Paul Kemp - The Godborn

He ran a hand through his hair-it was getting long-and scratched at the three-day beard that covered his cheeks. He exhaled, ready at last to start another sunless day. As he started to rise, Elle’s voice broke the quiet and stopped him.

“I’m awake,” she said.

He sat back down. He knew her tone well enough to understand that her thoughts had probably veered close to his own. She, too, was worried about the future. He put his hand on the rise of her hip.

“You’ve been awake this whole time?”

She rolled over and looked up at him. Her skin looked less pale in the light of the embers. Her long, dark hair formed a cloud on the bolster. Under the quilt, she had one hand on her belly, which was just beginning to swell with their child.

“The rain awakened me hours ago. I started worrying for the crop and then my mind whirled and I couldn’t fall back asleep.”

“Try not to worry. We’ll manage. Are you cold?”

Without waiting for an answer, he rose, walked across the cool floor, and threw two logs onto the embers. The logs caught flame almost immediately and he returned to the bed and sat. She had not moved.

“Are you worried?” she asked.

He knew better than to offer her a falsehood. “Of course I am. I worry about how we’ll feed ourselves and the baby, mostly. But then I remind myself that my parents endured difficult years, too, especially after I left to fight, and yet here this cottage stands. The crops will recover and we’ll endure.”

“Yes, but. . do you worry about. . the world?”

He took her meaning and offered her a falsehood after all. “The world is too big for my worry. I’m trying to focus on our bellies.”

“And if the Shadovar come for a quota of the crop to supply the troops? They say there’s war in the Dales.”

The fire caused shadows to dance on the walls, and Gerak flashed on memories of his military service, when he’d served the Shadovar in battle against Cormyreans.

“They say lots of things, and the Shadovar haven’t come for a quota in years. The farms near the cities must produce enough. Or perhaps they eat magic in the cities these days.”

She did not smile at his poor joke but at least it smoothed the worried furrows from her brow. She inhaled deeply, as if to purge the concerns that plagued her, and when she exhaled a playful look came into her eye, the same look he’d first seen on her ten years ago, the look that had caused him to want her as a wife.

“You snore loudly.”

“I know. You should nudge me.”

“No,” she said, and snuggled more deeply into the quilts. “I like the sound sometimes.”

“You like strange things, Sweets.”

“Taking you for a husband seals that ward, I’d say.”

“I’d say,” he agreed with a smile. He bent and kissed her on the crooked nose she’d broken years before when she’d stepped on a rake. He placed his hand over hers, on her belly, so that both of them had their unborn child in their palms.

“We’ll be all right,” he said and wanted her to believe it.

“I know,” she said, and he knew she wanted to believe it.

He stood and stretched, groaned when his muscles protested. “Why’re you up so early?” she asked.

He hesitated for a moment, braced himself, then dived in. “I’m going on a hunt, Elle.”

“What?” Instantly she sounded fully awake. The grooves had returned to her brow, deeper than before.

“We need to put up some meat,” he said.

She shook her head. “No, it’s not safe. We saw Sakkors in the night sky only last month. The Shadovar keep their creatures away from the villages but let them wander the plains. Only soldiers and those with official charters walk the roads safely.”

“Neither the Shadovar nor their flying city will take an interest in a lone hunter. They just want no one in or out of Sembia without their permission, especially during a time of war.”

“No one has come to the village in months, Gerak. Why do you think that is? It’s not safe.”

He could not deny it. Peddlers and priests and caravans had once roamed the Sembian countryside, tending to the villages. But Fairelm had seen nothing in a long while, nothing but old Minser the peddler, who seemed to enjoy spinning tales more than selling wares. But Minser had not returned in more than a month. The village seemed to have been forgotten out in the dark of the plains, all alone and surrounded by monsters.

“There are worse things than Shadovar,” she said. “Don’t go. We can manage-”

“I have to. I’ll be gone not more than two days-”

“Two days!” she said, half sitting up.

“Two days,” he said, nodding, his resolve firming up as he spoke. “And when I return, we’ll have a stag or three to dress and smoke. And that’ll keep us in meat through the winter and then some. You and the baby need more than roots and tubers and we need the chickens for eggs.”

“I need my husband and the baby its father.”

He bent and put his hand on her brow. She covered it tightly and lay back, as if she had no intention of letting go.

“Nothing will happen to me.”

“How can you know?”

“I’m a soldier, Elle.”

“You were a soldier. Now you’re a farmer.”

“Nothing will happen to me.”

She squeezed his hand. “Swear it.”

“I swear.”

“If you see something bigger than a deer, you run away. Promise.” “I promise.”

She gave his hand another squeeze and let it go.

He cleared his throat and went to the chest near the hearth, feeling Elle’s eyes on him. He opened the lid and removed the weapon belt and the broadsword, still oiled and sharp, that he’d earned as partial payment for his military service. He had not worn more than an eating knife and dagger in what felt like a lifetime, and when he strapped on the heavier blade, the weight felt awkward on his waist.

“I used to feel awkward without this on,” he said, and Elle said nothing.

His bow sat in its deerskin case near the chest, his two quivers, both stuffed with arrows, beside it. He undid the tie on the case and removed the yew shaft. He strung it with practiced ease and placed his hand in the grip. It felt as smooth and familiar as Elle’s skin. He imagined himself sighting along an arrow, a stag in his sight.

His talent with the longbow had been a matter of comment among his fellow soldiers, and he had not let his skills atrophy over the years, even after taking up the plow for the sword.

“Wait for the rain to end, at least,” she said.

He strapped the quivers on, did a quick count on his various arrows. “The sooner I leave, the sooner I’ll return.”

“You’ll get sick from the wet.”

“I won’t.”

“Then at least eat something before you go.”

“I can eat when I-”

“Eat, Gerak. The rain and cold is bad enough. I won’t have you out there with an empty stomach.”

He smiled, nodded, went to the small table he’d made, and broke off a large chunk of two day old bread from a loaf. With it, he swabbed yesterday’s stew slop from the bottom of the cauldron hanging near the fire. Elle watched as he ate. There was no meat in the turnip and kale stew and the absence only strengthened his resolve to hunt. He would fill his waterskin in the pond and could forage for additional food in the field, should he need it.

“You eat, too, Elle.”

“I will. The baby’s always hungry. Takes after its father, I suppose.” He went to the bed once more and gave her a lingering kiss.

“There’s ample stew and bread. A few eggs in the coop. I’ll be back before you know it.”

She stayed strong, as he knew she would. “You’re leaving me here with none but the fools and cowards.”