ARC 2 - VIRTUE

CHAPTER 4 - CARAVAN

The dawn broke over the horizon and the hills threw long shadows in Farvald’s direction. He squinted. Further ahead the road widened and drew close to a lake, its calm waters lapping at the shore and its surface shining. The wagons would be able to pick up speed once they got out of the forest, then. Good. He guided his mare towards the shore and dismounted when its hooves began to sink into the muddy ground. A cool breeze swayed the grasses that his horse trudged through and the tops of his boots were painted by the dew that lingered on the tall blades.

The river would’ve been the fastest route had the boats not all been burned, but this open road would afford them added speed. The forest had offered its protection during the night, hiding the light and smoke of fires while the thick bed of pine needles dampened the conversations of the caravan, but their best protection now would be distance. Despite the Shield Cities' focus on military prowess they were right shit at policing anything too far from their valleys—a fact Farvald knew all too well. A quarter day’s ride past this lake and the road would reach the intersection that would allow them to turn westward. The intersection would be at the center of a small town that he once called home.

The largest building in Coldcreek was the inn built for the traders and travelers as a final stop before heading into the mountains, but that was long ago, when braving the dangers of the Scarred Lands was still profitable. He reckoned the inn hadn’t been full since long before he had been born. The rest of the town suffered a similar fate, a once-bustling trade stop left to fend for itself. Even as a boy he had seldom seen any patrols and the village folk were left to fend for themselves, forced to pay additional taxes and ransoms to bandits that frequented the area. It left the population poor and most that were born in Coldcreek died there. In some ways he could count himself lucky to have escaped that fate.

Farvald loosened his hold on the reigns and allowed his horse to take its fill of the water from the lake. The first wagon appeared from the tree line to his left and the whinnies of other horses reached him like whispers at the shore's edge. He knelt and tested the temperature of the water. It was crisp, kept fresh from the rain and melted snow that trickled down from the mountains. As a boy Farvald used to jump from cliffs into the water with the other children. It had been a race to swim to the shore and bask in the sun on the rocks to warm up before another plunge. The climb was easy, but finding the right spots to jump took experience as the lake was shallow near the edges.

He peered across the water towards the shore against the mountain, attempting to find the hidden outcroppings that stood above the deeper pockets of water. As he scanned the waters he noticed someone on the far shoreline. Odd, that they would be bathing in the cold water this early in the morning. He scanned upward. There was movement on the slopes above the lake. More people, these ones headed downward. He looked closer and noticed the water surrounding the figure at the bottom was dark. The sun wasn’t high enough for it to be a shadow. It had to be...blood. A fight had either just happened or was about to.

Farvald whistled a sharp three notes back towards the approaching caravan as he mounted his horse. He drove his heels into the mare, racing it along the shore. His mount hadn’t fully stopped when he swung himself from the saddle and trudged into the water. The body lay still and torn clothing and bandages tried to pull themselves free from under armor at the will of the tide. Farvald grabbed the man under the arms and pulled him out of the icy water. His skin had gone pale, but the wounds still oozed—his heart still beat. Farvald drew a small knife from his thigh and began to cut away at straps and clothes. He had freed the man of nearly all his armor and garments when he was interrupted by approaching voices.

“He’s probably dead already and Gums isn’t holding up too well. Why couldn’t we have just left him?” one voice said.

“Enough with the complaints. I just want to be sure,” replied another.

Three men walked out from behind a rock and onto the level ground. The largest of the three held up another from under the arm, the body unable to hold the weight of its own head. The one in front stopped abruptly at the sight of Farvald kneeling on the ground over the wounded man. He had a blonde goatee and narrow face, his sinewy body showing the aches of combat.

“Ah, thank the Light, you’ve found our friend!” the man with the goatee said.

Farvald eyed the three closely. The group looked fatigued, but not especially wounded save for the one being held. That poor bastard was nearly dead given how much blood had soaked through the cloth around his shoulder. Even so, not any worse than what lay on the ground in behind him.

“Yes, though I’m not sure he has long,” Farvald replied.

“A shame,” the man said plainly. “Though he might pull through with the right care.”

Farvald grinned. He was in luck, they might be willing to fight for the almost-corpse. “I doubt it, though you must not be very good friends,” he commented. “Your lack of concern is...telling.”

“No!” the sinewy man said, hurriedly. “No, I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong. We’re survivors of the battle, you see. We were ambushed by thieves along the mountain road and our friend here took the worst of the fight.” The man with the goatee stepped forward, away from his two companions, to walk towards the dying man.

“I remain unconvinced,” Farvald growled and placed his hands behind his back. Each found the hilt of two long daggers.

The thin man hesitated at the movement. “Why not?” he asked, “You’ve no reason not to.” The thin man took cautious steps forward, testing the response to each stride with his arms raised in innocence. “Please, let him spend his last moments among friends.”

As the sinewy man came within several paces, Farvald drew the blades, twirling them once as he brought them forward. The man froze, hand instinctively reaching for the sword on his hip but stopping short while he eyed the fierce curve along the spine of each dagger.

“Thieves don’t reveal themselves on the mountain road. Warriors and scouts are too frequent,” Farvald said. “The scum only like easy prey.”

The thin man frowned. His head turned at the sound of approaching hooves, but Farvald’s eyes remained locked on the deceiver. Foolish of them, to turn away from drawn blades. He could have gutted the thin man before the other could turn to see what happened, but that would ruin the thrill of the whole thing. If things were too one-sided they lost their luster.

“Come on, Sindri! Let’s just go!” the larger man urged.

“By all means,” Farvald said, licking his lips, “take another step. Or don’t. Either way, I’ll be taking care of your friend.”

A man with skin like dark honey and a patchy black beard leaped from his horse with a bag slung over his shoulder and one hand grasping a warhammer.

“Trouble?” Kukani asked.

“Not sure.” Farvald raised his brow towards the three. “Is there?”

The man with the goatee glared at him, but turned and muttered to the large man as they headed back toward the mountain.

“Light, he looks like shit, eh?” Kukani strode over to the dying man and dropped the bag on the ground. He pulled away the rest of the dying man’s clothes, revealing a fresh scar across the torso and several other wounds that filled with blood. “I’ll bandage what I can here but I don’t know...this’ll certainly be a challenge, even for Rue.”

Farvald grunted and reluctantly sheathed his blades. Kukani had arrived too quickly. If the islander had been slower he might have lured them, though he might have overestimated them and been too forward with his threats. It was a shame they didn’t have a bit more courage. It was more fun to bleed the ones who were confident.

Raegn woke and tensed, waiting to die the moment he impacted. The momentary drop in his stomach followed by a sudden re-acquaintance with the ground informed him he was no longer airborne, but it was only a small discomfort. It took a moment to recognize that the feeling following the pain was one of relief. At least he hadn’t broken all the bones in his body after a misplaced leap took him the entire way off the mountain. He attempted to rub his eyes but found resistance around the joints of his arms. Squinting, he saw bandages wrapped tightly around his wrists that disappeared into the baggy sleeves of a white linen shirt.

Another jolt from the wooden floor sent a stab of pain into his buttocks and back. He looked around and noticed the wall was only half wood before it transitioned to a canvas that curved up into the ceiling. A wagon. The clopping of hooves and the rattle of wooden wheels filled his head. A sharp breath brought more of his vision into focus. At the other end of the wagon a young girl, maybe in her mid-teen years, stared at him intently.

Raegn stared back. She had wavy auburn hair that hung to her shoulders and frayed at the end, the color only distinguishable by the daylight that shone over her back from the open end of the wagon. One of her ears had several piercings near the top and she wore rather plain clothes. A white blouse was drawn tight at the waist by a thin brown belt, brown cloth pants with obvious stitching up the side hugging each leg and her feet covered with simple leather shoes.

The observation had Raegn re-evaluate himself. A loose white shirt hung from his frame, masking the bandages he could feel across his chest and shoulders. He looked past his bandaged arms to legs that wore pants that were not his. His feet were bare, but there were boots next to him in the opposite corner. They were his own, from what he could see, but where was his armor? Had they taken it? The thought abandoned him as the wagon hit another bump in the road and he was jostled against the wall. He let out a small groan and the girl narrowed her eyes at the sound.

“I’m fine, thank you for the concern,” Raegn said. “Just a little...sore,” he grunted and pushed himself into a more upright sitting position.

“You’re welcome,” she whispered and gathered a few items from the corner of the wagon. “The bandages up your arms and legs are only to cover the smaller cuts, I’ll take them off when we make camp tonight. The others will need changed once or twice a day. There’s a water skin next to you and dried fruits in that bag.” She pointed at a sack in the corner of the wagon. “You need to eat and drink to recover your strength.”

She climbed through the wagon, past where he sat and pushed aside the canvas flap at the front. The girl stepped out onto the front seat and let the flap fall behind her. Even though he was little more than an arms reach away, Raegn couldn’t make out the whispers between the girl and the wagon driver over the creaking wood and horses hooves. He tried to stay awake for a time, but the rocking of the wagon and warm sunlight lulled him back into a deep slumber.

When he woke again he found himself slick with sweat. He drug himself to the back of the wagon and felt the sweet kiss of cool air from the opening while taking in the view. There were two more wagons behind them and a dozen or so horses scattered between. He watched as the riders chatted idly, the heads of their mounts bobbing rhythmically. The sun was past its high point for the day and had begun to fall into the westward sky in front of them.

He turned at a rustle of the canvas from the front of the wagon and saw the girl crouched and digging through a burlap sack in the corner. She glanced his way before stepping back through the flap with a few bits of food. At least she wasn’t concerned that he had moved. Perhaps that meant that he wasn’t a prisoner. He wasn’t bound, not that it was necessary given his condition. Stretching against the soreness that lingered in every part of his body was about as much as he could muster while the wagon rattled down dirt roads. He resigned himself to leaning against the back gate of the wagon, watching the shadows grow as the sun sank towards the horizon.

“We’ll stop here, while there’s still daylight to set up camp,” a woman’s voice called out.

Various shouts spread the message through the caravan and the wagons halted. Some horses continued onward with their riders, likely to survey their new surroundings. The rest dismounted and hitched their horses to the wagons before heading around to the rear and pulling various supplies from the back. A man approached Raegn’s wagon and unhinged the door for the wagon bed.

“Come on, out you go,” he said.

Raegn slid his way to the edge of the gate and gingerly lowered himself onto the ground. He winced at the stiffness in his leg the moment his feet touched the ground, but the man offered no assistance. A few hobbled steps away were all he could manage, but it gave the man enough room to pull out the bags he desired. Raegn, however, was left standing alone as the rest of the caravan members moved around him as if he weren’t there at all. He looked about to identify a leader, but there were so many styles of dress that each person stood out more than the last. He found the young girl with auburn hair among the crowd and painstakingly made his way over to her.

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked.

She drew her lips into a thin line and searched the area as he had, but her eyes settled on something he hadn’t found. “Sit,” she said and pointed to a stool some distance away with nothing else around.

Raegn frowned. Not a prisoner, but certainly not welcome. Still, there was little he could do but accept his exile to the edge of the camp. He sat and watched as each member helped with setup. Some fetched tools while others assembled the materials for a fire and the night's meal. One man approached him and knelt a few paces away to clear a small circular area. He had darker skin, a short black beard of curly hair, and his sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing strong forearms and broad hands that flexed with each handful of grass. When the clearing was large enough, the man left, but returned soon with tinder and kindling. He positioned a piece of bark in the middle of the circle before delicately placing the tinder on it, stacking the kindling neatly over top.

“Can I help?” Raegn asked.

“Got a way to start the fire?” The sideways glare told Raegn that the man thought it a stupid question. He considered creating a flame with the Light, but hesitated. It might be best not to reveal his affinity while he was still unsure of his relationship with this caravan. “Didn’t think so,” the man said as he stood and strode back to a wagon. He returned once more with a piece of flint and pulled a small knife from his belt.

In three quick strikes the tinder caught and Raegn was left alone to stare into the fire that popped and crackled at his feet. He flinched at a particularly loud snap. Nothing more than a pocket of sap bursting in the wood, but the sound brought visions of void blasts tearing through the barrier. The playful shouts of the caravan members came to him like screams of men ripped apart by voidlings and the clatter of various cooking materials was the sickening crunch of broken bone beneath a behemoths stride. The longer he stared at the coals in the fires’ base the more apparent the burns on his soul became.

He shook his head to free his gaze of the fire but watching the conversations of others in the caravan brought him no solace. Ulrich, Raelle, Landon...his father—all had been taken from him. His home had lost. He had lost. His head fell into his hands and he wept, unable to hold back the sobs that shook his shoulders.

An hour or two passed and the last of the sunlight faded into a deep dusk that heralded the crisp night. Raegn sat leaning forward, his arms tucked in against his stomach. The nights in the highlands had a chill without protection from the wind, but it wasn’t the cold from which he braced himself.

“I need to take those off.”

Raegn looked up to find the young girl with auburn hair standing over him. He turned to position himself facing away from the fire and the girl knelt in front of him, resting a small bag against her leg. She rolled both his pant legs past the thigh and began to unravel the bandages. The cloth over the arrow wound was peeled away and he did his best not to wince while she applied some ointment from her bag. She placed her hands over the injury and Raegn tensed as he saw a familiar glow in her palms. A dull warmth spread into his leg, easing the throbbing and stiffness.

“You can use the Light,” he gasped. And so gently, he thought. It was like the relaxing heat of a bath rather than the burn he was accustomed to.

“Yes.” Her voice was meek, like worn cotton. Was she afraid of him?

“You have great control,” he said. He tried to catch her eye, but the girl was focused on binding the wound. She finished with his leg and rifled through her bag again.

“Take off your shirt,” she said absently.

Raegn tried to comply, but stopped and suppressed a groan as the movement pulled at the scar on his chest. He tried again, this time keeping his arms closer to his torso. She performed the same care on his other wounds: ointment, a dose of Light to ease the pain, and a new, tight bandage. She began to unwrap the dressing on his left arm, but her movements slowed and her fingers lingered on the tattoos scrawled across his skin.

“Impressive, aren’t they?” The proximity of the woman’s voice sent a shiver down his spine that brought him upright in an instant. He hadn’t heard anyone else approach and though he turned to look he found the speaker positioned directly behind him, unable to be fully seen. The girl's hand worked quickly to finish removing the bandage. “Take your time, Rue. No need to rush,” the voice came from over Raegn’s head.

The woman circled around and placed another stool next to where the girl knelt. She sat leisurely, one leg crossed over the other as she watched Rue work. She was middle-aged and wore tight cloth pants and boots that were laced up to the knee before the worn leather folded over. Her white shirt, drawn taut over her stomach by a large black belt with several small buckles, had a loose, unbuttoned collar that revealed an intricate golden pendant resting atop her cleavage.

The girl, Rue as the woman had called her, finished and packed up her bag. She gathered the used bandages in her arms and left without another word. Once she was out of earshot, the woman placed both feet on the ground and leaned forward.

“You may call me Lady Joyce,” she said. There was no malice in her tone, but it didn’t strike Raegn as particularly friendly, either. “And you, I presume, are Lord Raegn Edelgard, once the heir to Bastion, but, judging by that ring I’d say you’ve been promoted.”

Raegn frowned when she pointed to his hand. He’d never met this woman before—her blonde curls would’ve been memorable in a city filled with black and brown hair.

“Yes,” he answered cautiously.

“Well, at least you’re not lying to me.” Lady Joyce leaned back. Raegn continued to study her, unsure of how she knew him. “We haven’t met, don’t worry,” she commented. “Or rather, you haven’t met me. Several days ago I was in Bastion, attempting to complete a contract. You and your father were otherwise occupied, although I did see you several times in the city. You didn’t look particularly busy, but all the other lords were in some council meeting. The old man, Lord Aldway I think it was, encouraged us to wait out the coming battle before seeking an audience with your father.”

Raegn did his best not to flinch at the name. “How did you survive?” he asked.

“Oh we weren’t there,” she answered with a wave of her hand. “We went to collect from Bulwark instead. We were on our way back to the capital when Farvald found you at the edge of the lake, freezing in the water and drowning in your own blood.”

Raegn hung his head. Maybe it would’ve been better if he had died in that water. Or in the cave. But if he had been found, then perhaps...

“Did you see a girl with short gray hair?” he asked. “She had a wound on her shoulder and couldn’t use her arm.”

“Hmm…” Lady Joyce looked off in the distance. “Farvald said three men came looking for you, but never mentioned a girl.” Raegn’s head hung further. Raelle would still be on the High Road in her eternal slumber. At least the other survivors would find her and give her the proper rites. “But let’s get to the point, shall we?” Joyce pressed before his thoughts could bring more tears.

Raegn raised his head to look at the woman in the eye. Perhaps he was a hostage, not a prisoner. Was this was where she would ask for some form of payment? His uncle might pay for him, but by now Sindri would be telling all of Bulwark about his failures and supposed treachery.

“I saved you,” she said sternly. “Or my caravan did. Either way, we’ve spent time and resources on you, and if there’s one thing to know about me, it's this: I expect payment for all services. You, however, are an outlier. I suppose I could’ve struck a deal with those men and sold your life to them, though I doubt they had enough to pay for someone like you.”

Lady Joyce grinned, idly playing with one of several rings on her fingers before continuing, “I’m not naive. I’ve heard enough about you from your people, Reaper. I know that soon you’ll be rested and healed enough that you could probably fight off a good portion of my caravan alone. Yet I cannot bring myself to intentionally harm you or keep you in a weakened state. Do you see my predicament here?” she finished, the emphasis on the finals words pressing Raegn for a response.

Raegn sat, unwilling to speak for fear of incriminating himself in her eyes.

“I’ll assume you do, despite your silence,” she said. “So, let’s hear it. Tell me what I should do.”

Raegn sniffed and attempted to come up with an answer. What should she do? She should let him leave and head back to...what? A sister city that would execute him for Sindri’s lies? Anyone who knew the truth or might vouch for him was dead. To everyone else he and his father buried their city to hide his failure. Telling her he had, in fact, killed his father and destroyed the city would do him no better.

“I no longer have a home,” he muttered. “I’m the heir to nothing and a traitor to my people. Do with me what you will.”

Lady Joyce frowned. “Well that’s rather depressing,” she said. Raegn’s eyes pressed shut and he swallowed hard to stave off more tears. “Listen, I’ve heard more than my share of horrible stories, but if I heard yours it would probably be one of the few I truly believe.” He raised his head at the unexpected compassion in her tone. “I won’t ask what things you’ve done. Whatever they were you clearly regret them. My caravan is full of people who didn’t fit in wherever they were placed in life for one reason or another. We’ll give it a few days and see if we can’t come up with some sort of job for you. Protection, probably, once you’ve healed.”

“And then?” Raegn asked.

“Once I’ve determined you’ve paid back your due, which might take quite some time, mind you, you’re free. Do what you want. Return to your people and be executed for being a traitor. Or live elsewhere. I doubt they’ll come looking for you. Neither city leaves their valley very often from what I understand, but I’m sure you knew that already.” She waited a moment for him to process the offer. “Do we have a deal?”

Raegn nodded. What other choice did he have? He could see it, maybe—living somewhere else. He could learn other skills, like leather-working or smithing. He was already familiar with weapons and armor. Some of that knowledge was liable to transfer.

“First things first,” Lady Joyce said and waved Rue back over. The girl approached with a comb and scissors in her hands. “If I recognize you, there’s a chance someone else might, however small. We’ve got to limit that as best we can.”

Lady Joyce left and Raegn sat in silence while the scissors snipped away at his locks of hair. She returned and Rue left, an organized trade to keep others from overhearing any of their conversation.

“It would appear that you are no longer the Lord of Bastion, seeing as the city doesn’t exist,” Lady Joyce proclaimed while handing him a pair of gloves. Raegn slid them over his hands to hide the ring and looked up at her. “So...Caelan, let’s get the awkward introductions out of the way with the caravan and get you some hot food.” A hand covered in rings was offered to him to help him stand. She walked in front, guiding him towards the larger fire at the center of camp while still conscious of his slowed pace.

“Oh,” Lady Joyce looked back over her shoulder with a sly smile, “and since you’re no longer a lord, I see no need to pretend I’m a lady. Just Joyce will do.”