Blood of the Red

Chapter 5 - Ingold

Chapter 5 – Ingold

Two hours before dawn, Dain began to falter. He made no complaint but stumbled through the undergrowth, weaving in a waking dream. Ingold scooped him up and carried on walking. The night grew colder. Frost spread across the undergrowth, decorating each stem with delicate thorns of ice. Ingold trudged on, breath pluming before him, and the moon watched from a ghostly ring.

"What's that?" Dain pointed skyward, teeth chattering. "That circle?"

"A moon-bow," Ingold smiled. Faint about the fullness of the moon a pale moon-ring made the lunar disk the bulls-eye of a target. "Surely you've seen a moon-bow before?"

Dain shook his head. Ingold shrugged, "They're more common in the north. My father called them moon-bows. The sun has rainbows when it rains; the moon has moon-bows. Ice crystals in the sky, my father had an old scroll that explained it." For an instant he saw the old man, thick finger jabbing at the scroll as if forcing out the meaning. A stride later, as the memory faded, Ingold realised the man he saw in that image wasn't old, not really. He himself was older now than his father had been in that memory. And Dain younger than the Ingold that asked the question.

A howl rang out in the distance and Dain startled.

"Easy there." Ingold gave the child in his arms a bounce. "It's not close." The howls of werewolves followed them but the threat was gone. Their cries held a mournful tone, a lament in the deepness of the woods for the falling moon.

Day broke across the treetops and still Ingold walked. He reached the margins of the forest hard on the heels of noon, and the Deodad Woods soon fell behind them. His arms began to ache. Even with the Blood's strength a burden will start to tell when carried hour after hour. Ingold gritted his teeth against the pain. Getting old seemed to be all about burdens. Perhaps that's all age was – an accumulation of things to carry through life with you. The man who let no experience leave a mark might find time never laid a finger on him.

Free of the woods, Ingold set course for the Port of Glorsa, a simple matter of heading north. If his path veered off, then the coast to one side, or the river Leat to the other, would steer him to his destination. Dain woke almost as they left the trees, and Ingold set him on his feet, immediately stretching his arms and trying to squeeze the ache from his biceps.

"We'll have lunch here." He gestured at the unpromising jumble of rocks and gorse covering the slope.

Lunch proved to be two strips of dried beef, fished from the deepest recesses of Ingold's cloak. Dain set to chewing with the dedication of one who has known many hungry days. Ingold found a boulder to sit against and fastidiously began to pick the lint from his own meal. It looked like the kind of treat high-born ladies give to pampered dogs.

Meagre rations notwithstanding, Ingold could wish for no fairer day. The clear wash of the sky stretched to blue infinities. The storm had left the air fresh and the sun lent it a little warmth. The land rolled before them, endless and wrapped in the tatters of late autumn. A good day on which to be a bard. Ingold hummed to himself as they walked on, rolling his melody with the pitch and tempo of the landscape. Dain marched at his side, the horrors of the night seemingly all forgotten.

The boy proved hardy. They covered a good ten miles before the light began to fail. The land had grown boggy about them and they had forded a dozen small streams. Ingold called a halt before one of these narrow rills and handed Dain his water flask to fill. Dain clambered down to dip the flask at the water's edge.

"Do it where the water flows fastest," Ingold called out. He shook his head, reminding himself the child was city bred, ignorant rather than careless.