David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Still need the snow?” he asked.

“This water will be warm soon enough.”

“All right.”

When they came back, she put the bucket of snow beside her, saving it for when the chill left the tub. Tristan was still shivering, and he cried when he had the energy, and moaned when he did not. After twenty minutes she dumped in the half-melted bucket of snow, sending Tristan’s shivers back to full strength. Ten more minutes and she lifted him out, wrapped him in a towel, and brought him back to his bed. Matthew was there not long after, a small cup of milk in one hand, a slender funnel in the other. Evelyn recognized it sure enough. They used it to feed their animals various herbs and tonics should they catch ill.

“He needs to drink,” Matthew said. “Hold open his jaw, and don’t let him move. I have no intention of drowning him.”

Once the milk was gone, they wrapped him tighter in blankets and waited.

“Go rest,” she told her husband. “You have enough work in the morning, and it won’t be no good for you to do it on a half night’s sleep. Get the kids back to bed as well. I’ll keep vigil on him.”

Matthew squeezed her shoulder and then left. Once he was gone she gently stroked Tristan’s forehead with her fingers. He looked like a drowned rat, but his fever had finally dropped. He’d fallen back asleep, too, for which she was thankful. She’d mixed a bit of Hogroot in the milk, and she prayed it’d break his fever completely while he slept. A quick inspection showed the stitches on his shoulder to be clean. No infection, thank Ashhur. There wasn’t anywhere higher left to cut, other than his neck just to end the suffering.

On her knees, her weight leaning against the bed, she waited out the night. Just before dawn, his fever broke, and for the first time since Haern had brought him there, he opened his eyes.

“I’m thirsty,” he said, his voice croaking.

Evelyn smiled and clutched his hand.

“Fresh milk,” she said, “coming right up.”

*

M atthew was breaking the thin seal of ice atop their pond when he saw the men ride to his front door. There were two of them, their chainmail dirty from the road. Even from this distance, he could tell they were armed.

“Who are they?” Trevor asked beside him. He squinted against the light reflecting off the snow. “Do you know them?”

“No, I don’t,” Matthew said. “Remember, if anyone asks, Tristan’s your brother, and he caught infection from a spider bite. You understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And just in case, get your knife, but don’t you dare let them see you holding it. This is serious, Trevor.”

The lad’s eyes widened. He went to ask a question, thought better of it, and then just nodded.

Matthew led them back to the house. Evelyn had answered, and after a moment, invited them in. He trusted her to keep her wits about her, probably more than himself. His other children were in there, though, and once outside the public eye, he wondered just what type of men they might be.

Should have made them wait outside until I got back, he thought. Damn it, Evelyn. Sometimes you ought to act the proper wife.

Just before reaching the house, he stopped and ducked into the barn. He heard his son gasp as he yanked their pitchfork off the wall.

“Won’t do much against their armor,” he said, inspecting its four teeth. “But they ain’t wearing helmets, so that’s something.”

He set it beside the door, then opened it and stepped inside. The two men sat beside the fire, their cloaks stretched out to dry at their feet. They both had swords, still sheathed, thank Ashhur. The rest of his children kept a safe distance away, again something to be thankful for. The strangers held small wooden bowls of a broth Evelyn had prepared for breakfast. His stomach grumbled involuntarily. He hadn’t eaten yet himself. He wondered how much of his own portion sat in the strangers’ bowls.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, taking off his gloves. “I see my wife has helped you feel right at home, which is proper. It’s cold work riding in winter.”

“She’s a lovely host,” one of them said. He was a plain looking man, dark-haired, flat nose. Only the scar running from his eye to his ear made him seem dangerous. He wore no tabard, but his accent was distinctly of the north, most likely Tyneham or one of the smaller mining villages.

“That she is,” he said. “On your way to Felwood, or beyond? I must say, I didn’t catch which direction you came from while out at my pond.”

“Riding north,” said the other. He was uglier, with brown hair in desperate need of a cut. “Our horses need a rest, and we must admit, the thought of a warm building was too much for us to resist when we saw your farm.”

“A fire warms eight as well as six,” he said. Evelyn gave him a glare, and he realized his mistake. He had seven in his family if he counted Tristan.

“Been times we had to cram twelve of us in here,” he continued, hoping to make them forget the comment. “Neighbors had their house burn down, lost one of their sons, too. Makes for a rough winter with no roof, so we brought ‘em in until spring.”

“It must have been tough,” said the first, looking around the small home.

“Forgive me, I’ve yet to introduce myself. My name’s Matthew Pensfield. You’ve met my wife, Evelyn. This here’s my oldest, Trevor. Little Mark’s over there, hiding in the corner. And these’re my two daughters, Anna and Julie.”

The girls smiled and tilted their heads in proper respect. The soldiers tipped their heads back, and each of them had a leer that sent fire up and down Matthew’s spine. He hesitated, trying to decide what to do about Tristan. He didn’t know what was the right course of action. The boy had been asleep when he last went outside. His wife took the decision away from him, and as much as it scared him, he trusted her.

“You must forgive us for not introducing you to Tristan. He’s sick with a fever in bed. Just had to amputate an arm, the poor dear.”

“That’s a shame,” said the dark-haired one. “My name’s Gert, and this here’s Ben. Like I said, we’re riding the road, maybe to Felwood, maybe all the way to Tyneham.”

“Only wanderers and thieves ride the road without knowing how far they wish to go,” Matthew said. “I hope you’re neither.”

Gert laughed.

“Nah. We’re looking for someone, actually. A lost boy, five years in age. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

Matthew shook his head. He’d played cards only a few times when trading in the bigger towns. He’d never been good figuring the odds of things, but he’d always done all right because of one thing going for him: he had one of the best card faces of anyone he knew. Only Evelyn could read what was going on behind his eyes.

“I haven’t, and I doubt I would, either. A boy that young running around in the snow? He’d be lucky to last a single night. How long’s he been missing? I hope I cause no offense, but a coyote pack’s probably gotten him, or at least, what was left of him.”

“There’s the thing,” said Ben. “He might not be alone. Had another man with him, wore gray and carried two swords. He’s a kidnapper, and we’re trying to capture him before he can think of asking for ransom.”

“Kidnapped?” asked Evelyn. “From who?”

Gert sipped some of his broth. “That’s something I’d rather we keep to ourselves. Either you seen the boy and that bastard, or you haven’t. Don’t matter none where either’s come from.”

As they talked, Trevor slipped back into his room. When he came back, Matthew saw the bulge in his pocket that was a knife. Matthew walked to the door and put his weight against it. His shortsword leaned beside its hinges, sheathed. Whenever he needed it before, it’d always been at the door. So far if either of the two newcomers had seen it, they hadn’t said anything.