[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers (32 page)

As Honus quietly approached the dull glow, it blossomed into a yellow flame as the lantern was opened and an arrow lit. Its light revealed two men. They stood in thick undergrowth. The burning arrow arched into the campsite and the enemy was cloaked again in darkness. Honus had fixed the men’s position in his mind and charged toward it. He could hear bowstrings twang in the night. Then, Honus was upon his quarry, slashing at shadows. He groped as much as he attacked with his blade. It was fighting blindly—clumsy and desperate. Honus crouched near the ground and swung his sword like a scythe. He felt weeds and saplings part against his blade before it struck something more substantial. A man screamed, and Honus swung in the direction of the sound. The sword struck flesh and bone. A second cry resounded, one that mingled fear with pain. Another blow cut the scream short. It was followed by the noise of the second man blundering off into the darkness.

Retreat was Honus’s safest option, but he had Hommy and Hamin to consider. He doubted they would abandon their wagonload of goods. But if they remained, they would be vulnerable to the surviving archer. He need only kill their horses to render them immobile. Then, at the very least, they would suffer ruin. Honus realized he had to track down the last attacker.

He moved toward the sound of the fleeing man as quietly as he could, feeling the way with his bare feet as well as his hands. As he feared, his foe soon stopped moving. Honus stopped also and strained to hear any noise that might betray his enemy’s position. Ahead, he detected the metallic sound of a sword being slipped from its scabbard. He moved in its direction.

From the campsite came a cry of despair that set Honus’s heart pounding. For a moment, he was torn between rushing to the campsite and continuing his hunt. Then his training asserted itself, and he concentrated on his quarry. Honus heard snickering in the dark and thought of a ploy to flush out his foe.

“If the Devourer loves power,” Honus said, “then he loves me. I’ve slain two of you.” As soon as he spoke, Honus quietly changed his position.

“I’ve bagged prizes also,” said a voice. Honus moved toward the sound.

“That was no real fighting.”

“I’m not done yet. The bitches were only target practice.”

Honus’s heart froze, and he found himself straining to hear Yim’s voice coming from the campsite. All he could hear were Hamin’s sobs. Honus struggled with his despair and fury. He took a deep breath, suppressed all emotion, and focused on the task at hand.

“Women are always easy prey,” said Honus.

“That doesn’t diminish the fun,” returned the voice.

With the last reply, Honus gained a general notion of where his opponent was. He painstakingly moved in that direction by an indirect route, taking care to be silent. His toes touched a short, stout branch. Honus picked it up and continued his slow advance. As time passed, Honus’s silence began to unnerve his foe. “Did you care for one of the whores?” he asked. Honus didn’t reply. “Was it the fat one or the slender one? Not that it matters. I got them both.”

Honus closed in on the taunting voice. He tossed the branch so it crashed into the undergrowth behind where he thought the man hid. The invisible man slashed the bushes where the branch had landed. Quickly and lethally, Honus attacked. It was over in two blows.

Once the man was dead, Honus rushed to the campsite and was greeted by a stark scene. Hamin sat upon the ground, illuminated by a burning arrow. His face was a mask of disbelief and sorrow. Hommy lay before him, an arrow sprouting from her chest like an evil weed. She bore an expression of surprise as she stared blankly at the starless sky.

Yim knelt close by, facing away from Honus. A broad bloodstain was spreading over the back of her tunic. She seemed oblivious of it and everything else except the dead woman before her.

“Yim!” cried Honus.

Hamin seemed barely aware of Honus’s arrival, but Yim turned at the sound of her name. Her grief nearly matched Hamin’s. In a flat voice she said, “She left the wagon. Before I could warn her to get down, she was…was…” Yim began to sob.

“Do you know you’re wounded?”

Yim appeared confused. “I am?”

Honus pulled up her tunic to reveal where an arrowhead had grazed her, leaving a long, ugly gash beneath her shoulder blade. Honus lowered the tunic. “I’ll need to take care of that.”

“Why?”

“So it’ll heal.”

“No,” said Yim. “Why Hommy?”

Honus stood mute, but the mention of Hommy’s name roused Hamin like a slap across the face. He stared at Yim with such intensity that she shrank from his gaze. “You blessed my child!” he said. “Is this how Karm shows her favor?”

THIRTY-FOUR

O
NLY
Y
IM’S
sobbing broke the awkward silence following Hamin’s outburst. In the stillness, Honus ministered to the living with the sangfroid of one accustomed to violent death. First, he rekindled the campfire. From his pack he took a leather pouch and his small brass pot. He filled the pot with water and set it on the fire. Then he turned to Yim. “When this boils, I’ll make medicines to tend your wound.” Yim simply nodded.

Then Honus sat beside Hamin, who had ceased glaring at Yim. “Hamin, I’m truly sorry. The men who did this are slain.”

“It will na bring her back.”

“No, it won’t.” Honus paused. “Shall I pull the arrow from her?”

“That would be good of you. I can na bear to do it.”

Honus drew his dagger. “You should look away.” The arrow had pierced Hommy’s sternum and he feared its head would have to be cut out. This was necessary because Averen folk believed that spirits could not travel westward while iron remained in the body. Honus made quick work of the gruesome task and tossed the arrow into the flames.

“Hommy will rest on wool,” said Hamin. “She liked that. I’ll get her blanket. Then could you help me lift her into the wagon?”

“Aren’t you going to bury her?” asked Honus.

“Nay. I said I’d take her to Bremven, and that I’ll do. The coins that would have bought her wine will pay for her funeral instead.” Hamin went into the wagon and returned with a plaid blanket to be his wife’s shroud. Even by firelight, Honus could tell it was skillfully woven, and he wondered if it was Hommy’s work. Hamin closed his wife’s eyes, tenderly kissed her, and began to weep again. Then, with Honus’s help, he wrapped her body and placed it in the wagon.

Honus returned from the wagon alone, carrying a blanket and two cups. He found Yim staring at the fire with a distraught expression, tears freely flowing down her face. She seemed almost as hurt by Hamin’s outburst as by her wound. But with Honus’s arrival, her injury seized her attention. “Blood’s flowing down my back,” she said in a frightened voice.

Knowing that being unable to see her injury fed Yim’s fears, Honus replied as calmly as possible. “It’s a graze, not a gaping hole.” Then, as Hamin’s sobs broke the night’s stillness, Honus spread the blanket on the ground near the fire. “Take off your tunic and lie so your back’s lit by the fire,” said Honus. “I’ll need light to tend your wound.”

Yim complied, and Honus covered her with the blanket so only her back was exposed. Yim lay quietly, but clearly apprehensive, while Honus set to work. From the leather pouch, he took two vials. One contained dried herbs and the other a dark powder. He put some herbs in one cup and a pinch of the powder in the other, then filled both with boiling water. He cut a strip of cloth from the hem of Yim’s tunic and put it in the pot, which he refilled with water and set back on the fire. “After this boils,” he said, “I’ll clean your wound.”

“Is…is it bad?” asked Yim.

“No, but it’ll need stitches.”

“Stitches!”

“Calm yourself,” said Honus. “I was taught more skills than killing. I’ve sewn many a wound, even some of my own.” He gently rubbed Yim’s back, keeping well away from the oozing gash. “The herbs make a drink to ease the pain. It’ll be ready soon.”

Honus continued to touch Yim, as much to calm himself as her. When the cloth had boiled awhile, he fished it out of the pot with his dagger and let it cool. Then he cleaned around the gash. Yim tensed and her breathing came in short gasps, but she said nothing. Honus peered at the wound. It was still bleeding, but more slowly. He could see no bone. “You’re lucky,” he said.

“I don’t feel lucky.”

Honus took the cup that contained the leaves. “Drink this.”

Yim raised herself on one elbow, wincing as she moved, and quickly gulped down the brew. Then she lay down and Honus wiped away a fresh flow of blood. “That tasted terrible,” she said.

“Hope that you taste it only once.”

Yim lay quietly awhile before saying, “The ground…it’s moving.”

“That’s the brew working,” said Honus. “Stay still.”

A short while later, Yim moaned. “Honus,” she said thickly, “I don’t feel so good.”

Honus rubbed her back again to calm her. “It’ll pass,” he said. “Then you’ll feel drunk.”

“Drunk!” Yim started to laugh, but winced instead. “Drunk! I’ve never been drunk in my life. Wha’ ya mean…uh…” Yim paused as if she’d forgotten what she was saying. “I’m…I’m not…” She gasped. “I can’t feel my feet!” Yim started to turn around, but Honus gently, yet firmly, pressed her down.

“Lie still.”

“All right, I won’t move.” Yim began to giggle. “Why…I…I can’t move! I’m all numb! Like when he cut me.”

“Like when
who
cut you?”

“Oh, you know, silly. That man in the castle.”

“Oh, him,” replied Honus, hiding his interest. “I remember now. Why did he do that?”

“Wanted my soul,” replied Yim in a slurred voice. “Wanted yers, too.”

“But you saved me.”

“Yeah,” said Yim groggily.

“How?”

Yim mumbled something incomprehensible and passed out.

I made that brew too strong,
thought Honus. But when he dabbed the solution made from the powder into Yim’s wound, he was glad she was unconscious, for she moaned as the liquid foamed up pink from the gash. Honus washed a curved needle and a strand of gut in the same liquid. He closed the wound with a series of neat stitches and washed it once more with the cleansing solution. Carefully and tenderly, Honus wrapped the blanket more securely around Yim. As he bent to lift her into the wagon, he kissed her cheek. When he placed her upon the wool, he noticed Hamin. He had ceased sobbing and was sitting upright, watching over Hommy in the dark.

“You should try to rest,” said Honus.

“’Tis na possible. I doubt I’ll ever rest again.”

Thinking of Theodus, Honus replied, “I know it feels that way, but you will. Hommy would want it so.”

Honus stood watch for the rest of the night, though all their assailants were dead. His guard would not bring Hommy back, nor erase Yim’s pain or prevent her scar. Honus kept watch as penance, for he saw the night’s disaster as his fault. The familiarity of his homeland and his desire to sleep close to Yim had caused him to ignore signs of danger. He felt certain that the attack would have failed if he’d been on guard. Honus resolved never to make that mistake again.

In the darkness, his thoughts turned to Yim’s revelations. Most were not surprises. Honus had already surmised that Yim had rescued him from the dark man and that she had received a paralyzing wound in the process. Still, he hadn’t expected to hear his deductions confirmed by her own lips. Her statement that the man was after their souls was news. Honus wished he could have learned more, but that opportunity was gone. Yim would not remember what she had said, and Honus decided not to bring the matter up until she was settled at the temple. Until then, he wouldn’t pry into her mysteries.

At first light, Hamin left the wagon to tend the horses. Honus went over to help. By the dull look in Hamin’s eyes, Honus guessed he had not slept. “I want to get far from here,” Hamin said. “We’ll eat on the road.”

“Before we leave, I should hide the slain men,” said Honus.

While Hamin hitched the horses to the wagon, Honus found the three corpses, dragged them far from the road, and hastily covered them. Yim was still asleep when they headed out, but woke when they reached the paved road and the wagon wheels rumbled on its stones. She rose, pale and bleary-eyed, and made her way to the front of the wagon, still wrapped in the blanket. “Are we traveling already?”

“Hamin is anxious to leave,” said Honus. “How does your back feel?”

Yim withdrew one hand inside the blanket to touch her wound. “You sew neatly,” she said. “It’s sore, but I guess that’s to be expected.”

“I’d like to look at it.”

Yim turned her back toward him and lowered the blanket. Honus couldn’t help noting how lovely she looked, wound and all. Then he examined the gash and was pleased by what he saw. “It’s mending well.”

“My first scar,” said Yim. “Though I suppose you’re unimpressed. You’ve lost count of yours.”

“So have you,” replied Honus. “Have you forgotten the sword cut on your foot?”

Yim acted as though she hadn’t heard him. “I should get dressed. Will you look away?”

Honus withdrew and joined Hamin at the front of the wagon while Yim dressed. When he glanced back at her, she was asleep again. Neither Honus nor Hamin had slept since the attack. Honus was trained for privation and remained alert. Hamin seemed to have spent all his strength hitching the horses. He stared at the road with vacant eyes, silent and withdrawn. When Honus took the reins from him, Hamin didn’t seem to notice. Honus perceived an emptiness in his companion that went beyond exhaustion. It was as if Hamin’s spirit were seeking Hommy’s on the Dark Path.

They traveled until noon without any incidents on the road. Honus’s chief concern was Hamin. He refused to rest, though he was incapable of guiding the team. Honus had the self-discipline to stay awake, but he realized he was losing his edge. Even a Sarf needed sleep. If he were to keep watch through the night, he would have to get some. When they stopped to rest the horses, Yim was awake, and Honus asked her to drive the team in the afternoon. She reacted with an uneasy look. “Will you show me how, first?”

“You’re a peddler’s daughter,” said Honus. “Surely your father had a wagon.”