Death's Sword Book 1: Finding and Seeking

Chapter 19, part 2: Day 27

The rest of the night passed without incident, even Burrowwold's snoring seeming less noisy, perhaps affected by the fear of attack, the palpable sense of tension that had been in the air. The party resumed their journey.

At noon, Kleymin noticed Tzumak holding something up to the sun and squinting at the object. He did not look pleased.

Oax dropped back from the lead to ride alongside Rolf. "What do you reckon? Think we've shaken them off?" the blonde swordsman growled from the side of his mouth. The slim archer, still managing to look elegant in his riding gear and cloak, swept his gaze over the stunted trees and bushes that dotted the landscape. The hills were lower now, the purple and grey mountains noticeably further away. Reddish brackens and heathers dominated the ground, with fewer clumps and patches of kjava scattered around. The scenery was noticeably less green and more red. A small herd of wild elk could be seen in the distance. Nothing else moved. There were no other signs of life; no smoke plumes to mark their passage.

"I reckon we're still being followed" said Rolf, as he continued his scan across the countryside. Oax grimaced and spat to one side. "Yeah, that's what I think, too. I hoped you'd tell me I was just getting jittery," he said. Rolf flashed a brilliant smile at his friend, "Just because I agree with you doesn't mean you're not getting jittery, old fruit." He laughed, softly, as Oax scowled at him. "There are times I don't know why I bother talking with you," grumbled Oax, kicking his dorvei and moving ahead once more.

By mid-afternoon, a heavy, unpleasant, drizzle was falling. The world in which the, travellers moved became a grey and depressing place. Even Burrowwold seemed subdued. His bickering with Tania became automatic, lacking its usual fire and animation. The girl had spent more time riding with the gnome and Kleymin that day, perhaps because Rolf had spent more time with the flanking forces and scouts. Whatever the reason, Kleymin felt cheered by her company. Once again, she seemed the only vibrant thing in a world drained of colour, of life.

He found himself telling her about how it had been for him growing up. "In my village.." he started, remembering it all with crystal clarity, as though there had been no intervening time. The women in their separate dormitory, with their special training starting in their tenth year. The leers and jokes amongst the older trainees, which he had not understood, when one of them was rewarded with a training session with the younger women. Hearing strange sounds and groans from the women's bath-house that sounded like pain yet the rewarded youth returning wide-eyed and smiling. The sly whispering afterwards amongst the older boys, the youngsters excluded. How he had still been excluded even when he came of age. The looks of fear when someone was told to report to the women for punishment, when the groans only came after screams of agony. The faint smiles of some of the girls the next day as they all met in the dojo or on the training field.

Tania stared at him round-eyed and open-mouthed. "How awful!" she gasped, hand going to her mouth, "That's absolutely horrific!" Blinking rapidly, Kleymin was surprised at her reaction. "You mean that it isn't like that everywhere?" he asked.

"No! It certainly is not!" retorted the girl angrily. She stared at the boy, "No wonder you don't have a clue..." Kleymin rocked back on his heels at this response.

"Don't have clue? About what?" he asked, baffled. The girl glared at him then her expression softened. "Oh, Kleymin," she sighed, "You do have such a lot to learn." She reached out to pat his hand gently two or three times. Kleymin had so many questions he did not know which to ask first, so remained silent.

After a little while, Tania began to speak, telling him a little about her upbringing in a farming village, which was a thing of wonder to the boy. She painted such a vivid picture, though, that she brought it all to life for Kleymin, almost as though he was remembering his own past. My father, though, was not a drunken sot like hers! Then he shook his head, confused. He had never known either of his parents, only his aunt. There had been no short, plump mother who hugged him when he was hurt. No brothers or sisters to play or have mock fights with. Just silly imaginings of what might have been, had things been different, he thought, giving his head a little shake to clear it of the nonsense, the images that had been bubbling up and swirling around as the girl spoke.