THE SAGA OF BOY: BOOK ONE
Chapter 3: Fire on the Run
The ten year old boy held his mother's hand and tried not to notice how thin and fragile it seemed. She had grown steadily ill for the last few weeks, but still managed somehow to make it to the waiting place at the crossroads each evening. It was only that morning that she had worsened and taken to her bed. He did his best to cajole her into drinking a weak broth when she was calm, but the bouts of rambling delirium had frightened him away from her for hours at a time. She was lucid now, and grasped the boy's hand with anxious eyes looking up to his.
"What time is it son?"
The boy looked out the window and reported dutifully, "Evening, Mother, but please try to drink some tea."
There was a brief struggle where she attempted to rise from her bed, but exhaustion defeated her and she collapsed back onto the sweat-soaked mattress.
"Son? You must go to the waiting place yourself today. Mother's too sick."
Wary, the boy studied his mother. There was something not right about leaving her alone, but he couldn't deny her anything she asked. When she saw his expression she laughed in a hollow, rasping ghost of her old laugh.
"Don't worry son, he'll come. Now, when I need him the most he'll come, and he'll make me well again. He promised he'd come back, and he'd never break his word."
She lay back with a peaceful smile, and the boy reluctantly slipped out the door and down the path, hoping with every step that she'd call him back to her side. He sat at the waiting place, an island of grass where the two roads met, with a rough bench to sit and pass the time. He lay on the grass in the summer evening heat, and soon drifted from a light doze into sleep.
When he awoke it was full dark, and struck with fear that he might have missed his father's arrival he ran back towards their house. He didn't notice the glow above the trees, but he did smell smoke and redoubled his speed. When he arrived, he found a confused mass milling around in the light of the fire wrapped around his home. The townsfolk stood around with buckets and grim expressions, which turned to shock when he was spotted. The boy shouted for his mother and tried to get to the cabin, but strange hands restrained him, strange voices told him she was dead. He watched the house burn, and when the flaming roof collapsed he fell to the ground in a dead faint, gratefully oblivious.
Nathanial awoke shivering sometime during the night and managed to stay aware long enough to fumble through his backpack for his bedroll and a blanket. When he came across a large stash of food tucked into the bottom of the pack he took a moment to fervently thank and bless the farmer in his thoughts. The growling in his stomach pulled temporary rank on the rest of his body's demand for more sleep. Nathanial sat and chewed methodically and, for the first time since he'd begun walking that evening, he contemplated where to go. He shot a glance up to the stars visible from where he sat, and brightened considerably.
"The Rabbit Rises!" He thought to himself, and tried to remember the star lore his mother had lived her life by. The rabbit was good luck, especially for travels and new ventures. He'd never held much faith in Gods, but Mayana had raised him to believe in fate and he'd never quite shaken that. Somehow in his panicked flight he'd followed the path Brand had originally discussed taking, and it was comforting to believe he was guided.
He turned the rest of what they'd discussed over in his head, but the sheer scale of it all was daunting. He shivered in the cold dampness of predawn, and felt as if the lonely darkness was pressing in around him. What had seemed a grand adventure with Brand suddenly seemed dangerous, hopeless, or even impossible for one young boy who looked even younger. He fell asleep in a black mood, waking at every sound for fear of pursuit.
He awoke from an exhausted doze to find sunlight streaming through the canopy of the woods. He looked around him at the strange dancing patterns the dust motes made in the beams of light, and felt the first stirring of wonder when he realized he was further from the farm than he'd ever been in his remembered lifetime. The distance from the familiar ground around Franklin made even the common species of trees seem strange and exotic. He breakfasted lightly atop a fallen birch log, already missing the hot meals at the farm. He groaned quietly as he rose on his aching feet and struggled into the straps of his backpack.
"No wonder you're footsore," he chided himself, "When you decide to sprint halfway across the territory with only imaginary ghosts in pursuit!"
Berating himself like a disgruntled sergeant, he pushed himself onward through the day's heat. By nightfall he was exhausted beyond any hope of gathering wood for a fire, but he at least managed to get into his bedroll and blankets before falling asleep. He dreamed restlessly of cold fire, burning ice, and strange faces he couldn't quite see to identify. He woke just after dawn with a chill in his chest and temples, and paced for a while to warm his blood. He set off again, and came close to enjoying the stretch of exercise on the muscles knotted up from the early morning cold. By mid-afternoon he reached the outskirts of a town, and weighed his yearnings for a soft bed and hot bath against the fear that he was still too close to Franklin. He reluctantly circled the outer edge of the town, promising his sore feet with every step that they'd soon be far enough away to stop for a while. He veered somewhat southwards, following an overgrown cart road nearly hidden between thick blueberry bushes. The road twisted leisurely around patches of swampland, and Nathanial reached the next village without encountering more than the occasional rabbit or pheasant. He convinced himself against his gut fear that it was safe to stop, even if only for a few hours.
He opened the door of the first shop tentatively, and almost jumped out of his skin when a small silver bell sounded just behind his left ear. He breathed slowly to calm his heart, knowing his fear was irrational, yet still expecting everyone he came in contact with to condemn him as a murdering freak.
"Can I help you boy?"
Nathanial whirled around and stumbled over a meticulously arranged greatsword and suit of platemail. The blood drained from his face as the display went crashing to one side in a spectacular avalanche of metal. The noise seemed to go on forever, with bits and pieces of the armor and its supports scattering clear across the shop's floor with sharp metallic pings. Nathanial squeezed his eyes shut in humiliation and waited for it to end. When absolute quiet once again ruled the small shop, he timidly cracked one eye to gauge the reaction of the shopkeeper and prepared himself to bolt out the door behind him. To his relief, the man was fighting a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching in suppressed laughter.
"I..er…need a few things….umm…let me help you pick this up first…" Nathanial stuttered, gesturing to the metal scattered across the shop.
The man shook his head and chuckled.
"Don't worry about it son, I was going to change that display today anyhow. What sort of things are you looking for?"
"Ummm...armor… and a sword I think."
The man raised one eyebrow in amusement and looked Nathanial over.
"Do you even know how to use a sword, boy?"
Nathanial blushed and shook his head uncertainly.
"I can learn as I go. But I've read a lot of books on adventuring, and everyone in the books has armor and a sword to make their living on."
The man suppressed a paternal grin. Something about the defiant little figure in front of him called out to be helped, but while he didn't have time to teach the boy to swing a sword, there were other weapons.
"A sword's overrated and complicated son," he said kindly, "I've known my share of adventurers and I know what they really use."
He put a metal rod with a spiked round head on the counter. Nathanial picked it up and tested the weight and swing. It felt good in his hand and easy to direct with enough heft to do some damage.
"What's it called?" He asked.
"Those who make it call it a morningstar. Those who use it sometimes call it a B.F.F., a big fu…"
He coughed and stopped for barely half a second. When he continued, Nathanial could tell he had revised what he was about to say.
"that is… a big friendly flyswatter."
Nathanial stuck it in its holster and drew it a few times until he got the knack. It didn't seem to require much finesse to swing so he strapped it confidently onto his belt, then looked at the armor that appeared on the counter. It was made from good quality leather dyed a rich dark brown. Gleaming metal rivets were driven through it, and to Nathanial's small-town eyes it was dashing and impressive. The shopkeeper rounded the selection out with a dagger, then treated him to a long lecture on caring for the armor and weapons. Nathanial was grateful to the man for never asking why a child would need such supplies, although it was clearly near the front of his mind. He simply accepted the gold handed to him with grave thanks, and bid Nathanial good luck in whatever he was planning to do. As Nathanial continued to march down the open road the shopkeeper stood in the open doorway, examining the odd foreign symbols on the coins and watching curiously after the child now outfitted for war.
After several weeks of travel without stopping in any town for more than a few hours at a time, Nathanial felt he'd traveled far enough from Franklin to be safe. He began to look for a place he could start the new life he'd promised himself. When he came across a bustling market town full of people, color and anonymity, he applied for work at a vendor stall where the man selling fresh fruits and vegetables seemed rushed off his feet in the attempt to take and fill orders. The vendor gave the young boy a once-over appraisal, and a few minutes in the stall as a test. As Nathanial got into the swing of hawking the vendor's eyes began to gleam at the gold mine in front of him. The urchin boy in the too-big hat caught the eye of sympathetic women, whose maternal instinct encouraged them to pay premium prices. But the boy also seemed to have an uncanny memory and sharp command of numbers that earned dubious respect from the shopping men. The vendor rubbed his hands together with glee as Nathanial brought in more than enough extra that afternoon to pay his wages, plus more profit than the vendor had seen in many days. In less than a week, the vendor was able to leave Nathanial by himself and set up a second stall for dry goods.
Nathanial was in mid-haggle on a bright afternoon nearly two years later when he happened to glance over the customer's shoulder and lock eyes with a girl from Franklin. She was hanging on the arm of a local merchant and picking listlessly through another produce stall when she looked up and spotted him. Nathanial broke into a cold sweat and ducked his head. His customer looked at him oddly, then grinned.
"Here now boy, not feeling well, or is it that you know I'll drive you a hard bargain on that bushel? Now I think five copper's a perfectly fair price, considering the quality…if tha know what I mean…"
"Fine, five copper, fine."
Nathanial tried to keep the customer between himself and the girl, wishing he could just give the man the apples and hide beneath the counter. The man looked shocked and angry at this deviation from the rules of haggling.
"Here now, what are you playing at, boy?" You know as well as I do that they're worth more than five copper! You're not trying to pass wormy stuff on me are ye?"
"No sir, I wouldn't ever."
"Then why would you sell it to me for copper when we both know it's worth at least two silvers? What kind of trick are you pulling on me?"
Nathanial saw the girl stare at him, puzzled, as if trying to place him in his memory. He knew it wouldn't be long until she did so; after all he hadn't grown that much since leaving the farm. He barely glanced at the man in front of him, hoping to hurry him away before any spark of recognition lit the girl's eyes.
"Fine, fine, two silver then, sold!" He muttered to his customer.
The customer nodded hesitantly, not sure if the deal had been struck. He reached tentatively into his belt pouch and picked out the silver coins of the region by feel. He had the unsettling feeling that he'd been somehow tricked into paying more than he should have, but also that he'd come very close to looking the fool. He accepted the apples dubiously, and as he slouched away from the market he made a firm decision not to tell his wife. He didn't notice Nathanial duck below the cover of the stall and sit with his back to the frame, breathing heavily.
"Last wages, last wages for what?" demanded his boss when Nathanial asked that evening.
"I'm moving on; our original agreement was for a week's wages as severance if I lasted more than a year."
His boss looked at him with quivering eyes. Nathanial had seen that look before, and tried to ease himself out of arm's reach.
"Now Nate me'boy…Aren't you being a bit hasty? There's no need to move on yet, not when I'm ready to make you a full partner..."
Nathanial met the table in the small of his back and realized he couldn't get far enough away without being obvious. He tensed his muscles in anticipation. He caught the reek of whisky about the man, promising violence despite his wheedling tone of voice.
"Sorry Sir, I need to get out of town fairly quickly, but I plan on taking along what's owed me. Now if we can just settle up, I'm sure you can hire someone else to run the stall."
His boss glowered and whipped a hand out quicker than the eye could track it. While Nathanial tried his best to evade it, the hand caught him around the neck and began to squeeze.
"You know damn well boy, that without you running the stall I'll lose money," he growled as Nathanial began to wheeze and pull at the hands constricting his breath. "Now you can be a good boy and stay, or I can chain you by the leg and you can stay. Don't think I can't have slave ownership papers drawn up for you!"
Nathanial felt his pulse throbbing in his temples as the air to his lungs was reduced to a trickle. He clawed frantically at the hand around his throat but it might have been carved from solid wood for all the effect he had. His boss dragged him across the kitchen and threw him against the back wall of the pantry with enough force to bring small boxes and jars tumbling down on top of him. He lay dazed for a moment coughing and choking for air, with black spots dancing in front of his eyes. When his vision began to clear he looked up in time to see the door slam and the key pulled from the lock.
His boss continued to shout and rant at him through the door for what seemed like hours, but Nathanial didn't bother to respond. The close air in the closet and the aftereffects of adrenaline were conspiring to send him into a doze, and he drifted off despite his efforts to fight it.
He jerked suddenly awake some time later to silence. He held his breath for several heartbeats, listening for any sign the room outside was still occupied. His eyes had adjusted to the dim light, and he searched as quietly as possible for some means of opening the door. After several minutes trying to fashion lock picks from the spare kitchen cutlery he sat back with a sigh of frustration and surveyed the room again. Sweat was beading on his forehead from the airless heat, and a claustrophobic panic began to build inside his chest. His eyes kept being drawn back to the edge of the door, and he almost laughed with hysterical relief when he realized what he was looking at. He'd always thought it was inconvenient to have the pantry door open inwards when stocking it, but now he blessed the incompetent builder in his thoughts and pulled the pins from the easily accessible hinges. He carefully slid the door to one side of the frame and slipped out into the semi-dark kitchen. He was still wrapped up in self congratulation for the trick when a snort behind him made him bite his tongue in an effort not to scream. His boss was sitting at the table, and only after second glance did Nathanial realize the man was asleep...or at the least, unconscious. There was an empty bottle on the table and another rolling on the floor, sending a clear, noxious puddle across the wood planking. Nathanial controlled his urge to simply bolt out the door without a copper to his name, and nervously approached his boss. The next snore froze him in his tracks, heart pounding, until he was sure the man wasn't awakening. He carefully slid the lockbox with the day's earnings from beneath the heavy hand pinning it to the table and removed exactly the severance wages agreed upon when he was first hired. He looked longingly at the remainder, but gave a heavy sigh and put it back in the box, along with his set of keys to the shuttered vendor stall. He retrieved his belongings and crept out the back door to travel by cover of night.
Days stacked into weeks, then months of nameless jobs in nameless towns, always moving. It was early morning of a late spring day, with the fog still thick around his ankles when he looked up from the path to see a horse trotting leisurely towards him. It was a gleaming white mare, bare of saddle or bridle and for a single irrational moment Nathanial was certain it was a fey creature wading through the trails of mist. The illusion was broken and he let out his breath in a rush when he noticed a lead rope still trailing from its neck. He took a piece of bread from his rations and held it out to the mare, which snorted and stopped in its tracks. He made soothing noises as it took tentative steps towards him, until he was finally able to grab the broken end of the rope. After a quick tug of protest, the horse relented to captivity and walked quietly by his side, back in the direction it came.
He reached the outskirts of a fairly large town before long, and farmers looked up from their chores to eye him curiously as he passed. Before long, the farms turned into estates with long gated paths paved with cut stone, and elegant houses set dramatically on hilltops. A shining black carriage nearly ran him off the road with a flurry of curses from the driver's seat and Nathanial made a rude gesture to its receding back. It was a couple of miles before he reached the town itself, and the horse-trader was easy to recognize by the herds milling about the paddocks. When he came into the barn with the mare there were feminine shrieks of delight as two young girls came running up and showered kisses on the animal. Nathanial was ignored except to pull the lead rope from his hand, and the mare was ushered into a stall to bear up stoically under a flood of sympathetic petting and the occasional treats appearing from the girls' apron pockets.
"Can I help you son?"
Nathanial started and his hand twitched automatically towards his morningstar. He turned and found a giant of a man in a leather farrier's apron looming over him. The man's eyes moved knowingly from Nathanial's hand to the morningstar and he tightened own grip on the pitchfork he carried. Nathanial took a step back and relaxed, chiding himself for being so easily startled.
"I came across a loose horse on the road, Sir, and I thought you might know who she belonged to?"
The man peered over the top of the stall where the mare stood contentedly chewing a slice of apple, and smiled.
"That's our Molly all right. If she wasn't white as day we'd sell her to the thieves' guild for all the locked gates she's escaped from."
Nathanial knew that his time on the road had worn hard on his respectability, but he felt even more dirty and bedraggled when the farmer raked him over with an appraising eye.
"It was an honest deed to bring that mare back, son. I'll ask you to stay to dinner if you'd like, you look like you could use it."
Nathanial nodded gratefully.
"Thank you sir. Actually I'm looking for work if you know of any around here."
The horse trader thought for a moment and looked around the barn. Nathanial could see bales waiting to be moved to the loft, doors sagging on their hinges, and stalls in dire need of paint. The trader followed his gaze and nodded thoughtfully.
"As a matter of fact, I know of quite a bit. Cedric Duncan's my name, son. Hasn't anyone ever taught you how to care for leather armor?"
Nathanial looked guiltily down at his dusty, neglected armor and nodded his head. The trader laughed and pulled a canister of saddle soap from a nearby shelf.
"Well, boy, we'll start with that, then."
Nathanial leapt gratefully on the offer of meals, tips and a dry, clean stall to sleep in for his work around the farm. He found the horses responded well to his quiet movements, and he earned many tips from the relieved owners who hated holding their own horses for shoeing or veterinary work. But the real reward was living even on the periphery of the Duncan family. Nathanial would sit with Cedric Duncan around the woodstove in the tack room, oiling leathers and listening to the man's stories of his own adventuring days. He would sit spellbound, listening to tales of fierce battle, rich treasure, true love and gruesome death. On Sundays, out from under the watchful eye of Mrs. Duncan, Cedric would show Nathanial how to use his morningstar as it was meant to be used.
The idyll ended just as Nathanial was beginning to harbor hope that it might last. He was cleaning stalls nearly a year after his arrival when a familiar voice called imperiously for Duncan. He peered around the corner and saw one of the lordlings from the summer estates riding up to the barn. The man dismounted neatly and dropped the reins as one accustomed to having a servant there to pick them up again.
"Duncan!" The man shouted, brushing a speck of dust from one pristine white glove.
Nathanial stepped out with a look of polite enquiry, and stopped cold when he caught sight of the horse. She was a fast, agile, sweet-tempered mare that he'd helped to train only a few months before. Now he could hardly count the scars from whip and spurs criss-crossing her skin. A hot rage erupted inside him as he listened to her broken breathing.
"What do you want?" He demanded rudely of the nobleman.
He looked down on Nathanial with some disdain and tapped his riding whip against his boot. Nathanial noticed it had bits of metal woven into the lash, designed to draw blood.
"Fetch Duncan," the man ordered, "he sold me this baggage and now she'll hardly jump a gate."
Nathanial looked at the poor creature behind him who'd obviously been ridden past her endurance too many times.
"You'll never buy another horse from Duncan's."
The nobleman arched an eyebrow and frowned. "I've little time to waste with servants who don't know their place. Fetch Duncan or his wife, I have a hunt meeting in an hour and I need a fresh ride."
Nathanial took a deep breath to tell the man what he thought, and expelled it when he heard a door close quietly behind him. He looked around to see Mrs. Duncan, wiping liniment soaked fingers on the towel near the door. She gazed past them both and gasped.
"What have you done to the poor thing!? I should have you arrested!"
The man looked at her in disbelief.
"You should have me arrested? You're the one who sold me such a shoddy beast, for an outrageous amount of money I might add! Now I demand my money back, or that you provide me a horse of higher quality!"
His face was turning red by the end of his speech, and his fine accent began to slip into something more guttural. Duncan's wife pulled herself up stiffly to her full height and crossed her arms.
"I will not! If I could demand that animal back legally I would, but you will not have another, not from this stable! Now you can go, with or without the horse, and with or without a bucket of horse piss to chase you… you low, cruel disgusting monster!"
The man growled and raised his whip. Nathanial jumped to push Mrs. Duncan out of the way, but he was a heartbeat too slow and the whip's metal tip opened the skin on her cheek from eye to jaw. She shrieked, and Nathanial turned in time to catch the whip across the shoulder blades. He sucked in his breath with a hiss and felt warmth spreading down his back from the wound. He continued to try and shield Mrs. Duncan but fell to his knees when the whip sliced open the small of his back. His every nerve ending went white with pain, and he felt a familiar tension in his mind. He scrambled to his feet and saw the nobleman advancing on Mrs. Duncan with the whip raised. Nathanial shouted at him to stop, and to his amazement, the man's clothing began to smoke. He looked at Nathanial in confused horror as his fine cotton shirt and silk vest caught fire, and he tried frantically to beat out the flames with his immaculate white gloves. He might have burned to death if Duncan hadn't stormed into the barn and smothered the flames with a saddle blanket. Both the injured man and Mrs. Duncan fled in fear, although Nathanial didn't realize at the time that she was fleeing in fear of him, not the nobleman.
"I swear, Cedric, the fire was leaping from the boy's eyes! It wasn't natural and like no magic I've seen! He's dangerous and I won't have him about!"
Nathanial heard the shouts from the house as he limped back to the barn that evening. Against his better judgment he crept closer and peeked over the top of the windowsill.
Duncan paced the room under the frantic eye of his wife, "You would have me just turn him out like we haven't treated him as a son for a year? He was protecting you from that monster!"
"And he could turn on us just as easily! Would you have him fire the barn with the horses in it?"
"I don't believe he would, wife."
"I won't take that chance Cedric, I won't have him about! I won't!"
Nathanial got up slowly from his eavesdropping position and moved quietly towards the barn. He packed up his few belongings and stopped the pat the shoulder of the white mare in her stall.
"Goodbye then, Molly old girl," he told her with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, "I thought it might be too good to last."
He slipped out the back of the barn without a backward glance, and set off across the pastures.
He wandered then for two years without destination. He never stayed in one town more than a few weeks, and an endless train of low-profile jobs flowed into one another: washing dishes, stocking shelves, scrubbing floors. Every inn and tavern began to look alike, every town full of the same people. He sometimes took up briefly with a traveling caravan, but remained distant and aloof, earning him a reputation as a snob amongst the caravans. But whatever he did, he avoided attention and blended easily into the background. He was quickly forgotten by all but a handful of those he encountered.