Wherein I Flee Folkestone's Landing with a Thistle In My Side
Onesday, Third Hand of Coldeven, EE237
Tándir of Great Harbor
Vacozan Province, Wirost
Swaying back and forth atop Stormlight as we made our way down the old worn dirt track that led to my bolt-hole I considered the past three days. Unwilling to stop for any length of time other than to rest it had not healed well and the constant movement of being horseback had turned it into a dull throb of pain. Beside me Saafiyah sat astride a pony we'd acquired for her in Penrith's Pointe the day before. I disliked the girl intensely by this point, having had done nothing but pester me with questions since deciding that she was coming with me more than a hand and two hundred miles back.
The rush to flee Folkestone's Landing had been chaotic at best, made worse by my newly won injury. She'd followed me with dogged determination to the stable where I had Stormlight boarded, not saying a word as she watched me intensely. Turning my back on my horse after checking its saddle, I had bent down to whisper in the stable boy's ear, passing him a gold Dragon and instructing him to send word to Trelbar to hire some men and secure the belongings I had left behind in my apartment. I turned back around ready to leap into the saddle and instead found the damn girl grinning down at me from my own horse with that enigmatic smile that I both hate and love.
I wanted her gone, to get the hell out of my life, to go away and piss off. I didn't need her with me. It was far too dangerous for her, and after the choices I'd made back at the apartment in an effort to protect her, far too dangerous for myself as well. I told her so.
Ignoring my snarl of anger and frustration she spoke. "Sorry?" she said, in the manner she had that suggested that she didn't have one ounce of sorry in her bones, grinning as she refused to budge from the saddle. "I don't care about it being dangerous," she continued as she shifted to get more comfortable in the saddle. When I didn't respond she raised an eyebrow inquiringly, "What are you waiting for? Let's go. Where are we going?"
For two days we rode double down the northern highway following the coast of Wirost from Folkestone's Landing to Jarren's Outpost, a small town that had sprung up in Wirost's early days of settlement around a roadside inn a day's ride from the seat of colonial power in Folkestone's Landing. We did not stay in Jarren's Outpost much to Saafiyah's dislike. We left the highway some time before we came upon the city and camped in the rolling hills south of the town. I had no way of knowing whether or not we might be pursued and I did not fancy another run in with a bunch of thugs in an enclosed space. Saafiyah was petulant about not having a soft bed and bath. It was that first evening that I finally got around to pushing the bolt, which had snapped in half during my tumble down the staircase, through the remainder of my shoulder with Saafiyah watching calmly, almost fascinated, as I bit down on a stick to prevent myself from screaming.
Reaching Penrith's Pointe by nightfall the next day, we had rented a room at one of the many inns. The risk of stopping in Penrith's Pointe, the economic hub of the Vacozan Province and home to as many as 1,500 people at any given time, was negligible compared to the risk we would have taken in Jarren's Landing just a day before. Nearly all harvest from the province moved to market in some fashion through Penrith's Pointe. It's landscape was dotted with granaries and wide open stockyards and auroch pens. It was a perfect place to acquire a mount for Saafiyah, who had pestered me the entire day's ride about wanting her own horse if we were going to be travelling so much. I settled for a pony, much more befitting her size. She did not act too pleased but quickly named it Ashka. From whence the name came I could not say.
We rode out of Penrith's Pointe early in the morning this third day, heading south on one of the less well maintained hard packed roads, eventually turning off onto an even less well maintained dirt track that took us through the hills of Vacozan towards the Dhahkan Peaks, the largest geographical feature Wirost. Some Wirostian scholars theorized that the island, that all the land masses composing the Mystshroud Isles, had been formed by the ground itself belching out fire and smoke and molten rock in great quantities. I could not say if such things were true or not, but the thought of such raw power never failed to make me realize just how insignificant I might be compared to the power of the gods and of nature.
We wound back and forth through the morning until, cresting a hill, a lush green valley at the foot of the Dhahkans appeared, full of cultivated fields and kepek groves. On the higher south side across from us in the distance, I saw my bolt hole, my summer home, a rectangular dun-colored two-story house protected by a dun-colored wall. A rather large outbuilding stood nearby, as well as a smaller single home a couple hundred yards from its larger cousin. It took another hour to cross the valley.
Payatt appeared around the corner of the small home dressed in brown fieldwork attire and wearing a cloak despite the warmth of the beautiful spring day, his intense dark eyes smiling in his weathered, wrickled face as we brought the horses to a stop in front of the home he shared with Aponi, his wife of many years. I could make out the outline of the man's shortsword, sheathed at his waist, beneath the heavy cloak.
"Welcome, Master Tándir," he said with a slight bow. Payatte and his wife were my grounds keepers. They tended the kepek groves, managed the small herd of goats and looked after the house. In exchange they lived rent free in the smaller home and kept fifty percent of the profits from each year's kepek crop; they were quite wealthy as a result compared to the average Wirostian commoner.
"How are you, Payatt? Not getting any younger, I see." I shook his hand after jumping down from Stormlight, mindful of the pain in my injured shoulder. "This kerl," I said, nodding towards the guttersnipe still sitting astride the pony, "is Saafiyah." Having been introduced, she climbed down from her mount's saddle. "Also, she is a pest," I added with a laugh.
Somehow it didn't surprise me at all when Saafiyah and Payatt began conversing like old friends. The child had a natural ability to disarm those around her with little more than a natural smile. I left them and led Stormlight to the main house and unloaded my packs and bedroll, carefully putting away the few weapons I had managed to gather before all hell had broken loose back in Folkestone's Landing. No matter, I had a small collection of trade tools here at the bolt hole, and if worse came to worse just about anything I might have need of could be acquired in Penrith's Point, a half day's ride north.
Over the next few days, as I mulled over what to do, rested and healed, Saafiyah followed me around pestering me about what I did for a living. "Why do you have so many swords and daggers and crossbows?" "Why do you have poison?" "Who were those men?" "Why did they want to kill you, Tándir?" "Was it something you did?" "Did you steal from them?" "Are you a thief?" "Who do you steal from?" "What do you steal?" She snooped and investigated, interrogated and probed. She was, indeed, a pest. One who I was glad I had not been able to rid myself of, even if I still wanted to.
I'd shown her the guest room which she'd looked at, commented something to the effect of "nice," and promptly picked up her bedroll and dropped it in my room, laying it out on the floor beside my bed. She climbed into the bedroll after I'd fallen asleep that first night and though I woke as she did so I didn't have the heart to admonish her yet again.
And then, on the third day as we ate a breakfast of mutton, badly burnt and barely edible in typical Saafiyah-style, she looked at me intently and asked me to teach her to use a bow. It shocked me.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because. You're too young," I added.
"Am not."
"Women, and especially young girls, should pursue other interests," I said. It was true. There were notable exceptions to this in Wirostian culture, but they were far and few between.
"So?"
One hour later as I was rebandaging my shoulder she asked again. I refused and she seemed to take that as a challenge, asking constantly, pestering me incessantly.
Two days later I caved. I'd seen an unnatural determination in her face so I decided to humour her, see how determined she really was. Thus, on the last day of the hand we saddled Stormlight and Ashka and made the half day trek to Penrith's Pointe, spending the afternoon visting the markets. We returned by nightfall with a bow suitable for Saafiyah's use.
I would have bet my last platinum Dwarf on Saafiyah getting bored when I began talking to her about crossbows, how each mechanism worked, the inherent benefits of different prod designs from ashen wood to composites made of wood, horn and sinew, how to build a makeshift bow press for restringing, the ranges of crossbows and bows, stances, care and maintenance. I was deliberately trying to discourage the girl by boring her silly. I failed abysmally. I'd never seen such concentration. She gave me not a single smile that day first day. her eyes were intent, brows furrowed. In some ways her determination scared me, as if she had a purpose in mind, something driving her. Perhaps it was her experience in my apartment.
Saafiyah was all bounce and enthusiasm the next day as I set up a handful of old and worn clay mugs on a dead tree trunk some twenty feet away. "Is it hard?" "When did you learn?" "How old were you?" "Why do you need so many different crossbows and bows?" In typical Saafiyah fashion my silence at each new question did not deter her. One of the things that amazed, amused and annoyed me about the kerl was her ability to have a complete conversation on her own, often veering into the absurd in the process. It usually made me smile despite my best efforts, which only served to encourage her further. She was a bit of a pest but I found I liked the pest more and more, despite the aggravations and endless headaches she caused me.
Handing her the shortbow we'd bought two days before in Penrith's Point I stood to one side to correct her stance. The shortbow looked huge in her hands, given her small stature.
"Both eyes open, Saafiyah."
Her eyes were locked on the clay mugs, intent, focused. I was just noticing how odd it looked for a girl, barely eleven cycles old, to be standing there with a shortbow in her hands, bowstring drawn back, arm shaking with the effort. The practice arrow went sailing into the air as she released. She grinned at me, not disappointed in the least bit. "Fun!"
I handed her another arrow. Moments later olive-green eyes glinted at me. "Missed."
Another thirteen arrows later and she still hadn't hit anything. Not even the old tree stump, which was quite large. Another thirty arrows and she'd punished the air plenty but the clay mugs remained quite safe.
"That's enough for now," I said as I reached out and took the bow from her hands.
She frowned. "Why?"
"Lunch," I said.
"Fine," she huffed, then smiled with a hint of evil. "I'm cooking!"
I groaned inwardly, preparing myself for another barely edible meal.
Saafiyah's determination was admirable. I actually felt proud the first time she hit one of the mugs. But, seven hands later, after daily practice that she fanatically insisted on, the girl was hitting each mug with ease. She had a remarkable natural talent that I'd never seen in anyone, myself included. Then one day, as she was sitting on the ground applying a light lubricating wax to her bow's flaxen bowstring, I offered her one of my light crossbows.
"Fun!"
I handed the crossbow to her without saying a word. I wanted to see how long it would take her to adjust to the heavier weight, if she would figure out for herself the best stance for an accurate shot. The first bolt missed by a mile. Unable to do so herself she handed it back to me to be drawn again. She paused and stared at the crossbow when it was back in her hands. Lifting it she shot again and missed by a mile. Frowning, she hefted it in her hands, studying it, before handing it back to me once more to be drawn. The third shot one of the few remaining clay mugs and spun it through the air as the bolt glanced off its side.
"Huh." She handed it back to me. I drew the string back and returned it to her, along with another bolt. She loaded the bolt into the flight groove and snapped the crossbow up quickly, pressing the lever all in one smooth motion. The "thwap" of the bowstring was followed immediately by the shattering of a clay mug downrange.
"Thought it would be harder."
Pride made my chest swell and that all too familiar uncomfortable knot formed.
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