Post by Seek on Sept 25, 2009 17:17:04 GMT 10
Title: Time of Fire
Summary: During the Scanran war, Sir Faleron of King’s Reach was assigned command of a company of men. They were ambushed, Faleron failed as a commander and most of his men were captured or killed. Stranded in Scanra, Faleron must find a way to rescue the remaining stragglers and to escape, without getting entangled in Scanran affairs.
Rating: PG, rating may be revised as things go along.
Warnings: Violence.
Notes: (Is unfinished, so will be posted as things go along.)
Chapter One: Stranger In A Strange Land
Korstanveldt, Stanveldt Mountains, Scanra
The transition to awareness was swift for Sir Faleron of King’s Reach. His body, however, was slower to adjust – as he jerked upright, his torso screamed in agony, and his head rebelled against him, rewarding him by tilting the world on its axis.
Swiftly, he slumped back down against the rough bunk. His hands explored his torso – the pressure of his fingers brought about pain once more, but it was a dull pain. He was healing then.
Memory came back slowly after that; he was supposed to take the company and attack from the left, to force the Scanran forces back, to pin them against the walls of Fort Crow.
Only they hadn’t succeeded. Why?
Scanrans. They had been ambushed. He remembered things vaguely; the daze he had found himself in, his panic, and watching and then fighting blindly as his men were cut down. Finally, he didn’t know when, they were subdued and taken captive.
Was this imprisonment?
He knew that as a noble, he was entitled to ransom. Would the Scanrans care?
The woodened door opened, and a Scanran woman stuck her head cautiously in. “You’re awake.” She said. She had the blonde hair and blue eyes common among Scanrans, and she wore a wollen coat over her clothing.
Fortunately, Faleron’s linguistic skill had always been better than some of his mathematical deficiencies. And the two had definitely been better than his abilities at command. He could understand her. And he could speak in Scanran, although his vocabulary was limited, perhaps even halting.
“Yes.” He said. “Where am I?”
“Scanra.” She said, and with those words, confirmed Faleron’s worst fears. “Korstanveldt.”
The harsh syllables of the Scanran town slid past Faleron’s head – he’d never been much good at dead reckoning without a map. He took a deep breath. “In the mountains?”
“Yes. You are one of the Southerners.” She said, and he read a contempt deeply etched into the lines of hard living on her bony face.
“Am I a prisoner?”
She laughed, and spat. “If only you were, Southerner.” She said. Her laugh was harsh, like the caw of a crow. “No, you are free, but bound to the life of the man who rescued you.”
“I was in a battle.” Faleron recalled.
“Aye. And Fresleven was a damn fool for pulling you away from our soldiers.” She said, sniffing to further express her contempt for that Fresleven, whoever he might be.
“Then why did you take care of my wounds?” Faleron asked, struggling to sit up once more. She pushed him down easily, as if he were a child.
“Do not get up yet! You will tear your wounds open again!” She said, furiously, pressing against him until she was certain he would not try so once more. “I do not give charity to Southerners. You will earn your keep with me until Fresleven comes for you.”
“Is Fresleven a slaver?” He asked, painfully conscious of the fact that slavery was too common away from Tortall. He wasn’t sure if there was slavery in Scanra, just that there might have been. But he didn’t want to take the risk.
“You will see.” She said, turning her face away from him. “Today, you will eat gruel. Tomorrow, I will see the bandage, and if you keep everything down, you will come to the table in three days. And then you will begin to recover. The arrow was deep, and there was an infection. You had a fever.”
Faleron belatedly felt for his clothing, and realised his clothing was gone. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth – not his – below the woven blankets that covered him. “Who undressed me?” He asked.
“I did.” She said.
“What?” Faleron yelped.
“Southerner, it was your life.”
Faleron subsided, although he still felt keenly uncomfortable with the idea a woman had undressed him, and it wasn’t for pleasure, and he hadn’t been awake when that happened.
“Wait.” She said, firmly. “I will get the gruel.”
Her name, Faleron later learned, was Danika. She showed no interest in learning his name, and called him nothing other than ‘Southerner’. As the arrow wound (the worst of the wounds Faleron had taken) healed, Faleron gradually found himself growing stronger.
Soon, he was taking meals with her downstairs, and doing chores to earn his keep. While Faleron worried about Fresleven, and considered running away, he knew he was helpless for now. Danika made it clear she was skilled with knives, and he knew she had a weak Gift. He wasn’t even strong enough to attempt an escape, and in the cold of the Scanran mountains, he knew he would need warm clothing, and a weapon.
He had neither.
The first day she sent him outside to chop wood, she did not let him out of her sight. That was when Faleron found the village boys gathered to gawk at the Southerner staying with Danika, and he first learned that Danika was the village herbwife. The priests of Yahzed had departed the village, already killing the previous herbwife. Fortunately, one of the boys, Mikhail explained, Danika had a weak Gift, and could easily pass off as unGifted.
That was when Faleron first learned of the complicity of the village in Danika’s secret. He also learned a bit more about Korstanveldt – it was a group of villages in the Stanveldt mountains, under the control of the Scanran lord Evzen. They’d learned about Evzen under Sir Myles, and Faleron supposed he was lucky. If he had ended up in Rathausak territory, he would be in much greater danger.
As it was, the village was content to ignore his presence – too many owed Danika some favor or other. A herbwife was essential to a village, and with no ready apprentice, Danika was too important to them. Revealing the presence of a Southerner might lead to reward – however, they knew it would likely raise suspicion on their own complicity. As a result, they took to ignoring him, although the children often gawked at him and asked him questions about the South.
Faleron tried to answer as honestly as he could, ignoring the pangs that came to mind each time as he thought of his friends and his family. He tried to picture his parents, who must be frantic with worry, and Neal, Kel, Cleon, Merric, and wished he was back in Tortall.
But he could not escape – he sweated and trembled as he tried to cut the wood. He was unsteady on his legs, and that told Faleron he was in bad condition. He did not know the state the remnants of his men were in.
Once, when he was a third-year page, he and a hunting party of pages had stumbled into a canyon where hill bandits were. He was the leader then, but he had frozen up. His mind had gone into a blank panic; all he could think of was move and countermove, and he could not think of what to order.
Kel had saved them; she had remained calm and thought quickly. Without Kel, Faleron knew they would have died. He was only glad he had given command to Kel. Lord Wyldon had tried to train them to command forces after that incident. So had Faleron’s knight-master, Sir Bertrand of Seabeth and Seajen.
But it had all come to no use. He had panicked, anyway, when he had faced a scenario he had not prepared for. He had panicked, and he had failed.
Although Faleron was generally even-tempered, that thought had him whirling the axe and chopping firewood with greater fury. He had failed them. He had failed his men. Lord Wyldon had trusted him enough to appoint him a commander in concert with the army, and he had failed.
Shame and rage warred for prominence on his dark, handsome features, and in that moment, Faleron knew he had to rescue them. He had to escape somehow, and rescue his men.
He could not and would not fail them again as a commander.
Part of the week had passed. Faleron was getting stronger. He knew his best – his only chance – was to break free once Fresleven had come for him. Perhaps to even escape after Fresleven took him. Here, in the mountains, it would be certain death.
That was why Danika remained relaxed when he was out of her sight. Her hands only went surreptiously to where her knives were hidden when he wielded the axe to chop firewood.
He did other things too – it was he who went to draw water, and he helped with the cleaning, and getting provisions.
He wasn’t too bad at cooking, so she made him help out there. Nothing he could spoil, of course, just in slicing, and stewing. The difference in the way the food tasted from Tortallan food brought the fact that he wasn’t in Tortall back home to him, as so many things did.
The children’s games, the snow, the harsh language…
And that here, he was a civilian. Not a knight. A stranger, a Southerner, as his looks so clearly marked him; different from the pale blonds of the North in Scanra.
He wore a cream shirt now, and a patched, dark brown Scanran wollen longcoat. It was a little scratchy, and he wondered if there were lice and if lice survived in this kind of cold. Those things had the loose, worn air that said they belonged to someone else before, and he knew that the previous owner was probably dead.
Not that it mattered.
He just wished he had a sword, and more importantly, a map. Without these, escape seemed only a distant possibility. While his best chance was to wait for Fresleven, Faleron was also equally aware that the arrival of Fresleven could make it even more impossible for him to escape.
“Who is Fresleven?” He asked, one day, after dinner, as he cleaned the dishes, and Danika watched. She had laughed at him when he hadn’t been able to scrape them clean of food, and made him scrub at them with the harsh soap until he felt the skin of his palms burn.
“A rogue.” She finally said. Sometimes, she gave him some answers, but not always. Apparently, she was feeling generous today. “One day, he will be hung, and that will be that.”
“Then why did you take me in?”
“Southerner, you know nothing of Scanra. What debts – wotan, we accumulate, we must pay, for our honor. You owe Fresleven wotan.”
“But that’s Fresleven.” Faleron noted. He filed away her words for later inspection. “Which means you owe Fresleven wotan?” He tried the unfamiliar Scanran word on his tongue, and Danika laughed scornfully.
“You know nothing, Southerner.” She said, and she turned and walked away.
Scrubbing at the plates, Faleron thought, at least this time, she wasn’t angry.
It was a start.
At the end of the week, Danika pulled off the bandage. The skin was slightly more than pink – there would be a scar at the entry site, Faleron knew, although his muscles still felt sore when he did heavy lifting, or any quick, sudden movements.
It meant he had a hard time slowly bringing the logs in, a little at a time.
He resisted the urge to flinch as she prodded the scar. Her touch was firm, although rough, and when a warm sensation spread from her fingers into the scar, Faleron realised she was sending her Gift, to feel for damage.
“You are recovered.” She said. “Although all is a little new and tender.” She checked the other wounds – the slash along his ribcage, the cut across his face, and pronounced them all healed. But none had been so serious as the arrow wound.
“Will Fresleven come?”
She laughed. “He will come in his own time. Why so impatient, Southerner? Fresleven will take his own time, if the passes are snowed over.” She motioned for him to stand up. “The woodhouse needs more wood.” She informed him.
Faleron nodded, resignedly as he pulled his rough shirt back on, and proceeded outside to obtain the axe from the stump he had sank it into, and to chop more wood again.
It was three more days before Fresleven came. He was tall, in the manner of most Scanrans, with white-blond hair, and eyes of a light sky blue. His features were sharp, and Faleron thought he carried several knives on him, until he saw the worn, battered sword in a sheath by his side, and the unstrung bow slung over his back. There was something about his expression that spoke of a sharp focus and awareness.
This was a man who would be dangerous.
“Hello, Danika.” He said, somewhat cheerfully.
“You’ve finally come.” She said, and Faleron marvelled to see that she spoke in the same manner to someone else other than him. So it wasn’t about him being a Southerner. “Your Southern stranger has been getting underfoot for too long.”
“When you speak like that, I know you enjoyed company.” Fresleven said, grinning.
“Pah!” She exclaimed. “It will be good to have peace and quiet when you take the Southerner away with you!”
“Tomorrow.” Fresleven said. “The passes are snowed over again.” He added something in Scanran that Faleron couldn’t quite follow, and Danika snorted.
“You just want to steal my food again.”
“Quite right,” Fresleven said, unrepentant. “I am in your debt.”
She flapped her hands at him. “Off with you! Make yourself useful!”
Fresleven nodded, still smiling. He walked out of the house – fumbling in a leather pouch at his waist for a bowstring, and Faleron supposed he was beginning to string it.
“Stop gawking at him, Southerner!” Danika snapped, and Faleron turned. “I need you to work on the outhouse.”
Faleron groaned silently, but got to it anyway.
Faleron wondered what he had been expecting Fresleven to be. A slaver? A rogue? And yet, it appeared that Fresleven was perhaps none of those. The way he held the bow had demonstrated that he was quite clearly skilled in the ways of war.
Another of the Scanrans who returned to Scanra from other nations?
He was a passable hunter, at least, because he brought back game, dropping the carcass on the snow outside Danika’s door, and asking her if that was enough.
She’d agreed, and surprisingly, hadn’t asked Faleron to dress the meat. Instead, it was lef to Fresleven, who swiftly bled the deer out in the snow, before removing the meat, and calling out that he’d take the hide to the tanner.
That was the job Faleron got instead; he trudged uphill, a bloody, stinking hide across one shoulder, to bring that to the tanner, who took it knowingly. “Fresleven came?” He asked.
Faleron nodded shortly; he was still a little winded, and a little tired, and a little confused.
“That’s the only time hides come in from Danika.” The tanner said, shrugging. “Well, off with you.”
Fastidiously glad he hadn’t worn his coat, even though the cold nipped at him, Faleron began the walk back to Danika’s, with more on his mind that just escape, his men, and a smelly pelt, the last of which had probably merited him a wash. And the water would be cold.
At this point of time, Faleron was beginning to decide he did not like the cold, and that Cleon had been wrong when he said Scanra had rocks, because it wasn’t so much of rocks than cold, cold, and cold.
That night, he could hardly sleep. He wasn’t sure if he could get away from Fresleven, but then, the uncertainty and the dread itself told him he had nothing to lose, and his own promises to keep to himself.
He had to, and he would.
The next morning was cold and clear; Danika seemed eager to get rid of them. Faleron was beginning to think that one could break a tooth on Danika’s bread, and he ate it because he knew he needed to keep his strength up.
“Are you ready?” Fresleven asked him, and Faleron restricted himself to a nod. “Then move.”
He waited for Faleron to move first, before walking. That made it just a bit more difficult, Faleron thought. He courted the risk of being shot, if he tried anything.
And could he get away in the mountains?
He resigned himself to following Fresleven to their destination, before he would slip away, feeling as if hope that he would ever get away was slowly dwindling.
Perhaps Fresleven recognised this, or more likely it was because they were departing the boundaries of the village, and the man moved forward to lead on, through the passes.
Stanveldt Mountains, Scanra
Snow-covered rock; that formed most of the mountains. It was hard for grain to grow in Scanra. The sun shone on the snow, blinding Faleron with the glare, and soon he was squinting, cupping his hands to protect him from the glare.
Fresleven turned around to see what was taking him so long, before sighing. “I didn’t think the snow glare would come so fast,” He said in Common, reaching into his pouch once more, as he turned back for Faleron.
“I can speak Scanran.” Faleron said.
“Your Scanran?” Fresleven guffawed. “Southerner, they would not recognise your Scanran in Carthak.” Faleron didn’t understand what he meant.
Fresleven was still scrabbling for something in his pouch which apparently eluded him. “Brighska curse this,” He muttered, slipping back into Scanran, and then Common once more. “Ah.”
He pulled out a small horn box, the kind which Danika had in plenty, where she put her balms and salves. That had been one of the first things she had warned Faleron off. He opened it – there was some kind of pungent black ointment in it, and Faleron caught a whiff of it and sneezed.
“Come.” Fresleven said, and pulled Faleron closer. He dipped his finger into the ointment, ordering Faleron to close his eyes, before smearing it on Faleron’s lower eyelids.
Faleron obeyed, wrestling with fear and anxiety. It was how he was; he didn’t panic outwardly, but he froze up.
“What is that?” He asked, carefully, wondering if Fresleven would answer.
“Mot.” Fresleven said, and by this point of time, Faleron was forced to admit he was either really bad at languages, or most of the Scanran learning materials in Corus were sorely lacking. Perhaps both. “Have you walked in the mountains before, Southerner?” His tone said it; he didn’t think Faleron had, at all.
Which was the truth.
“No. But we have snow, down south.” Faleron said.
“That’s different.” Fresleven said, pausing to smear his own eyelids, before sticking the box back in the leather pouch he carried. It was more of a satchel, Faleron noticed, but it was strapped to his waist, which was why he had thought it was a pouch. “Walk in the mountains long enough, Southerner, and you’ll go snow-blind. You will not be able to see, your eyes will hurt. And we have far to go.”
“Going where?” Faleron asked. Perhaps now, he would get some answers.
Fresleven grinned, infuriatingly. “Ah, Danika would not tell you. But she is like that. Tight-lipped, that woman. Come, Southerner. You would not want to be caught in the passes by sunsdown.”
He began walking once more. Left with no other choice, Faleron followed.
Commentary:
This is an experimental fic, with Faleron as the protagonist, meant for character development and all that, and for me to play with the Scanran setting a little. Don’t worry, things will get clear. Soon.
Relatively.
And for those who wonder why Faleron is being so placid, first, he’s being sensible. He doesn’t want to freeze to death, helpless in the mountains. Second, Faleron’s even-tempered. He puts up with it, and it takes a lot to rock him. He’s still a little grateful for being healed and saved as well (who wouldn’t?)
Summary: During the Scanran war, Sir Faleron of King’s Reach was assigned command of a company of men. They were ambushed, Faleron failed as a commander and most of his men were captured or killed. Stranded in Scanra, Faleron must find a way to rescue the remaining stragglers and to escape, without getting entangled in Scanran affairs.
Rating: PG, rating may be revised as things go along.
Warnings: Violence.
Notes: (Is unfinished, so will be posted as things go along.)
Chapter One: Stranger In A Strange Land
Korstanveldt, Stanveldt Mountains, Scanra
The transition to awareness was swift for Sir Faleron of King’s Reach. His body, however, was slower to adjust – as he jerked upright, his torso screamed in agony, and his head rebelled against him, rewarding him by tilting the world on its axis.
Swiftly, he slumped back down against the rough bunk. His hands explored his torso – the pressure of his fingers brought about pain once more, but it was a dull pain. He was healing then.
Memory came back slowly after that; he was supposed to take the company and attack from the left, to force the Scanran forces back, to pin them against the walls of Fort Crow.
Only they hadn’t succeeded. Why?
Scanrans. They had been ambushed. He remembered things vaguely; the daze he had found himself in, his panic, and watching and then fighting blindly as his men were cut down. Finally, he didn’t know when, they were subdued and taken captive.
Was this imprisonment?
He knew that as a noble, he was entitled to ransom. Would the Scanrans care?
The woodened door opened, and a Scanran woman stuck her head cautiously in. “You’re awake.” She said. She had the blonde hair and blue eyes common among Scanrans, and she wore a wollen coat over her clothing.
Fortunately, Faleron’s linguistic skill had always been better than some of his mathematical deficiencies. And the two had definitely been better than his abilities at command. He could understand her. And he could speak in Scanran, although his vocabulary was limited, perhaps even halting.
“Yes.” He said. “Where am I?”
“Scanra.” She said, and with those words, confirmed Faleron’s worst fears. “Korstanveldt.”
The harsh syllables of the Scanran town slid past Faleron’s head – he’d never been much good at dead reckoning without a map. He took a deep breath. “In the mountains?”
“Yes. You are one of the Southerners.” She said, and he read a contempt deeply etched into the lines of hard living on her bony face.
“Am I a prisoner?”
She laughed, and spat. “If only you were, Southerner.” She said. Her laugh was harsh, like the caw of a crow. “No, you are free, but bound to the life of the man who rescued you.”
“I was in a battle.” Faleron recalled.
“Aye. And Fresleven was a damn fool for pulling you away from our soldiers.” She said, sniffing to further express her contempt for that Fresleven, whoever he might be.
“Then why did you take care of my wounds?” Faleron asked, struggling to sit up once more. She pushed him down easily, as if he were a child.
“Do not get up yet! You will tear your wounds open again!” She said, furiously, pressing against him until she was certain he would not try so once more. “I do not give charity to Southerners. You will earn your keep with me until Fresleven comes for you.”
“Is Fresleven a slaver?” He asked, painfully conscious of the fact that slavery was too common away from Tortall. He wasn’t sure if there was slavery in Scanra, just that there might have been. But he didn’t want to take the risk.
“You will see.” She said, turning her face away from him. “Today, you will eat gruel. Tomorrow, I will see the bandage, and if you keep everything down, you will come to the table in three days. And then you will begin to recover. The arrow was deep, and there was an infection. You had a fever.”
Faleron belatedly felt for his clothing, and realised his clothing was gone. He was wearing nothing but a loincloth – not his – below the woven blankets that covered him. “Who undressed me?” He asked.
“I did.” She said.
“What?” Faleron yelped.
“Southerner, it was your life.”
Faleron subsided, although he still felt keenly uncomfortable with the idea a woman had undressed him, and it wasn’t for pleasure, and he hadn’t been awake when that happened.
“Wait.” She said, firmly. “I will get the gruel.”
Her name, Faleron later learned, was Danika. She showed no interest in learning his name, and called him nothing other than ‘Southerner’. As the arrow wound (the worst of the wounds Faleron had taken) healed, Faleron gradually found himself growing stronger.
Soon, he was taking meals with her downstairs, and doing chores to earn his keep. While Faleron worried about Fresleven, and considered running away, he knew he was helpless for now. Danika made it clear she was skilled with knives, and he knew she had a weak Gift. He wasn’t even strong enough to attempt an escape, and in the cold of the Scanran mountains, he knew he would need warm clothing, and a weapon.
He had neither.
The first day she sent him outside to chop wood, she did not let him out of her sight. That was when Faleron found the village boys gathered to gawk at the Southerner staying with Danika, and he first learned that Danika was the village herbwife. The priests of Yahzed had departed the village, already killing the previous herbwife. Fortunately, one of the boys, Mikhail explained, Danika had a weak Gift, and could easily pass off as unGifted.
That was when Faleron first learned of the complicity of the village in Danika’s secret. He also learned a bit more about Korstanveldt – it was a group of villages in the Stanveldt mountains, under the control of the Scanran lord Evzen. They’d learned about Evzen under Sir Myles, and Faleron supposed he was lucky. If he had ended up in Rathausak territory, he would be in much greater danger.
As it was, the village was content to ignore his presence – too many owed Danika some favor or other. A herbwife was essential to a village, and with no ready apprentice, Danika was too important to them. Revealing the presence of a Southerner might lead to reward – however, they knew it would likely raise suspicion on their own complicity. As a result, they took to ignoring him, although the children often gawked at him and asked him questions about the South.
Faleron tried to answer as honestly as he could, ignoring the pangs that came to mind each time as he thought of his friends and his family. He tried to picture his parents, who must be frantic with worry, and Neal, Kel, Cleon, Merric, and wished he was back in Tortall.
But he could not escape – he sweated and trembled as he tried to cut the wood. He was unsteady on his legs, and that told Faleron he was in bad condition. He did not know the state the remnants of his men were in.
Once, when he was a third-year page, he and a hunting party of pages had stumbled into a canyon where hill bandits were. He was the leader then, but he had frozen up. His mind had gone into a blank panic; all he could think of was move and countermove, and he could not think of what to order.
Kel had saved them; she had remained calm and thought quickly. Without Kel, Faleron knew they would have died. He was only glad he had given command to Kel. Lord Wyldon had tried to train them to command forces after that incident. So had Faleron’s knight-master, Sir Bertrand of Seabeth and Seajen.
But it had all come to no use. He had panicked, anyway, when he had faced a scenario he had not prepared for. He had panicked, and he had failed.
Although Faleron was generally even-tempered, that thought had him whirling the axe and chopping firewood with greater fury. He had failed them. He had failed his men. Lord Wyldon had trusted him enough to appoint him a commander in concert with the army, and he had failed.
Shame and rage warred for prominence on his dark, handsome features, and in that moment, Faleron knew he had to rescue them. He had to escape somehow, and rescue his men.
He could not and would not fail them again as a commander.
Part of the week had passed. Faleron was getting stronger. He knew his best – his only chance – was to break free once Fresleven had come for him. Perhaps to even escape after Fresleven took him. Here, in the mountains, it would be certain death.
That was why Danika remained relaxed when he was out of her sight. Her hands only went surreptiously to where her knives were hidden when he wielded the axe to chop firewood.
He did other things too – it was he who went to draw water, and he helped with the cleaning, and getting provisions.
He wasn’t too bad at cooking, so she made him help out there. Nothing he could spoil, of course, just in slicing, and stewing. The difference in the way the food tasted from Tortallan food brought the fact that he wasn’t in Tortall back home to him, as so many things did.
The children’s games, the snow, the harsh language…
And that here, he was a civilian. Not a knight. A stranger, a Southerner, as his looks so clearly marked him; different from the pale blonds of the North in Scanra.
He wore a cream shirt now, and a patched, dark brown Scanran wollen longcoat. It was a little scratchy, and he wondered if there were lice and if lice survived in this kind of cold. Those things had the loose, worn air that said they belonged to someone else before, and he knew that the previous owner was probably dead.
Not that it mattered.
He just wished he had a sword, and more importantly, a map. Without these, escape seemed only a distant possibility. While his best chance was to wait for Fresleven, Faleron was also equally aware that the arrival of Fresleven could make it even more impossible for him to escape.
“Who is Fresleven?” He asked, one day, after dinner, as he cleaned the dishes, and Danika watched. She had laughed at him when he hadn’t been able to scrape them clean of food, and made him scrub at them with the harsh soap until he felt the skin of his palms burn.
“A rogue.” She finally said. Sometimes, she gave him some answers, but not always. Apparently, she was feeling generous today. “One day, he will be hung, and that will be that.”
“Then why did you take me in?”
“Southerner, you know nothing of Scanra. What debts – wotan, we accumulate, we must pay, for our honor. You owe Fresleven wotan.”
“But that’s Fresleven.” Faleron noted. He filed away her words for later inspection. “Which means you owe Fresleven wotan?” He tried the unfamiliar Scanran word on his tongue, and Danika laughed scornfully.
“You know nothing, Southerner.” She said, and she turned and walked away.
Scrubbing at the plates, Faleron thought, at least this time, she wasn’t angry.
It was a start.
At the end of the week, Danika pulled off the bandage. The skin was slightly more than pink – there would be a scar at the entry site, Faleron knew, although his muscles still felt sore when he did heavy lifting, or any quick, sudden movements.
It meant he had a hard time slowly bringing the logs in, a little at a time.
He resisted the urge to flinch as she prodded the scar. Her touch was firm, although rough, and when a warm sensation spread from her fingers into the scar, Faleron realised she was sending her Gift, to feel for damage.
“You are recovered.” She said. “Although all is a little new and tender.” She checked the other wounds – the slash along his ribcage, the cut across his face, and pronounced them all healed. But none had been so serious as the arrow wound.
“Will Fresleven come?”
She laughed. “He will come in his own time. Why so impatient, Southerner? Fresleven will take his own time, if the passes are snowed over.” She motioned for him to stand up. “The woodhouse needs more wood.” She informed him.
Faleron nodded, resignedly as he pulled his rough shirt back on, and proceeded outside to obtain the axe from the stump he had sank it into, and to chop more wood again.
It was three more days before Fresleven came. He was tall, in the manner of most Scanrans, with white-blond hair, and eyes of a light sky blue. His features were sharp, and Faleron thought he carried several knives on him, until he saw the worn, battered sword in a sheath by his side, and the unstrung bow slung over his back. There was something about his expression that spoke of a sharp focus and awareness.
This was a man who would be dangerous.
“Hello, Danika.” He said, somewhat cheerfully.
“You’ve finally come.” She said, and Faleron marvelled to see that she spoke in the same manner to someone else other than him. So it wasn’t about him being a Southerner. “Your Southern stranger has been getting underfoot for too long.”
“When you speak like that, I know you enjoyed company.” Fresleven said, grinning.
“Pah!” She exclaimed. “It will be good to have peace and quiet when you take the Southerner away with you!”
“Tomorrow.” Fresleven said. “The passes are snowed over again.” He added something in Scanran that Faleron couldn’t quite follow, and Danika snorted.
“You just want to steal my food again.”
“Quite right,” Fresleven said, unrepentant. “I am in your debt.”
She flapped her hands at him. “Off with you! Make yourself useful!”
Fresleven nodded, still smiling. He walked out of the house – fumbling in a leather pouch at his waist for a bowstring, and Faleron supposed he was beginning to string it.
“Stop gawking at him, Southerner!” Danika snapped, and Faleron turned. “I need you to work on the outhouse.”
Faleron groaned silently, but got to it anyway.
Faleron wondered what he had been expecting Fresleven to be. A slaver? A rogue? And yet, it appeared that Fresleven was perhaps none of those. The way he held the bow had demonstrated that he was quite clearly skilled in the ways of war.
Another of the Scanrans who returned to Scanra from other nations?
He was a passable hunter, at least, because he brought back game, dropping the carcass on the snow outside Danika’s door, and asking her if that was enough.
She’d agreed, and surprisingly, hadn’t asked Faleron to dress the meat. Instead, it was lef to Fresleven, who swiftly bled the deer out in the snow, before removing the meat, and calling out that he’d take the hide to the tanner.
That was the job Faleron got instead; he trudged uphill, a bloody, stinking hide across one shoulder, to bring that to the tanner, who took it knowingly. “Fresleven came?” He asked.
Faleron nodded shortly; he was still a little winded, and a little tired, and a little confused.
“That’s the only time hides come in from Danika.” The tanner said, shrugging. “Well, off with you.”
Fastidiously glad he hadn’t worn his coat, even though the cold nipped at him, Faleron began the walk back to Danika’s, with more on his mind that just escape, his men, and a smelly pelt, the last of which had probably merited him a wash. And the water would be cold.
At this point of time, Faleron was beginning to decide he did not like the cold, and that Cleon had been wrong when he said Scanra had rocks, because it wasn’t so much of rocks than cold, cold, and cold.
That night, he could hardly sleep. He wasn’t sure if he could get away from Fresleven, but then, the uncertainty and the dread itself told him he had nothing to lose, and his own promises to keep to himself.
He had to, and he would.
The next morning was cold and clear; Danika seemed eager to get rid of them. Faleron was beginning to think that one could break a tooth on Danika’s bread, and he ate it because he knew he needed to keep his strength up.
“Are you ready?” Fresleven asked him, and Faleron restricted himself to a nod. “Then move.”
He waited for Faleron to move first, before walking. That made it just a bit more difficult, Faleron thought. He courted the risk of being shot, if he tried anything.
And could he get away in the mountains?
He resigned himself to following Fresleven to their destination, before he would slip away, feeling as if hope that he would ever get away was slowly dwindling.
Perhaps Fresleven recognised this, or more likely it was because they were departing the boundaries of the village, and the man moved forward to lead on, through the passes.
Stanveldt Mountains, Scanra
Snow-covered rock; that formed most of the mountains. It was hard for grain to grow in Scanra. The sun shone on the snow, blinding Faleron with the glare, and soon he was squinting, cupping his hands to protect him from the glare.
Fresleven turned around to see what was taking him so long, before sighing. “I didn’t think the snow glare would come so fast,” He said in Common, reaching into his pouch once more, as he turned back for Faleron.
“I can speak Scanran.” Faleron said.
“Your Scanran?” Fresleven guffawed. “Southerner, they would not recognise your Scanran in Carthak.” Faleron didn’t understand what he meant.
Fresleven was still scrabbling for something in his pouch which apparently eluded him. “Brighska curse this,” He muttered, slipping back into Scanran, and then Common once more. “Ah.”
He pulled out a small horn box, the kind which Danika had in plenty, where she put her balms and salves. That had been one of the first things she had warned Faleron off. He opened it – there was some kind of pungent black ointment in it, and Faleron caught a whiff of it and sneezed.
“Come.” Fresleven said, and pulled Faleron closer. He dipped his finger into the ointment, ordering Faleron to close his eyes, before smearing it on Faleron’s lower eyelids.
Faleron obeyed, wrestling with fear and anxiety. It was how he was; he didn’t panic outwardly, but he froze up.
“What is that?” He asked, carefully, wondering if Fresleven would answer.
“Mot.” Fresleven said, and by this point of time, Faleron was forced to admit he was either really bad at languages, or most of the Scanran learning materials in Corus were sorely lacking. Perhaps both. “Have you walked in the mountains before, Southerner?” His tone said it; he didn’t think Faleron had, at all.
Which was the truth.
“No. But we have snow, down south.” Faleron said.
“That’s different.” Fresleven said, pausing to smear his own eyelids, before sticking the box back in the leather pouch he carried. It was more of a satchel, Faleron noticed, but it was strapped to his waist, which was why he had thought it was a pouch. “Walk in the mountains long enough, Southerner, and you’ll go snow-blind. You will not be able to see, your eyes will hurt. And we have far to go.”
“Going where?” Faleron asked. Perhaps now, he would get some answers.
Fresleven grinned, infuriatingly. “Ah, Danika would not tell you. But she is like that. Tight-lipped, that woman. Come, Southerner. You would not want to be caught in the passes by sunsdown.”
He began walking once more. Left with no other choice, Faleron followed.
Commentary:
This is an experimental fic, with Faleron as the protagonist, meant for character development and all that, and for me to play with the Scanran setting a little. Don’t worry, things will get clear. Soon.
Relatively.
And for those who wonder why Faleron is being so placid, first, he’s being sensible. He doesn’t want to freeze to death, helpless in the mountains. Second, Faleron’s even-tempered. He puts up with it, and it takes a lot to rock him. He’s still a little grateful for being healed and saved as well (who wouldn’t?)