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Freedom burns while chains chafe
Do not whisper a shout
Marks from love, scars of hate
Do not sigh a deep doubt
Time makes a bitter face
Take a breath and be loud
—Hildr Vas Trumurne
240Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0OrxDHNzW8
Women do not often travel alone, even fit ones with sharp blades and steely eyes. The afternoon sun warms Hildr’s side as she hides behind a boulder. Voices echo from the road ahead. Angry shouts and giggling.
Moss tickles her nose, and she scoots around to a bare side of the rock. More shouts and a small boy chases a taller girl through a grassy field.
“Keep it away!” The pig-tailed girl swats at his hand.
The dark-haired boy cackles, holding up his palm. Too far for details, but a spot hops away.
Hildr undoes the rope belt keeping her thick robe snug and pats a dagger’s hilt. How brazen to catch insects beside a road through the wild. She squints and drops to her knees, sneaking closer. Monsters may lurk, praying for such succulent food as those two.
An older pair of youths run into the field; a curly-haired maiden who whistles, and a lanky young man who shouts. Allying against their smaller peers, they corral them back to the road. Two adults ready a camp there, next to a covered wagon and a team of horses.
Food and drink would be welcome, information even more so. Hildr drums her fingers on the ground. She does not have to be trusting to be trusted. Thievery can remain an option until hospitium.
She pulls out her golden hairpin and shakes loose long orange hair from a tight bun. Hands up, she stands. The family point at her and wave. No weapons. No shields. How can they be so welcoming?
Walking slow along the rocky road, she approaches with her eyes straining left and right. Ambushes happen when caution thaws.
Mother, father, daughters and sons, they smile easy, share meaningful glances, and giggle at slight provocations; a picturesque family, almost unreal in their story-book perfection. Murder tickles like an almost sexual urge, but Hildr clenches her jaw and breathes slow. They do not mean to tease her with familial joys she never had.
A grunt from their balding father grants permission, and the two youngest grip Hildr’s wrists. With deep breaths, she relaxes her jaw and her arms. Grinning, they lead her off-road. The dark-haired boy chases after a grasshopper, and the pig-tailed girl bends and picks up a dandelion.
With a minor lisp from missing teeth, the girl says, “Help me pick them all.”
Hildr crosses her arms. “Will you offer food and drink for hospitium?”
“Sure.”
“Then, I’ll help pick a few.”
The girl hums as she works, more at ease than a pasture-grazing calf. Hildr hands her a pile of the yellow-topped flowers.
“Wow.” The child’s eyes widen with the word, and she grins. “So many. This will look pretty on our table. Come on.” She scurries off, pigtails dancing.
Hildr frowns. “Hey, what about …”
The girl reaches her parents and older siblings, holding the dandelion bouquet like a grand trophy. They nod and pat her back.
From deep in the grass, the abandoned brother cries out. Shaking her head, Hildr hurries to where he wails.
“Boy!” She parts some foliage and finds him curled on the ground. “Soften your siren call for predators.”
Whimpering, he rubs his knee, and she offers her hand.
“I-I hurt myself.” He holds up a bloody palm. “See.”
“How worthless are your parents?”
“Wh-what?”
She sighs and pulls him to his feet. “Nevermind. Let’s return you to their care.”
At the camp, the salt and pepper-haired matriarch offers Hildr a seat on a log. “Thank you for bringing my boy. He’s not—none of us are used to the forest, and we lost our hired help.”
Four children now, but how many did they start with?
Hildr swallows her scorn and smiles. “Where are you coming from?”
“Actually, we—”
The father drops a stack of wood in front of them. “We come from Spicesun by way of Qutain.”
“That’s where we lost our proper stagecoach,” says the curly-haired maiden.
He clears his throat. “You’ve joined our camp, but hospitium requires food. Let’s wait until your belly is full and trust is judged true before we share what’s personal.”
Hildr bows her head. “Fair.”
The dark-haired boy picks at the bandage his mother put on his knee. “Tell a story, lady. A good one, like Nana does.”
The maiden blushes and squats next to her little brother. “Don’t be rude. Daddy just said after food we can tell our tales, and around a campfire will be even better than at Nana’s house.”
Hildr smirks and rubs her hands together. “I don’t mind sharing a tale of caution. One little boys and girls used to the city should listen to very closely.” She holds up a finger and curls it to resemble a claw. “Yipping like a lost pet to lure you into tall grass, gremlins—”
The father coughs and waves smoke out of his face. “I’m getting faster.” He tucks a flint and steel fire starter into his pocket. “Perseverance overcomes all obstacles.”
They are oblivious. No warnings or stories will save them from themselves.
Hildr bites her tongue. The boy whines, and his older brother grabs him from behind. They wrestle, a bear and a cub scrambling without skill. She sighs. Even at play, they are amateurs.
The mother carries a cauldron to the fire and stirs the soup within.
The sun sets, and the father snores. Hildr frowns at the man curled on a bed roll without a care for a night-watch.
“Don’t worry,” says the maiden. “He’ll wake when dinner’s ready.”
Hildr clears her throat, attracting the mother and her children. “I may not look it.” She pats her plain wool robe. “But, I have fought battles with beasts and armies. Platoons of griffin riders obeyed my hand and hordes of orcs cowered under my gaze. I tempted kings with my lips and broke warlords with my hips. Berserkers—”
“Well, now.” The mother leaves her cauldron and leans close. “Steer away from the raunchy with your fantasies, please. We favor Lileth and follow an austere way.”
Hildr chuckles and tugs on her orange hair. “Can you guess who I favor?”
The woman wrings her hands. “Who you favor is your business. Raising our children is ours. I think Phoenix and Lileth agree on this freedom, don’t they? Fire and water both need space to spread.”
“Interpreting an overgod’s will is a crusader’s obsession.” Hildr turns from the campfire. “You really should assign sentry duties. We are a beacon in the dark.”
The mother sighs. “I must trust my husband to keep us safe.”
“Indeed.” Hildr rolls her eyes. “A sleeping man has great value.”
The tall son paces with a shortsword in a sapphire-tipped scabbard. “Don’t disrespect my dad. He gave up everything for us.”
“Easy.” The mother motions toward her husband with a finger to her lips. “Let him rest. I’ll tell her.”
The young man huffs and settles. Hildr eases her hand away from her dagger’s hilt.
“Sorry,” says the woman. “We first left Spicesun after the demigods abandoned their hosts—”
“Abandon presumes choice.” Hildr rubs her thumb. “No one knows what happened with them.”
She bows her head. “Of course. I meant no offense.” She motions to her older daughter. “Stir. Don’t let it burn on the bottom.”
“Yes, Mama.” The maiden takes a long spoon to the cauldron.
The mother nods. “She’s a good girl. I have two great girls.” She sucks in a breath and sniffles. “By the time we got to Qutain, the … missing demigods had set off a whole stream of chaos. We lost most of what we had scavenged from Spicesun to extortion. At our wits end, the Pale Crusade arrived.”
Hildr hisses and presses her thumb against her forehead. “Ostensibly, to restore order, yes?”
“Well, they did restore order.” She pulls her pig-tailed daughter into a hug. “In Hierophant’s name, the Pales declared our girls fit for marriage. They had a long line of soldiers to reward after all.”
“Shit logs,” says Hildr.
Griffins defecate a log at a time. Falling from the sky, it has become synonymous with things unfair and disgusting.
“This is why we’ve run this way, and why any woman going north should travel with caution.” She kisses her daughter’s forehead. “Our overgoddesses may be like fire and water, but I’d rather sit next to your flame than lose my girls to Pale’s icy grip.”
Hildr rubs her pocketed hairpin. “What if there’s nowhere left to run?”
The tall son stomps over with his sheathed shortsword. “I know how to use this. I attended an academy.”
How much bravery will survive his first combat? Hildr nods and settles into a slump on her log.
These folk are dangerous. The longer she stays with them, the more her heart will thaw. She cannot protect them, and they cannot protect her.
Something trills in the dark. Are squirrels awake this late?
“Soups ready!” says the mother.
Her little dark-haired boy offers a steaming bowl and spoon to Hildr.
“Thank you.”
She stirs it and wrinkles her nose; pungent with an undercurrent of cloying sweetness. They are from Spicesun; of course it will be spicy.
The family shovels and slurps. The older children pass empty bowls for seconds, and their groggy father narrows his eyes at Hildr.
She sets her bowl on their table. “A little warm for me still.”
The man pounds his chest and belches. His elder son drops his bowl and collapses.
Hildr chuckles. Teenagers are such a tangle of limbs, they will trip over a breeze.
The young man’s little pig-tailed sister staggers to their mother and retches into her lap.
“Oh, shit logs.” Hildr steps away from them, wiping sweat from her brow.
Illness? Contagion?
The maiden falls. The dark-haired boy drops next, and they both spew. Their mother clutches her empty bowl and moans as regurgitated soup drips from her dress.
Or, perhaps the dinner?
Another trill comes from the dark, and Hildr draws her dagger. Gremlins yip, while brownies trill, but they are both tricky little races.
The mother takes her younger daughter into her arms. Tears stream from both their eyes. She stands and stumbles. Her husband moves to steady them and falls.
Hildr turns her back to the campfire, letting her eyes adjust to the sparse evening’s light.
With a gurgle, the family’s matriarch sits and topples over. Her pig-tailed daughter rolls from her, and the whole family writhes in the dirt.
Slaves to a soup-induced delirium? Hildr reaches for her bowl and freezes. A blur of movement comes out of the brush.
A miniature man cartwheels toward Hildr, trilling like a squirrel as he spins. Tall as the top of her shin, he lands on his teaspoon feet and points at her with a shaking, twig-like arm.
“Nope.” Hildr tosses her knife around to a reverse grip and charges the lemon-eyed brownie.
Falling on his butt, the doll-faced man fumbles to load a sling. Cheeks puffed, is he getting ready to scream?
Hildr boots him into the air and swats him to the ground. Lip curled, she sheaths her dagger and picks up the limp little man.
Food may be a bust, but she can still get information.
ns 15.158.61.8da2
