After the disaster that night at the farm, Keverin and Lorcan hadn’t dared to approach another the same way again; neither did they immediately make for the nearest village, knowing that the farmer would probably go there and report the bandits that had set fire to his barn. Justice on the border might come in the form of a sword point or short rope. They didn’t dare risk it.
A few days after their run in with the farmer, Lorcan slipped away in the night heading for a dim light they had seen through the trees. Keverin awoke the next morning to the mouth-watering smell of roasting chicken. Lorcan sat nearby turning the spit, and grinned when Keverin noticed the new clothes he wore. Instead of clan leathers, he now wore a plain white cotton shirt and brown woollen trousers. Both obviously made for a bigger man. A bundle nearby turned out to be similar clothing closer to Keverin’s size. Not only had Lorcan provided food, he had clothed them both. The boy was a wonder.
Keverin and Lorcan ate like the starving men they were, not stopping until every scrap of food they had was gone. There was really no point in trying to save any for another day. It would have spoiled. During the meal, Keverin was forced to face unpalatable truths and rethink his plans. Without supplies they couldn’t hope to reach Elvissa in anything like a reasonable time. Lorcan’s actions had made that worse, though Keverin would never hurt the boy by telling him so. Burning the barn had been a necessary diversion, but his thieving last night meant they couldn’t approach these people for help either. They would have to circle wide around the house, or risk an arrow in the back. More time lost.
Keverin pulled a handful of grass from the ground and used it to clean the grease from his fingers. “We have to stop somewhere, Lorcan.” He threw the grass onto the fire where it flamed to nothing in a puff of smoke. He frowned. “We won’t make it to Elvissa this way.”
“No one saw me, m’lord.”
“I know. If someone had, we would know it by now. Besides, you’re too good to lead anyone back here.”
Lorcan nodded, taking the praise as nothing more than his due.
“That farmer the other day must have alerted the nearest village about us, and news travels fast out here. We can’t afford people’s distrust, especially when we need their help. So no more thieving unless I say, all right?”
Lorcan nodded.
“Good. We’ll tell people that you’re my son, and that I’m a guardsman turned out by his lord. My lack of a hand and the clothes you stole will help with that. I’ll shave off my beard—I never liked it anyway—it itches like mad sometimes.”
Lorcan laughed.
Keverin smiled, liking the sound. “Without my beard, both of us wearing new clothes, and with the torque out of sight, no one will recognise us as the dastardly barn burners.”
Lorcan nodded and left to refill their only waterbag. While the boy was doing that, Keverin changed his clothes and stuffed the old ones in a hollow between the roots of a tree. He used one of Lorcan’s knives to scrape away his beard, wincing when he cut himself, but feeling better when it was gone. It wasn’t a clean shave by any stretch of the imagination, but it should fool a casual observer. He wished he had his razor with him, and snorted at the thought. He might as well wish for a pair of horses and a score of guardsmen besides. He kicked the fire apart, and upon Lorcan’s return led the way further into the trees.
Slogging over root infested ground and forcing a path where none existed was hard work. The ground undulated, often forcing him to crawl up hillocks or follow shallow streams around them. He didn’t push the pace, couldn’t push it, for he still tired very quickly. His left arm began to ache with a steady burn of over-used muscles, and he longed to rest. Lorcan stopped briefly to cut a staff from deadwood, but it did little to help. Nothing could. He was a one-handed man, a cripple, and the force of that knowledge hit him harder every time something like this reminded him of it.
They found the highroad the following afternoon, and Keverin decided to follow it west toward Malcor.
“We are going the wrong way, m’lord.”
Keverin nodded. “The barn burners were heading east, but we look different and are heading west.”
“It’s a thin disguise.”
“It is indeed, but better than nothing.”
Lorcan sighed petulantly and began walking.
Keverin said nothing. They were dirty from their struggle through the woods, and very tired. The boy’s hollow cheeks were an outward sign of the hunger gnawing at his belly. Keverin had no doubt he looked the same or worse. It felt like tendays since they shared the stolen chicken, and his hunger worsened as he remembered how good it had been. They slogged on down the road, each lost in thought or memory.
He prayed that Julia was all right and that she hadn’t done anything rash. She was impulsive and quick to anger. He shuddered to think what she might have done when she learned of his supposed death. If the situation had been reversed, and he had lost her, his revenge would have been terrible to behold, but Julia was a powerful mage. Her vengeance could kill hundreds, as it had at Athione when the walls came down.
Keverin stopped when he noticed rutted wheel tracks joining the highroad. He followed them with his eyes, looking for their destination, but the tracks curved not far ahead and he couldn’t see around it. The lane was nothing more than a rutted dirt path heading into the woods, but the deep grooves left by a wagon passing this way told him that his search was nearing it end. If he was not mistaken, they would lead to a farm. He steered Lorcan left off the road and under the trees.
A short while later, Keverin’s surmise was borne out when the trees opened into a clearing—fields bordered with ditches and dry stone walls. A farmhouse with chimney smoking sat beyond the fields, and he could make out sheds and a barn, with some people working nearby. A pair of dogs lay warming themselves near the well in the evening sun, ignoring the chickens pecking the ground nearby. The fields hadn’t been planted long; he could see the faint green haze of new growth. Corn probably. Had it been full summer, he would have been sure of his welcome—farms during harvest always needed more strong backs than they usually had, but now with the planting already done? He didn’t know, and it worried him.
The clothes and time of day made all the difference when they approached the farmhouse. Unlike last time, they were met with curiosity not animosity. The dogs were the first to notice them; getting to their feet and barking in welcome, they ran to Lorcan and circled him with tails wagging and tongues lolling. The boy grinned and patted the affectionate rogues, but Keverin kept his attention on the farmhands watching them. There were three men, two carrying pitchforks from their labours in the barn. The other was an older man, probably the owner. Perhaps the younger two were his sons, though he seemed too young to have grown sons.
“Come, Lorcan, let’s not keep them waiting.”
They walked the rest of the way with the dogs darting around and between them. Keverin raised his hand in greeting, and the eldest among the three men came to meet him.
“I’m Keverin, and this is my son, Lorcan. Have you any work that needs doing? My boy is strong. He’s no slacker, my word on it.”
The farmer noticed Keverin’s empty cuff right away, his eyes lingering upon the ugly scars a moment too long for Keverin’s comfort. “Dwyer is my name. I own the place.” He waved a hand back toward the other two men. “My brothers Ladde, and Finn.” The two nodded a greeting. “You ask for work, but… forgive me for asking, can you do anything?”
Keverin nodded. “There must be something even a cripple can do, and my son is young and hale.”
Dwyer nodded thoughtfully. “I could probably find you both something. Mind you, I can’t pay much.”
Keverin sighed in relief. “Anything would be a help. We need supplies and have far to go.”
“You can sleep in the hayloft, but you’ll eat with us in the house. I’ll pay you a few coppers a day depending on what you do. Food is free, but any other supplies you want come out of your pay. Good enough?”
Keverin nodded.
Dwyer held out his hand, and switched to his left when Keverin raised his to seal the bargain. “It’s late, come into the house. You can start work tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Dwyer. We’re famished.”
“Starved is more like it. You’ve travelled a hard road, Keverin, you and your boy. I wager you have some tales to tell, eh? You can tell some this evening and make a start on earning your pay.”
Keverin laughed, but he knew Dwyer was serious. A bard out here must be a very rare sight indeed. Any entertainment would be worth a meal or two. It was a good thought and one worth exploring in future. He didn’t have much of a singing voice, and would make a terrible bard because of that, but he could certainly spin a few tales.
Dwyer entered the house while his brothers freshened themselves at the rain barrel. Keverin and Lorcan waited politely for them to finish before doing the same. Keverin longed for a proper bath and clean clothes, but dunking his head in the barrel helped. Lorcan had to wash his hand and forearms for him. Keverin averted his eyes from the pity he knew filled the farmers’ eyes. Lorcan handed him the old shirt they had seen the others dry themselves with, and while Keverin attended to himself with it, Lorcan ducked his head in the barrel and came up spluttering.
“Whoa, that’s freezing!” Lorcan gasped.
The farmers laughed along with Keverin at Lorcan’s antics, and then led the way into the house. Keverin entered looking back to see Lorcan finish drying himself, but then turned to find himself confronted by a woman. He stopped just inside the door, and offered his best bow.
“May I enter, Lady?” he said automatically, forgetting for the moment he was not entering the woman’s quarter of a noble’s estate.
The woman smiled, but she was obviously surprised by his elaborate courtesy. “Of course you must. How else will you sit and eat with us?”
Keverin smiled but inwardly cursed. These people were peasants, good folk he had no doubt, but they were not nobles. Courtly ways had no place here. Devan men treated all women with respect and courtesy as was proper, but only noble women lived separate from their men. They had their own domains and ruled them as a lord would rule his lands. By treating Elsbet so, he had revealed himself as more than a simple cripple looking for work. Elsbet glanced at Dwyer uncertainly, and the look they exchanged between them wasn’t lost on Keverin. They were suspicious, but not yet hostile. He had to allay their fears quickly.
“Thank you. I am Keverin, and this is my son Lorcan. Thank you for welcoming us into your home.”
“I’m Elsbet; Dwyer is my husband… if he didn’t tell you. Come in then, sit-sit-sit all of you! The food will not go to waste I warn you. You’ll eat it hot or you’ll eat it cold, but eat it you will!”
Elsbet was a solid woman of about twenty years or so with dark brown hair peeping from under a plain blue scarf. She wore a woollen dress and cotton blouse as most peasant women did, but hers had colourful embroidery stitched up the arms. He had seen the style sold in the marketplace a few times, though not often. The small yellow flowers and green vines made him wonder if she had Tinker blood or had simply bought it.
Keverin ducked under the low beams of the ceiling, he was much taller than the others, and took his place on one of the benches lining the table positioned in the centre of the room. Lorcan sat with him before the others arrayed themselves around the table. Their positions weren’t lost on Keverin. Dwyer’s brothers had bracketed him and Lorcan like a pair of book ends. It would be quite difficult to rise quickly as was no doubt their intention. Dwyer sat at the head of the table, and Elsbet brought the food to him.
Dwyer filled each bowl with stew and passed them to his right until everyone had one. Keverin was so hungry he had to force himself not to start before the others. Elsbet set a basket of bread rolls in the centre of the table and everyone took one.
“We give our thanks to the god for this day, and for the food before us. And we give thanks for the good company of Keverin and Lorcan so recently met,” Dwyer said, and broke bread.
Keverin circled his heart and whispered his own thanks to the god for his life and future happiness with Julia. He tore his bread in half before looking back up. Dwyer had seen Keverin make the god’s sign over his heart, and he nodded his approval. For a time then they all busied themselves with eating. Lorcan finished first and another full bowl was pressed on him. Elsbet didn’t have to force the boy. Lorcan took another roll after seeking permission from her, and started eating as if he had not already eaten a full meal. Keverin wasn’t much slower, and he too ate a second bowl full of stew while Dwyer and his family watched.
Elsbet was a fine cook. The mutton and vegetables in the thick gravy were cooked to perfection, but had she been the worst cook in the land he would still have eaten everything. It had been that long since he hadn’t been hungry.
The dirty dishes were cleared away and Lorcan volunteered to wash them, but Elsbet shook her head saying tomorrow was soon enough to start earning his way. Dwyer left for a short while, and returned with a jug of ale. With the table cleared and everyone sated. It was time to hear Keverin’s tale. During the meal he had been thinking about this moment, and had decided to tell as much truth as possible without revealing who he was. He couldn’t afford the chance that Dwyer wouldn’t believe him. They needed supplies badly, but more than that, they needed a ten day of good meals to regain their strength. Without either one, they would not reach Elvissa. He would be a crippled guardsman down on his luck. He knew the life intimately and knew he could be convincing.
“I lost my hand fighting bandits for m’lord,” Keverin began, and Elsbet gasped. “I served him for many a year, and serve him still in my heart, but when I lost my hand I couldn’t stay.”
“We were happy there,” Lorcan said. “I didn’t want to leave my friends.”
“M’lord did offer to let me stay…” Keverin agreed, weaving his lies and half-truths, hating the necessity but determined to do as well as a real bard might do.
* * *