Daughter of the Wind

11. The Lady in the Woods

Tenth of Harvest

Roulson had been running as far and as fast as he could since fleeing the battlefield. The panicked screams of the wounded still echoed in his ears with every step and when he closed his eyes he saw the shattered bodies that had scattered the earth. He'd quickly thrown away his armour and helmet, both to lighten his load and to hide the fact that he was a soldier. He'd even left behind his sword with its distinctively military hilt. To his shame, Roulson had raided a farmhouse the night of the invasion and taken a man's clothes for his own; a roughly spun tunic and trousers, both of them a size too big. Still, most wouldn't see him as a deserter, dressed as he was in the way of the poor. There were plenty of them roaming the Svaletan countryside this side of winter. He kept his necklace with its red jewel but tucked it under the tunic and prayed that it wouldn't be noticed. When the jewels had been handed to the newly appointed border guards, it was said that they were blessed by the Prophetess herself and would keep them safe from harm. Most of the guards had mocked that idea but regulations demanded that they wear them at all times. Roulson had believed what he was told, and even now he silently prayed his thanks that he had been kept alive, albeit through his own cowardice. Prophetess, guide my steps, his tired mind prayed as his steps began to grow more staggered. He was on the side of a road that led from the Aliri border to King's Crossing, a route often favoured by farmers selling their wares – though he hadn't seen any other travellers, a corner of his tired mind recognised. Perhaps they had –

He awoke to find himself in an open carriage sprawled across a hay bale. A woman sat beside him, running a wet cloth over his head. She was Svaletan, but the lighter tone of her skin suggested that she had an ancestor from Wexburg. It wasn't unheard of for citizens of that regal nation to head north in search of a life closer to nature. Many songs and stories had been written on that topic. The woman's eyes were warm, and her lips gave a grim smile when she saw him wake.

"Don't move, friend," she said, her voice gentle and musical. "Your body needs to rest."

Roulson tried to speak but couldn't form words. The woman stroked his cheek and spoke slowly as his tired mind tried to process what she was saying.

"You're with a group of us on our way to Hirton. My name is Ingrid. My husband and I are farmers. We found you passed out along the road. Charity demanded that we help."

"Thank you," Roulson managed to groan.

"Of course." Ingrid lifted a water bladder to his lips. "Take it slow, friend. Tell me your name when you're ready."

Roulson forced himself to take slow, careful sips. He couldn't remember passing out, but the pain across his body testified to his fall to the hard earth. He forced a smile. "Roulson. My name is Roulson."

"It is good to meet you," Ingrid said. "Although the circumstances leave something to be desired. Where are you headed?"

Hirton was far enough way that he could disappear, Roulson knew. If he was lucky news of the war had yet to reach the city. He didn't like his chances; he'd seen the signal fires during the night. The king would know by now, and the army would be alerted throughout the Kingdom.

"I travel to Hirton," he told her but could tell that she knew he was lying. "My pack?"

She passed it over as he sat up. He pulled out a coin purse, also 'liberated' from the farmhouse. Passing it over, he said,

"For your troubles."

"And silence," Ingrid affirmed as she passed it to her husband, who had yet to speak a word. He was a tough looking man, Roulson thought, but his eyes were kind. Farmers tended to be simple folk, at least in Roulson's mind. He understood little of how the world worked. The man would not have taken kindly to his opinion.