David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

“Brigands.” Tavis looked at Grinsa, unsure of how he could possibly move the gleaner again, or where else they might go. Highland thieves might have several hiding spots of this sort between here and Glyndwr. No doubt they’d be returning to one of them before long-weather like this made even the hardiest of men seek shelter-but there was no guarantee that they would choose this one. He’d seen no sign of the men yet, but with the torrent nearly blinding him, that probably didn’t mean much.

He crossed to Grinsa again and squatted down to examine the gleaner’s wound. The swelling was getting worse, and Grinsa hadn’t moved or made a sound. The hair on the back of the Qirsi’s head was stained crimson. The gleaner, Tavis had once noticed, carried a small pouch of comfrey leaves with him, but all their possessions were with the mounts. Including their food and their skins of water.

Tavis let out a deep sigh. “I’ll be back,” he whispered.

Stepping out from the shelter of the stones, he was assaulted once more by the chilling wind and rain. If anything, the storm had grown fiercer, the gale more biting. Fortunately, the horses were not far off. They stood together amid the grasses and stones, looking miserable, their heads held low.

As Tavis drew near them, Fean, his mount, let out a low nicker and stomped a hoof restlessly.

“It’s all right, boy,” the young lord said, keeping his voice as low as he could in the storm, and slowing his approach. “It’s all right.” Reaching the animals, he took Fean’s reins in hand and began to lead him back toward the boulders, hoping Grinsa’s horse would follow. He did.

Another flicker of lightning made both animals start, but the thunder didn’t follow immediately, nor did it make the ground shudder so. Tavis wanted to believe that the storm was passing, though the rain and wind hadn’t slackened. When they came to the circle of boulders, both horses balked at squeezing through the narrow passages into the sheltered area. Tavis tried for several moments to coax them through, but decided in the end that all of them would probably be better off with the animals just outside.

He carried the food and sleeping rolls into the ring of boulders, then checked on Grinsa again. From what he could tell, the gleaner hadn’t moved. On the other hand, his injury didn’t look any worse. Using the sleeping rolls as blankets, Tavis covered his friend. He found the comfrey, crushed a few leaves between his fingers, and placed them on the Qirsi’s wound, tying them in place with a strip of cloth that he tore from the bottom of his riding cape.

“You owe me a new cloak, gleaner.”

He stared at the man for a moment, searching for any sign at all that Grinsa could hear him. Seeing none, he turned his attention to the small pile of wood and the fire ring. Tavis hadn’t realized until now just how much he had come to depend upon Grinsa’s magic. As a noble, he had never needed to bandage a wound, his own or anyone else’s. He couldn’t remember the last time he had built a fire by himself. He carried a flint in his travel sack, but with the wood soaked and the rain still falling he had little hope that it would do him any good.

Nevertheless, he retrieved it and started trying to build a fire. The air continued to grow colder, and the young lord had no doubt that by nightfall they would have need of warmth. He piled the wood in the fire ring and even found a small tuft of dried grass in a crevice in one of the boulders. But though he managed to light the grass aflame, the wood would not burn. And once that small bit of dry grass was gone, he had little else to use as kindling. At last he gave up, returning to Grinsa’s side and huddling against a stone to escape the rain.

The Qirsi looked even paler than he did usually, and his skin felt cold against the back of Tavis’s hand.

“What should I do for you, Grinsa? I don’t know how to heal your wound, and I don’t dare try to get you back to Glyndwr in this weather.”

As if to confirm this, lightning flared overhead, and was answered almost instantly by a tremendous clap of thunder. This, it turned out, was the last lightning to strike near the cluster of boulders. The sky flickered constantly for much of the rest of the day, but soon the rumbles of thunder grew muffled and distant. After a time, Tavis stood and ventured out of the small sheltered area. The horses were just where he had left them. The rain had eased to a gentle drizzle, but the wind continued to howl, and the young lord could see a dense fog spreading over the highlands from the west, bearing down on them like a great ocean wave. The wind was frigid now, as if it were carrying the snows back to Glyndwr. And they were without a warming blaze.

Tavis returned to the shelter of the boulders, and as he did, the gleaner stirred.

“Gods be praised!” he whispered, rushing to the Qirsi’s side. “Grinsa? Can you hear me?”

The gleaner’s head lolled to the side and he let out a low moan.

“Grinsa. You have to wake up. We need a fire, and you need to heal yourself. I can’t do it for you.”

The gleaner whispered something Tavis couldn’t hear.

“What? Say that again.” He leaned close, putting his ear to the man’s mouth.

“Cresenne,” the gleaner said, the name coming out as a sigh.

“No, Cresenne’s not here.”

He stared intently at the gleaner, waiting for him to say more, or move, or do something.

“Grinsa?” he said after a time, gripping the gleaner’s shoulder and shaking him gently.

Nothing.

“Damn!”

He slumped against the nearest boulder, shivering with the cold and wrapping himself more tightly in his damp riding cloak. After a few moments, for want of something better to do, he returned to the wood and his flint. Searching through the pile of logs once more, Tavis found a few scraps of bark and thin branches that seemed relatively dry. He cleared the wood out of the fire ring and piled the bark and twigs. Then he set to work with his dagger and flint once more, desperate now to start any sort of fire.

Before long his hands were cramping. Still, he kept at it. Occasionally he would draw a small wisp of smoke from the scraps of wood, but as soon as he began to blow on the wood, the smoke would vanish and he would be forced to begin again. He should have given up. Several times he threw the flint to the ground, cursing loudly. But always he retrieved it, starting anew. It wasn’t merely his fear for Grinsa that drove him, or the bone-numbing cold, or even his certainty that they would die before the next dawn if they didn’t find a way to warm themselves and dry their clothes and bedrolls. In the end, when fright and desperation failed him, it was pride that made him fight his failure. Curgh pride. For centuries, the nobles of his house had been known for it, ridiculed for it. But pride had kept him alive in Kentigern’s dungeon, allowing him to endure Aindreas’s torches and blades. And pride saved him now.

Somewhere, perhaps in that dungeon, or else in the corridor of an Aneiran inn, wrestling with the assassin Cadel, or perhaps on the Wethy shore, where the singer nearly killed him, Tavis had lost his fear of death. Even knowing that his life would not lead him to the Eibitharian throne, or any other future he had envisioned as a child, he still looked forward to meeting whatever fate the gods had chosen for him. And if they had marked him for an early death-if they had ordained that he should suffer a fatal wound on the battlefield, or succumb to the killing magic of the conspiracy’s Weaver-so be it. But he refused to die here in the highlands, a victim of his own inability to light a fire. He had endured too much in the last year to suffer such an ignominious fate.

He struck at the flint again and again, caring not a whit if he notched the blade of his dagger, ignoring the aching of his hands. The sky grew darker, though from the fog, or new storm clouds, or the approach of night, he didn’t know. Eventually it began to snow, scattered small flakes that landed softly on the grasses and stones and quickly melted. And as these flakes fell, a spark finally flew from his flint and ignited the bark at the center of the fire ring. The flame danced for a moment in the gloom, then died. But Tavis dropped low and began to blow on the small glowing corner of the wood, steadily, gently, adding a second piece of bark as he did.