Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

He found the stream, black with glints of white and silver in the weak moonlight. Kneeling, he dipped the bucket into the frigid water, listening to the sounds of the fiddle in the distance, faint because of the intervening bank. He hummed along with it, his anger abating, the bucket almost full, then glanced up.

A figure crouched on the opposite side of the stream, three paces away.

He jerked back with a grunt, yanking the bucket up out of the water. He overbalanced, sat down hard on the grass embankment, water sloshing onto his shoes, and then he scrambled backward, his throat closed so tight he could hardly breathe, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His arm hit a hole hidden in the grass and he collapsed onto his side, his scramble halted, but he rolled onto his back, bucket held up before him like a weapon, water spilling onto his chest.

“Don’t move!” he ordered. “Don’t move or I’ll-”

He choked on his anger as he realized it wasn’t Walter or Jackson. It wasn’t anyone from the expedition at all.

The man on the other side of the water didn’t react, except to tilt his head to one side, chin slightly forward, brow wrinkling. His face was narrow and thin, his skin pale in the moonlight, paler than anyone in the expedition. His eyes were dark, his hair darker, but Colin couldn’t tell what color they were, not in the scant light.

Heart still shuddering in his chest, Colin swallowed and sat up, gathering his feet beneath him while still holding the bucket out before him, defensively now.

The man watched silently. He was dressed in a fine material that Colin didn’t recognize, his shirt strangely patterned, the torso a swirl of lines and colors, all muted in the moonlight, the sleeves a single color and long, covering his arms. His breeches were tanned leather, supple, his boots made of the same material, but hardened. He carried a bow, unstrung and longer than any of the bows Colin had ever seen, the curved wood held in one hand, reaching up to twice the man’s height while crouched. Colin could see lettering carved into the side of the bow near the grip. A compact quiver was slung over one shoulder, and a sheathed short sword and pouch were secured to his waist.

A glint of gold or silver drew Colin’s eye to the man’s fingers. He wore a band of metal around two fingers on one hand and another thicker band around his wrist. There were markings on the bracelet and rings.

Colin met the man’s eyes and frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. He thought about the guards on duty at the gap, a swift sprint away. But something in the man’s subtle movements, in the considering tilt of his head and the dangerous, casual way he held the bow, told him he’d never make it more than a few paces.

The man straightened and said something in a language Colin didn’t understand, certainly not Andovan. His voice was harsher than Colin expected, rougher, but the words had a smooth cadence.

When the man finished speaking, he frowned, waiting expectantly.

Colin shook his head. “I don’t understand you.”

The man scowled, glanced out toward the plains, out into the darkness. His motions were a strange combination of short, sharp gestures and fluid movements. Colin suddenly wondered where the rest of the man’s group was. They’d seen at least six figures on the horizon. How close were they? Did they intend to attack the wagons?

He felt his heart quickening again and shifted backward.

The strange man’s head jerked toward him, hand falling to the hilt of the short sword at his side, and Colin froze. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. Sweat prickled his skin, on his forehead and back, in his armpits.

They held still, regarding each other. The bucket began to tremble, Colin’s arm tiring. He saw the man’s hand tighten on his sword hilt as the bucket began to shake, but Colin couldn’t hold it up any longer.

He let it sag to the ground, released his death grip on its handle, and flexed his fingers, wincing at the pain.

The man watched silently. Then he relaxed, a thin smile touching the corners of his mouth. His hand fell away from the short sword.

He said something else, the words still incomprehensible. His eyebrows rose as he waited for a response, then fell as he sighed.

Shifting, he pointed to himself and said, “Aeren.” Then he pointed to Colin. “Name?”

Colin gaped in surprise, stunned into silence.

The man-Aeren-frowned, seemed to think about what he’d said, then said again, putting a slightly different emphasis on the word, as if he weren’t certain he’d pronouncing it correctly, “Name?”

“Colin,” Colin stuttered. “My name is Colin.”

Aeren nodded. “Colin.” He said it carefully, almost reverentially, then ruined the image by muttering something under his breath in his own language.

“How do you know my language?” Colin asked.

Aeren’s brow creased, and he tilted his head again. Then he shook it. “Where go?” He waved a hand into the darkness. “Where?”

Colin pointed. “South and east.”

Aeren followed his finger, his frown darkening, deepening. He turned back, the motion sharp again. “No.” He stood, and as he did so Colin realized he was tall-at least a hand taller than Colin-although the bow he now held in both hands, its point on the ground, still reached over his head. Colin wondered if he’d mistaken the bow for a spear earlier. “No,” Aeren repeated. “Meet here.” He motioned to the ground on the other side of the stream. “Meet here. Sun.” He gestured toward the horizon, his motions easy to read.

“Meet you here in the morning,” Colin said.

Aeren regarded him for a long moment, the lines of his face intent.

Then he turned and vanished into the night.

Panic spread through the wagons when Colin returned to tell his father of the meeting with Aeren at the stream. Everyone gathered closer to the center of the wagons, where the grass was stained red with deer blood. Tensions escalated, and arguments broke out. Arten and Tom sent more men to the edges of the camp, many men volunteering to help out, Walter hovering at the edges of the group, scowling, as the orders were issued. More wood was thrown on the central fire-wood they couldn’t afford to spare, not when the plains had so few trees-but one woman demanded it in a shrill voice, and Tom finally conceded. Many sought the solace of Diermani’s Hand, Domonic.

But nothing happened. When the night remained silent, the initial panic faded, reduced to a general murmur, a tightening of shoulders and furtive glances out into the night. As they relaxed, the people began to disperse back to their wagons and tents.

“They wouldn’t have warned us if they intended to attack,” Arten said. He surveyed those still gathered around the fire. “The additional sentries are useless.”

Tom nodded. “I know. But they’re also harmless. And they make the rest of the group feel more relaxed, more protected. Besides, how many of the men on duty would be able to sleep now?”

Arten snorted. “Given what we’ve seen so far and what Colin reported,” he said, looking toward him as he spoke, “they can take out any number of us from the darkness with their bows, and we wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. Our fire makes us easy targets.”

Colin shifted uncomfortably at that, his gaze darting toward the darkness beyond the nearest wagons. The hairs on the back of his neck stirred and he shivered, then shrugged the sensation of being watched aside.

The rest of the night passed slowly. Colin tried to sleep, but he woke constantly with sudden starts until it was close enough to dawn that he finally rose.

He found his father, mother, and Arten seated around the fire. As he approached, he heard his mother ask, “Are you certain Colin should be included?”