough already.
But just that morning The Hound's magic-sensing sword had detected a faint glimmer of magic use to the northeast, and far enough away to put it close to Blythe's Pass - the area where Ana was rumoured to have escaped her captors. It had to be her! Was her daughter alone? Injured? Scared? Running for her life, with the Guardsmen in hot pursuit? How much longer could the nineteen year-old survive unaided?
And yet with every aching, painful step in her ill-fitting sandals, Gwen put more distance between her and her baby. She was consumed by the urge to DO something. Having finally secured the means to locate her daughter, it was infuriating to be heading the wrong way.
"Save your strength for walking," Harrow said from ahead of her, his tone gruff.
He'd been terse and uncommunicative for the two days they'd been travelling on foot, refusing to disclose their destination or his reasons for choosing such a vexing path. He was angry at her, that much was obvious. And Gwen couldn't fault him for that - she'd earned his antipathy. But anger was counter-productive, and Ana might be running out of time.
She growled her frustration and focused on putting one blistered foot in front of the other. She had to trust him - she had no other options. Wearing the witch-brand on her right cheek, being hunted by the Guardsmen and having a rich bounty on her head, Gwen needed to avoid all human contact. But with no survival skills and her magic inaccessible, she couldn't survive in the wild on her own. Harrow was all that stood between her and a variety of unpleasant dooms.
If nothing else, at least the weather had been cooperative. An unseasonably warm autumn had made the travelling easier and the nights less chilly - a good thing, too, since Harrow refused to build a fire. Too easy to detect, he said. They were trying to conceal their whereabouts from any pursuers.
They trudged in silence through the woods for several hours before Harrow allowed a rest for a meal of raw tubers, beans and cold, cooked chicken, then it was more hours of walking until the mercenary mercifully brought them to a halt on the bank of a slow-flowing stream.
"We'll camp here for the night," he said, then dropped his pack and weaponry. In addition to his sword and throwing knives he'd taken a crossbow, bolts and a long spear from the Guardsmen he'd dispatched back at his house. The memory of how quickly he'd defeated six men - including the famous Hound - still gave her chills.
"Thank the gods," she said, lowering her small pack to the ground, and leaning The Hound's magical sword against a nearby tree. Her feet throbbed and she was sure they were bloody with open blisters. Her ankles hurt. Her knees ached. Her hips and lower back were screaming at her. Even her shoulders and neck here painful. She wasn't sure her body would survive another day of travel like the previous two.
"Put your feet in the river. It will keep the swelling down." Harrow was undressing, likely with an eye towards washing a day's worth of sweat off him in the stream.
Too tired to question the suggestion, she hobbled over to the riverbank, sat on a rounded rock and gingerly peeled off her sandals, then immersed her feet in the cool stream. There was a moment of searing agony as a dozen open blisters welcomed the fresh water, but slowly the pain faded to a dull throb and she started to feel better, as Harrow had said.
A moment later he waded into the middle of the stream, unashamedly naked and holding a spear. The water came to his upper thighs. Gwen averted her gaze, too exhausted to scold him. From the corner of her eye she could see him position himself, holding the spear with the point just above the surface of the water, staring into the river with great determination.
"Will you at least tell me where we're going?" she asked for the umpteenth time.
He surprised her by answering. "Skeeter Flats."
For a moment she was so shocked she forgot to be sore. "You jest!"
"I'm serious." He thrust the spear into the depths, then cursed and resumed his hunting stance.
"That den of thieves and miscreants? What business have we there?"
"I have a friend who might agree to help us."
"What kind of friend lives in a loathsome place like that?"
"For a heretical witch, you're awfully judgmental."
"Another mercenary, no doubt."
He smiled then, and seeing it made her feel better than she had all day. She'd missed that smile and she'd needed its reassurance. "I suppose she's a mercenary...of a sort."
"She?"
He speared the water again came up empty. "Lucky little bastards," he muttered.
"If we were to invoke the Bond, you'd have all the fish you could want, in an instant."
"That hardly seems sporting." There was the faintest tease in his voice. Maybe the mood between them was beginning to thaw after a two-day deep freeze?
"I'd gladly cook them, too."
"No fire, remember?"
"Magic can bake them without a fire. We'd use intense heat."
He thrust again, unsuccessfully.
"I could keep the bugs away, ward off the night-time chill, keep us dry if it rains. I just need the Bond," she said. Even if the Bond would only last until dawn there would be no end to its usefulness.
"No, thank you."
She stifled an exasperated sigh. She couldn't blame him for being wary of her magic. She'd over-taxed him last time, leaving him weakened. She'd also surreptitiously betrayed his whereabouts to The Hound. If not for his unexpected martial prowess, they both be dead as a result.
She decided she'd never win the argument on its merits, and switched tactics.
"Please, Harrow? These clothes are ill-fitting and unsuited to travel, and the over-sized sandals are shredding my feet. I'm in agony...I can't go another day like this. If I had my magic, I could fashion something more comfortable and practical to wear. I swear to you I'll stick to mundane use only - nothing taxing. You'd barely feel it."
"I've had my fill of magic," he said. He didn't sound angry or bitter, just resolute. That was an improvement, she supposed.
Appealing to reason hadn't worked, nor had a plea for compassion. She was down to her last resort.
