Ward Krancel
Chapter 1
Light crept in through a small window, dawn’s pale fingers finding little to touch, the single room furnished only with sleeping pallet and a low table, both securely attached to the floor, the fireplace envious of anything to burn. On the bed, beneath a tattered blanket, something stirred, groaning. Before long a man sat up, rubbing his eyes. Lambswool covered his cheeks, but although still a youth, labor showed in his corded shoulders. Rummaging the table’s contents, he lifted a cup to his nose, grimaced, and carefully set it down. “Come, villka,” the forest cat looked up from its place beside the cold hearth, “we’ll go out for breakfast.”
A scant few rusty nails showed in a gap between the tilting staircase and the tenement wall. Gingerly, the man descended to the alley below, the cat at his heals. He rapped his knuckles on a hatch in the front of the building, and someone came to the portal, sliding it back. A wrinkled face peered out, white straw poking from under a needlework kerchief.
“Black eggs and a cup of goad, Grandmother. And do you have a fish head?”
“You have a fish head,” she muttered but then conceded, “There’s one saved for soup, but I can get another.” Snapping shut the hatch, a clatter of cupboard doors and stove pots came from within, and presently she delivered two wooden bowls and a mug. One bowl held boiled eggs rolled in dried herbs and a pinch of fine ash. The mug held a hot, bitter drink of steeped bark.
While accepting the offered coin, she suddenly grasped his wrist. “You owe me rent, young man.” His server was also his landlady. “And haven’t I been reasonable? I’ve even extended courtesy beyond custom by letting you keep that animal. Would someone less benevolent have done so?” The old woman released his arm, her already creased face scrunching into a squint. “It would be a shame to see you beaten and thrown out.”
He said nothing, but agreed with the sentiment.
“Now take yourself and your creature away. No one will come to my window with you two standing there.” As the northerner retreated down the street, she called after him laughing, “Mind you return your utensils, or I’ll put a hex on you.”
Its nose in the air, following smells trailing from the bowls, the cat accompanied the man downhill toward the docks. Those who met the pair gave them as wide a berth as the cramp lanes allowed. The youth fit in well enough, dressed in waxed and weathered seal skin, but a short‑tailed cat the size of a dog was an uncommon sight. They stopped at the water’s edge, and the northerner set one of the bowls onto the pier’s gray planks.
Cruel scimitars stretched from their sheathes, but the bowl wobbled and spun out from under them. The cat stared fixedly then bent forward, the ruff of hair at its throat pulling back. Pinching a gill between needle teeth, it extracted its prize from the vessel, pinning it possessively under a wide paw.
Above, hidden in the dense fog, gulls sang a raucous chorus. As the companions dined, a rhythmic creaking became perceptible out in the bay—straining, dipping oars. A keen look came to the man’s eyes as a high‑prowed trader with oil‑blackened sides emerged from the diffusion.
The cat lapped up the last remaining juice from the bottom of the bowl.
#
Throughout the night a rodent had been gnawing beneath the floorboards, the intermittent rasp a thief of sleep. I covered my eyes against the rising light, trying to ignore the barbarian tossing on his pallet. Convention often portrays northern people as barbarians. It’s not for the man’s origins, however, but his personal habits that I use the appellation. One bathes daily or one begins to stink; that the den is small is all the more reason to make tidy.
Casting aside his bedcovers, he started upon the endless chatter humans are always making. Though most of what comes out of his mouth must be superfluous, a few of his words and phrases have caught my attention. One of these is breakfast.
True to his word, the man procured food at the old woman’s window, and we set off down pungent, molder filled alleys. I was getting used to air so different from my home range, but there’d been no scent of my quarry since entering this hive of men though the trail had unquestionably led here.
There are splendid fish in forest streams, but I have to admit, I’d acquired a liking for the salt in ocean swimmers. The minor difficulty experienced in wresting the head from its container only made sweeter the game when won. In our shared accommodations, I resumed my rug. Come evening there would be work to do, but daylight is not my element.
Chapter 2
The cat, curling tighter into a ball, didn’t rouse as the man prepared to leave the room. It was of little use trying to move the beast after it had eaten. Staying clear of the waterfront, he spent the morning on streets with a view down to the bay, noting every boat and berth, amending the map in his mind. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.
The ship had been tied off and its sails furled. He could see men busy making right, but they hadn’t begun unloading cargo. Timber for building or belly would not be hoisted ashore before payment was secured, but sailors would soon be drunk and undisciplined in the lower town’s dives. Most who go to sea yearn for home, and some find mitigation in harbor distractions. The crew would have to wait until all accounts were balanced to receive the traditional fraction owed them for risking their lives at sea, the portion due a widow.
A stout man came down the wharf, master returning to vessel, Aage the Sly, Aage Two Tongues, soon to be Aage Fish Food.
#
When at midday the barbarian commenced his usual racket, I considered expressing my dissatisfaction, but I must have dozed off again. A fragrance reawakened me, blooming in the close confine. Hunched over the fireplace, the man fed it a stick, a distinct sound attending the luscious smell coming from a pan on the grate: crackling, sizzling salt pork.
I got up and nudged the man’s knee, encouraging his efforts. “So you’re awake. You’ll have to wait a minute.” I bumped his other leg. “Alright, the hash isn’t done, but you probably don’t want potatoes and onions anyway.”
Guarding my cooling meal, having learned the hard way to wait before eating cooked food, a scrap of poetry popped into my head. Forest meat and blood is sweet with bones left for tomorrow. Why that dusty rhyme? When I was a cub, my mother schooled me to recite many a gory old stanza. She said we descend from an ancient and, apparently, bloodthirsty line and was accordingly nostalgic. This particular verse had long ago made its way into common idiom and was generally understood to mean that things from home are best, forgetting it came from a saga about fratricide.
The texture of seared edges and the wash of salty fat were intoxicating. When you think of home, isn’t it often food you miss? I’ll never stop craving the game I grew up on, the hens and rabbits and winter dead, but there is a kind of miracle in human food. That’s how I met the barbarian in the first place.
In unfamiliar country, the season having caught me in a blizzard, I’d located a fallen tree and taken refuge beneath it, resigned to wait out the night. A faint tickle bothered my nose, smoke that shouldn’t be in winter woods. I could have stayed beneath cover, but something drove me, following the allure step by step.
A glow revealed the source of the aroma, but it took a moment to recognize the light as fire—not raging through treetops, not a black snake consuming dry grass. The flicker seemed content to sit in a small pile, a figure near it under a bower of branches, a man. I drew no nearer. Only the faintest cast penetrated the storm. Holding still, confident of concealment, I watched the boughs sift snow, a faint tinkling carried in the wind.
When something plopped in front of me, I jumped involuntarily. “I see you out there, friend. I wouldn’t begrudge a fellow pilgrim something warm to eat on a night like this.” I caught none of the man’s words, but the chunk of roasted meat at my feet was clear enough gesture.
We journeyed together out of the forest and then to the sea, and I shared of my own kills as he shared with me. Although uneasy at first of the man’s enslaved fire, I learned not to fear it and even to take comfort from its warmth. I learned also of woodcock stuffed with spring herbs and seared trout sprinkled with crumbs of dark sugar. In exchange for his cooking, I try to forgive the barbarian his failings in hygiene.
Chapter 3
He dressed and collected what he’d need for the night: his purse, his knife, his resolve. The cat sat by the door, chewing the hair between its toes. “I suppose you want to go out too.” He couldn’t very well leave the animal penned up in the room. “Mind you stay out of sight,” he said, shaking his head. “Not that you understand a word I’m saying.”
This stretch of shoreline, barely shore at all, rises straight from the sea in tall escarpments. Long ago a stream began eroding the cliffs here, and now a steep‑shouldered valley faced a rocky bay. This is where the town took hold, its narrow lanes twisting from beach to bluff, tendrils climbing from the sea. A district of wide, straight avenues and tall walls crowned the cape, housing those rich from the sea’s commerce. The cat had slinked off unseen before the man reached his goal.
His uncle had not been held in high esteem by the village elders. They laughed behind his back and said he spent too much time in the spirit realm. But he fought when called upon and shared of his take and earned a measure of tolerance on account of it.
They’d gone ice fishing when he’d been a boy, and when the fish weren’t biting, his uncle would tell stories of his exploits. On one such occasion, his uncle leaned down, and in a conspiratorial tone, described a fool‑proof way to make money. “Ask a rich man if he’d like someone killed.” His mother discouraged such talk, but welcomed anyone willing to babysit.
In the wall of a compound, a knotted cord hung from a stout door. When pulled it sounded a bell which eventually brought an attendant carrying a lamp. The northerner asked, “Is there anyone your master wants killed?”
The servant, showing no sign of surprise at the inquiry, told him to wait. After a time an old man came to the wicket. For a minute the hawk‑like face peered through the bars without speaking. “Follow me,” a dry voice finally said. The door opened, and he was led into a small room off the kitchen, empty but for a table and two chairs. “You look too young to do a man’s work, but I might have some small task that would suit.”
The northerner stood at ease, thumbs tucked into his belt, one palm resting on the pommel of his knife. He hadn’t taken a chair, not having been asked to sit. “One may call a place home yet remain ignorant of its people.”
A thin smile compressed the old man’s lips. “Perhaps there’s real work in you after all. Please, my savage friend, have a seat. Boy, bring wine!”
The northerner downed the sour draught in one gulp, thumping his cup on the table as was customary. It was boast to serve wine, even poor wine, instead of northern yill. The hawk‑faced man didn’t drink, continuing his level gaze. “Do you have letters?”
“I know all the trader’s tongues.”
The grim steward chuckled at this non‑answer. Producing a square of parchment from his tunic and unfolding it, he laid it on the table. “Eliminate one of my master’s enemies, and you’ll be rewarded.”
The young man looked down at the slithering black script.
“One silver piece in advance and one gold at completion of the job.”
“The price is two gold and two silver, half now and half at the end.”
With a dour nod, the factotum removed his purse and set down one gold coin and one of silver. The name Aage filled the northerner’s mind as he pinned a line on the parchment with his finger. The steward retrieved the page and stood up, leaving the room without further acknowledgment.
Stars stood out brightly in the cloudless sky, and as more and more appeared, the young man asked his question at other side gates and backdoors. At some he was rebuffed, but where he was let in the procedure was much the same.
#
When a male cub begins to mature, when he first starts sensing the possibilities in himself, he is driven away, driven from family and home country, from all that is familiar. If you ever ponder nature’s cruelty, linger a moment there. But in the end, you make your own way.
Before winter set in, news came to the woods, a tale of upheaval and something lost. At first I paid little heed, busy enough fending off starvation and steering clear of clashes with hostile strangers. It seemed of no relevance to me. One evening chance brought me upon a strange scene, a pit dug into the ground. Scents, among them that of man, lingered in the air. Humans seldom ventured this far into the forest, preferring to gnaw at its edges. I have no full explanation for it, but I began to follow the trail that led from that trap.
This city of men is perilous, and I only tread the streets in daylight when accompanied by the barbarian. We were climbing a lane near our den, and he seemed intent on following it, but I took to the roofs. Though travel is slower there, the heights afford a realm of ambush natural to my kind.
In tall weeds lining a ditch, I thought I smelled something but it was lost again. Twice more that night, I briefly caught a familiar scent. I tried to imagine why they’d come here? What would be worth the risk? There was something I didn’t understand.
Crouching under an eave, chill fog settling all around, I waited. Little activity occupied street or rooftop save the commerce of rats until a low form darted across the courtyard below. I crept out onto a flat roof, following its progress. Well‑lit by the quarter moon, an uncomfortable feeling began creeping up my spine. Glancing over my shoulder, a silhouette, outlined on the opposite rooftop, slipped from sight. I’d been drawn out and spotted.
Chapter 4
He dressed and collected what he’d need for the night: his purse, his knife, and his resolve to get drunk. Since returning to the city, he’d avoided the waterfront gathering spots, but he needed information, and tonight he’d risk being recognized. In fact he counted on it. Hunting usually calls for stealth, but some prey must be lured in with bait.
On the dockside alleys, even narrower than the rest of town, buildings elbowed each other for room atop posts driven into saltmarsh. Navigating fog‑dampened boards, having already visited several taverns and having nearly forgotten his purpose for being there, an obstacle loomed out of the mist, blocking his path. Recognition replaced confusion, and having successfully crossed bridges in the past, he reasoned he should be able to do so now. Wasn’t there a place on the other side of the canal that served a hot sausage floating in the grog?
Mounting the span, he paused, leaning on the rail. A line of small boats rested in the muck, tethered to poles allowing them to rise and fall with the tide. A call came from under the bridge, and a pulling boat glided into view, a lantern shining from its bow, a cloaked figure at the oars. The channel was passable a hundred rods farther inland before it met the bluff, and within that length watermen patrolled the black maze of pilings, ladders, and trap doors.
The northerner turned toward his goal, but the slick planks rejected his heel, and he found himself on his ass. After reflexively looking to see if anyone had noticed, he picked himself up and strode, with what composure he could muster, toward a lighted doorway.
His heavenly sausage floating in booze arrived, and he consumed both greedily. A woman squeezed in next to him on the bench. “Oh, hi,” she said as though surprised to find him there. “I just need to sit for a minute. You don’t mind, do you?” He shook his head but didn’t meet her eyes. Finding him unresponsive, she moved on to other customers.
After an interval lost to measure, someone again sat at his side. Turning, he regarded one of the people of the true North, who live as much on ice as they do on land. A crazy grin split the roundel face and words spilled forth in trader’s tongue. “Bruda! Where you been?”
The blurred countenance resolved, and a name emerged from the fog. Tukuk, that was it, or the approximation used by those who couldn’t better pronounce it. “I see light dawning.” The short man smacked him on the back so hard the northerner lost his breath. “How about you get us two more of those?” Tukuk said, pointing at their empty cups.
He heard a slurred utterance emanate from his own mouth. “Is life so hard for a sailor new paid he begs drink in port?”
The small man’s head tipped back in barking laughter. “I am shamed! The first round is on me.”
When full cups were in place, Tukuk asked, “What happened last season? You gave up your share. None of the boys knew how to reach you.”
He remembered more now; Tukuk had been there a year ago. “Oh that, a long‑forgotten misunderstanding.”
“As you say.” They both filled the gap in conversation with a swallow of their drinks.
“Have you seen Koyval lately?” the northerner suddenly asked. “He still owes me the gold in his teeth and an old family recipe.”
“Ah yes, the dice cheat who once cut me loose from broken rigging pulling me overboard. We ran smoked fish to Pharis together last month and returned with lumber.” After draining his cup, thumping it down on the table as was customary, Tukuk lowered his voice. “His wife is ill. He’s always gay, but it’s plain he fears to lose her.”
“Hmm.” The young man bowed his head as well.
When they were kicked out of the bar, a faint band of pink outlining the promontory, the northerner walked away glad to have been reacquainted with a good crewman. He was also glad of details about his ship, its schedule, the disposal of its cargo, and the likely movements of its captain, who he would soon kill. Being far from home, gossip is a sailor’s natural currency.
#
Busy eluding unseen pursuit I nonetheless knew was there, first light found me in a wooded grotto higher upslope, perched among carved statues on a neglected temple. Finally sure I’d lost my tail, I judged it best to hide and wait, less concerned with the night’s sport than with being spotted by humans. If I were seen, alarm would be called. It was one thing to prowl beside the barbarian. It would be different to be caught alone.
Lying on the cool tiles, I let my eyes rest but didn’t close my ears. Dreams mixed with street sounds as the sun climbed the sky’s arc. At the edge of the temple roof, gloom crouched behind each votive figure, the troop of shadows creeping along in slow unison, like me, avoiding curious eyes.
Evening brought a rush of chill off the bay. Filling a gap deserted by a fallen idol, I decided to try for my lair. Cautiously sneaking downhill, circling back occasionally to observe my own track, I made my way home. A hop from the lip of a gutter to a beam end the carpenter had neglected to trim carried me to the window ledge. Nudging open the pane, I leapt into ambush.
Chapter 5
He awoke on the landing, sticking halfway out the entrance. Even after crawling in and shutting the door with his foot, far too much light filled the room. Managing to stand, he stripped off his cloak and hung it over the window, on two small nails put there by a previous occupant. Later, on the pallet, not remembering having gotten there, he was awakened by a crash.
Moonlight revealed a writhing mass resembling an enraged bear. The ferocious ball bounced off the walls until the cat finally extricated itself from his cloak. “There you are, wild brother. I hope your day was better than mine.”
Also not remembering having undressed, he rolled out of bed naked, stumbled to the window, and relieved himself. A curse came up from the alley, but he paid no mind. “We need food and water, and I need something for my head. But don’t poop at the beach, or someone will complain again.”
The cat followed him out the door, down the rickety steps, and along winding streets leading to the waterfront. He approached a stall with a red bowl painted on its shutter. Just inside the opening, a girl sat on a stool. Seeing him approach, she darted into the shop’s dark interior.
A man came to the window. Though a shopkeeper, he had the deep‑tanned skin of a sailor. One of his legs was twisted, an injury poorly mended, explaining his landlocked state.
“Could I have water, please?” the northerner asked.
In a minute the shopkeeper set a cup and a bowl on the board. “There’s remedy in that,” he said, nodding at the cup. “Drink up.” The young man downed the bitter draught. “That’s mushrooms in pepper broth,” the shopkeeper continued, indicating the bowl. “Eat what you can.”
The northerner obeyed, and after a few minutes, tipped the last drops of soup into his mouth and belched. “That was good. I’m truly grateful.” A little life had begun infusing his pallor.
The shopkeeper said, “I can spot well enough a sailor with a hangover.”
“I have money.” The northerner showed a coin. “Please make something for later.” The broken‑legged man retired into the shop.
Draining the last gulp of bitter water, he set down the cup. The girl snatched it away, appearing as though from nowhere. She withdrew a step, mute, but mastering herself said, “I remember you.”
He studied her a moment. “I remember you, too, miss.” There’d been a girl in his village, older than himself, who had disdained his boyish adoration of her. He could still feel the sting of that rejection. “From when I was here last year.”
The girl lowered her eyes, warmth in her cheeks. “This is for you,” she blurted out, plunking something onto the counter. Before he could ask any questions, she’d spun around and was gone. He picked up the small box of polished wood and slipped it into his pocket.
When the proprietor returned with a package, the northerner set down two coppers. The taciturn shopkeeper pushed the coins back.
In their room he cleared a spot on the table, set down his bundle, and unknotted the cord binding it together. A small stick skittered free from the wrapping. The cat sat erect on its haunches, ready for further movement.
A sharp stench filling the air, the man scraped the match—a rare commodity—across the rough wood, lighting a candle stub, revealing the parcel’s contents: a clay jug, sealed with leather cap, fresh water for a while; a jar of pickled vegetables; a loaf of dense, dark bread that had been slit and buttered; and some pieces of dried meat.
Recalling the small box the girl had given him, he pulled it from his coat, something clattering inside. The cat watched intently as the man slid open the box’s lid, pouring its contents into his palm—an oily black key with three holes perforating its handle, like a mask, two eye sockets and a grinning mouth. He inspected it a moment longer then restored it to his pocket.
The northerner uncapped the jug, located an empty bowl, and poured water into it. After drinking off half, he set the remainder on the floor for the cat, along with a portion of meat. The wrapping was a good scrap of sail cloth; he would keep it. He lifted the coiled line that had held the bundle together, but it slipped, unspooling from his hand. A broad paw slapped the rope, slowly pulling it over the table’s edge.
Before the end disappeared, the northerner reached out and caught it. He gave the line a yank, and it slipped between the cat’s toes. Laughing, he flicked it at his opponent, who lunged—lucky the cluttered table was secured to the floor—and sat down on the rope, clamping it by weight. The man slung his end at the cat’s head, but it jumped down—somehow not scattering all—and rolled with the rope, kicking with hind claws until it wound itself in a tangle.
The northerner resumed laughing, the sound booming through the thin walls of the tenement and out into the night. Someone in the room below pounded on the ceiling, but this only made him roar louder.
#
Though mere thoughtlessness may not be treachery, who is more dangerous, the cunning or the chaotic? I didn’t regret mangling the man’s garment—it was obviously his own fault—but I thought myself more the fool on realizing what had captured me. He suddenly lurched off his bed, stumbling toward the window, stripped of its snare. I dodged out of the way, retreating to the opposite corner. At least he had sense enough not to piss in his own den.
After ransacking his hoarded rubbish, the barbarian said a string of words containing food. He put on his covering, now with added vents, and made for the door. It mightn’t have been the best time to revisit the dockside, where I’d been spotted only last night, but I was hungry and decided to take the risk. As he teetered downhill, I tarried a few steps, wary he might stumble and step on me.
Hunting is as much habit as pursuit. Even when at other tasks, one may still flush prey, and a good stalker keeps some part of his nose always questing. An offshore breeze dispelled the odor of the bay, the town’s final sewer, but no useful scent came on the freshening air. The man approached a stall, and while he conversed with his own kind, I took advantage to slip off and do as is necessary, burying it in sand at the sea’s edge.
Back in the room, the man repositioned debris and set down the package he’d been carrying. After unbundling it and lighting a wick from a sparking, noxious twig, he inspected its various parcels. Then searching his clothing, bringing forth a small object and prying at it with his fingertips until it squeaked, he held something up to the light. Though my nose was still full of the strange smoke, I could make out the smell of metal.
Next he poured water from one of the containers into a bowl and, after drinking his share, set the remainder on the floor, along with some salted meat. I blinked my thanks. He raised the coiled sinew that had bound the bundle together, and it darted toward me. My claws sank into the shooting snake just behind its head, pinning it down. Maneuvering for a firmer purchase, I lost my grip, and it recoiled.
Braying like an ass, the barbarian flung the woven snake, manipulating it to twitch and weave. When I pounced, its tail whipped at me. But in abandoning the man, it made a crucial error, and I delivered a raking kick that would have meant death for any real opponent.
Reclining on his pallet, he made his ass’s sound again and soon was snoring. I groomed my fur in contemplation—it wouldn’t do to die looking like a beggar—imagining the true fight yet to come. I had, perhaps, been hasty in my judgment of humans. It had been a good match, and I’d not imagined creatures so crude as men knew anything about battle training.
Chapter 6
After a period of denial, pillow over his head and covering his eyes, the young man abandoned hope of more sleep. He dressed and packed his bag, saying, “Come if you want.” The cat rose in an arching shiver. This procedure complete, it followed him out the door.
Once on the street, the man turned upslope, the cat slinking at his heels. The winding climb brought them past stone and timber buildings—houses, shops, and workrooms all mixed together. It was not a great city as those in the South, but though a rough place in all, the town was not poor. Tucked away from the harshest winds, the last good hold before reaching the Freezing Sea, it was the crossroads and principal city of the region.
Here and there springs seeped from the hillside, feeding basins and spouts with a constant trickle. The cat stopped to lap beneath a carved caricature of a spitting frog, dancing a nervous jig as it tried to drink and also avoid being splashed. A townsman approached but stopped, turning back the way he’d come.
“Let’s move along, brother. Some people fear wild folk.”
Crossing a bridge spanning a foul‑smelling channel, only ever fully flushed in heavy rains, they encountered a pile of large boulders. Too inconvenient to move, the street had found its course around them. Later in the day, the mound would be home to scrambling children, but at this hour it made a quiet sanctuary. The man sat down on a convenient rock and produced a cured deer shank from his bag. He laid it on the cobbles, and the cat set to without invitation.
They were finishing their breakfast when excited voices preceded a knot of people into the square, a large old man in chain mail, using a pike as walking stick, leading the way. He came forward. “Humph!” he didn’t quite begin. “Young man … that animal …” he said, pointing.
The northerner looked down at the gnawing cat. “No doubt an animal.”
The old watchman huffed in vexation a second time. “Yes, yes, but does it belong to you?”
The northerner considered the question. “We’ve been companions awhile, but he tends his own affairs.” He was standing now, his feet apart, hands on his hips. Turning toward the crowd, which had been steadily creeping forward, he said, “My friend is peaceable, but he wouldn’t need my help in a fight.” The words were spoken without passion, simply a statement.
The watchman seemed to deflate and in a more conciliatory tone said, “Young master, you needn’t be bold. These people only wonder if the beast has escaped from a menagerie on the hill. They have children and old ones to worry about.”
“I don’t know that word, the long one.”
The old sentinel’s face set in puzzlement. “Oh, you mean menagerie. That’s a place where strange animals are kept. You’re a sailor by your looks, so perhaps you don’t know the upper town. They have creatures there in some of the estates. A sort of curiosity, I suppose, but not one without hazard. A mountain bear got loose last year and killed a keeper before we could net it.”
“None need fear nothing.”
Choosing to take this cryptic statement as a joke, the old man laughed and shrugged his shoulders, rejoining the others. Heated mumbles were exchanged, but he waved his arms, herding the assemblage away.
“Come, villka. Stay close.”
They ducked into an alley, and before long, their way confronted the valley’s founding stream. The street abutted here, not bridging the ravine, a footpath leading down one side and up the other.
From a thicket of brush, the northerner surveyed the rooftops of waterfront warehouses. A brick chimney squatted atop one near the canal. He could see down to where the path met the pilings and counted the streets over. He returned alone, the cat having disappeared unnoticed.
#
I was awake, so when the barbarian made ready to leave the room, I decided to accompany him. On our way, as we paused to refresh and dine, we were rudely interrupted by a rabble of townsfolk. I kept one eye on the commotion—the man didn’t appear in need of assistance—and the other eye on my deer joint. Wise is always wary of opportunistic scavengers.
When the interlopers dispersed, I followed the man into a maze of backways. Proceeding without further bother, we met the sound of running water, the cobbles ending at a gully, a footpath at its edge. The man descended, but I decided to follow a hunch and turned uphill.
Negotiating boulders and pebble‑filled rills, aspens lining the steep banks, I ascended the stream’s fall. The underside of a bridge loomed ahead, the path blocked by a reed‑lined pond. There was no route forward without either going up to the street or finding a way through the flooded underpass. Sitting in the brush, I weighed my options then stepped into the clearing.
Nearing the pool, I saw flat stones at its surface, looking almost natural. But I recognized the craft of man. Treading the first lightly, half expecting an arrow at any moment, I skipped from one rock to the next, the sound of wheels on the bridge overhead adding to my disquiet. On the upstream side, once more in good cover, I soon reached the district of walled houses. While hiding on the temple roof the previous day, a faint wisp of scent had drifted off the bluff.
Spruce and pine rule the North but concede the shorelands to whatever can find root beside the sea. Without sheltering walls this windswept cape would grow only lichens and gorse, but for generations men had gathered gardens and imported sapling trees to buttress their walls. In the crook of a bough, at turns napping and watching, I waited for another sign.
Shedding its warmth, afternoon morphed to cool evening. Hungry and cramped, I was near departing when, not far off, a mournful howl arose. I’ve seen where the land ends in ice, and I’ve seen where vast forest finally meets endless grass. I thought I knew all the world’s creatures, but beneath my branch a wagon rattled by, trailing a smell proving me wrong. I climbed down from the tree and followed. A high‑walled compound circumscribed the next block, and a gate swung open, emitting light onto the street. The wagon passed inside.
Chapter 7
An amber globe revealed stacked barrels and bails but not the building’s farthest corners. Pushing their chairs away from a crate serving as table, ledgers and tide books crowding the ship’s lamp at its center, men stretched and sat back more comfortably. A servant girl brought cups and poured wine. “Now that business is concluded, lets discuss more interesting occupations.” The speaker raised his glass, and the others followed suit.
The meeting broke up well past dark, and Aage was one of the last to leave. The captain bobbed along the boardwalk, humming a familiar sailor’s tune, when the northerner stepped out of a doorway, breaking his tempo. Accosted so in the street, Aage didn’t flinch. “Begone, thief!” he shouted. “You’ll find death if you tangle with the likes of me.” The northerner didn’t move aside. “I say begone!”
The captain thrust his rigging knife at his assailant’s guts. A sidestep and a shove sent the big, drunken man bouncing heavily off the timbers. Before hitting his head with a rock he’d carried from the beach for the purpose, the northerner pinned Aage down with a knee and leaned close. “A thief takes what doesn’t belong to him.”
The lamp, its wick retracted, cast a dim island of glow on the crate near the warehouse’s center. Becoming more fully conscious, Aage jerked and strained his bound limbs, thrashing his body but only managing to tip over the chair he was tied to. He tried to yell, but the gag in his mouth muffled his voice. Out of sight, footsteps began pacing. A figure finally stepped into the light. Straining to see, the captain stared and, after a moment, lurched and flailed anew, still unable to break loose.
The northerner drew his blade and knelt. “I see you recognize your old crewman,” he said, cutting the gag from Aage’s mouth.
The captive spat out the words in an angry croak, “You abandoned your post, forfeiting your share. If you think you’ll get it now, that only proves you’re a fool. Release me and maybe you’ll live.”
The lamp flickered, its oil running low. “Is it possible? Do you really not remember the boy came with me?””
White showing around his eyes, the tied man screamed, “You’ll hang, you fucking scum!”
The northerner cut the straps holding one of the captain’s arms.
“That’s better,” the big man said gruffly. “Get me loose, and we might even find a few pennies to cover your embarrassment.”
He grasped Aage’s freed hand, and flattening it to the floor, cut off a finger.
The shriek of a trapped animal echoed through the warehouse. “What do you want?!”
Pulling the square of sailcloth from his vest, he ripped a strip from it and, despite a struggle, managed to staunch the flow. “You remember the boy now? Fair hair … When we reached Bekkol, he was almost doing his job … His name was Jahan.”
Silence filled the warehouse. “I remember the boy.”
“That’s good, let’s reminisce together.” The northerner pulled up a chair beside the prostrate captain and seated himself. “We came down to port last year before the spring melt. It had been decided my sister’s son would come with me. ‘Don’t spend all your money,’ she said at our last parting. She never said ‘Watch my boy and keep him safe,’ but she couldn’t keep it from her eyes.”
The fire had gone out of the man on the floor. He whispered, as though trying not to be overheard, “You were gone. I thought you’d abandoned him. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d seen it.”
The northerner sat quietly a minute then rose from his chair and knelt at the tied man’s side. He picked up the severed finger, and with bone nib and blood ink scratched a red figure onto the floor.
“Yes!” Aage bawled. “That’s the house that made the highest bid.”
The young man flung his crude pen down and strode toward the door.
“This isn’t finished!” The captain’s words squeezed out between clenched teeth, his anger rekindling.
The northerner stopped. “Don’t believe I do you favor by letting you live. My people will see your hand and see the sign and know you for what you are, a slave trader. I wouldn’t sail these waters again if I were you.”
#
The man departed at dusk, but I chose to slumber a while longer. Reawakening, I leaped to the sill and pried open the window—a calm night, a breath of lingering winter auguring frost by morning. The moon had risen by the time I reached the top of the bluff and the walled estates.
The streets here too wide to vault, I was forced to ground. There was little cover beyond shadow, but at least not many people were outside their walls. Although passage is riskier at street level, smelling is better, and finally, after days lost to count, I caught a strong scent. What previously had only been atoms and scraps drew a straight line. The trail ended at large gates, a portal I’d seen before.
I circled the walled perimeter, looking for an opening or climb. If my nose can tell, one corner harbored the stables and one a garden, the next enclosing the house and the last kitchens. A swath of verge provided access to the kitchen roof. Taking to the wall would have the advantage of staying out of territory I had only a general sense of—I didn’t relish the thought of going down into the compound—but scouting from its top would risk being seen. Wanting of a decision, I waited, surveying the yard.
A boy walked between kitchen and house, bearing a basket, humming like a wandering bee. On the opposite side of the square, a lamp lit the stable bay, another at the gate of an adjacent enclosure, walls within the greater wall. At the end of the stable roof, what I’d first thought to be an ornament rocked forward, lifting its head, hooting a challenge to any owl within hearing. Launching from the roof, its broad wings sounding but a whisper, it was gone.
Having measured my options, I settled on the wall. Creeping around a finial, pressed down as tightly as I could manage, I gained a spot near the stables, affording a good view down into the enclosure next to it. There was little to be seen at its empty center, but a confusion of scents rose up to me.
Not far off clattering wheels approached. A man sat on a horse cart, his feet dangling off the front, behind him, in a large canvas‑covered box, proof I’d been right. I could smell her, held within.
Chapter 8
The sigil carved above the gate matched the one worked into the handle of the key, the same grinning, empty‑eyed skull he’d drawn for Aage on the warehouse floor. He walked to the side of the villa, where a stout door was set into the wall. A knotted cord rang a bell which eventually brought the attendant. “I’ve come for payment. Tell your master.” The northerner was once more escorted into the room next to the kitchen.
The hawk‑faced steward already occupied one of the chairs. “Sit, barbarian. I’m told you seek remuneration.”
“As you say, I’m an ignorant savage,” the young man replied evenly, taking the empty chair, “and I don’t know all your civilized words. But I come for what is owed.”
The steward removed the list from his pocket and made show of scrutinizing it. “Is this the name we agreed on?” He set the parchment down on the table and pointed at a line of script. “Or was it this one? But I don’t suppose you can read, can you? So perhaps that explains why no word has reached me of tragedy befalling any of my master’s enemies.”
“Yet, death is come.”
“Wait here.” The steward rose from his chair and went out into the hallway. He returned with three others, two men in stable livery and one in fine dress. “This is the master of the house. Stand up.” The northerner complied.
“Please sit. No need for formality.” The master took the chair his steward had vacated. A servant came from the kitchen and poured dark crimson into clear glass goblets. “Drink up, young man. You may never have tasted wine from the South before, and you should not miss the opportunity.”
The northerner sipped the blood‑colored liquid. He had to admit, the flavor was unlike any he’d ever known.
“Good, good, you see what I mean.” The master set down his cup then, in a cooler tone, said, “My man says you seek payment from me, but it can’t be for any agreement we made. He says you may have a different sort of tally in mind.”
The steward nodded, and the two liverymen sprang forward, pinning the northerner’s arms. “Secrets are brought to me from across the sea. Do you suppose I don’t know my own city? A shabby sailor comes to town asking questions … Do you think me so dull I don’t know you for exactly what you are?”
“Stand him up!” the steward ordered. The stablemen yanked the northerner to his feet. “You won’t be needing this.” The hawk‑faced man confiscated the northerner’s knife, slipping it into his own belt. The master also had risen, and the steward went to his side, whispering something. A chortle signaled the idea suited the master’s fancy. “Bring him along, boys.”
#
Below me the heavy gates swung open, and a wagon rolled into the yard, halting beside the enclosure. After the horse was unhitched, the driver and a stableboy opened the stockade and pushed the rig inside. They pulled away canvas, revealing a cage, empty but for loose straw. Maneuvering the wagon to one of a row of pens, the driver slid open matching panels, one in the cage, the other in the side of the pen. Nothing happened.
He went to a corner and retrieved two poles, handing one to the boy. They began jabbing at the straw, and something bolted to the larger confinement, pulsing back and forth in its gloom. The man carefully shut the sliding grate, and he and the boy rolled the wagon out of the compound.
Crouching on the wall, I waited. When things quieted, I hopped onto the stable and edged down the incline, keeping close into the corner where roof met outer wall. A slight slip on my landing spoiled some of the effect as I jumped into the prison.
An ice bear snorted at me from behind bars but didn’t raise its massive head. Unfamiliar birds chattered and screeched, flapping up to the highest perches of their wire pens. The smell of something unknown to me was there too; I didn’t approach that cage. And from a cell so recently filled, pacing in angry captivity, the princess of the realm glared at me.
“Who are you?” she hissed.
Grooming my ears, I weighed my response. “Forgive me if I speak too boldly, but even in this retched place, you are more beautiful than any have described.”
Her transit slowed. “Sweet tongue may seek to deceive yet is not in itself a fault.” She had stopped and was sitting, regarding me directly. “As you say, my predicament is hateful. Why do you come, only to mock?”
“Some find me ready enough, but the puzzle is how to free you. I imagine you’ve given thought to the question. What do you command?”
Some of the fury left her body. “I hope you’re cleverer than me. I’ve wracked my brain but haven’t found an answer.”
“I’ve been stalked in this city. Have your enemies followed you here?”
“False faith baited the trap. I was told my brother had survived, but in the place I was brought to men had dug into the ground and covered the hole. My guides must have known it. Those two are my cousins.”
“Leave it to me,” I said, striving for a cheerful note. Trapped in her cage, the princess offered no response. Dismissed, I soon again hunkered atop the outer wall, chewing on the problem. Although finally near my goal, obstacles remained. I would simply have to find a way.
Shuffling steps told me I wasn’t alone. From both sides indistinct figures advanced, and in a moment, I was under attack. I leaped and heard the thump of heads colliding behind me. Unfortunately, I once more missed my landing and began sliding down the stable roof, my claws of little use on steep‑pitched slates.
There’ve been only a few times in my life when I’ve really fallen, nothing under me but a great length of air, and those times have been in the forest. The cobbles of the stable yard had much less give than pine needles. Striving to recover my breath, I assessed my situation. No sound of further pursuit from above. I held still, praying no one had noticed my plummet.
I’d landed near the gate. A light hung beside a stable door, and I backed into a shadowed corner. All was quiet a minute, but the door swung open, and a man stepped out and lifted the lantern off its hook. And I smelled dogs.
I couldn’t scale the stone walls nor wait for the gates to open. The only likely exit was where I’d entered, near the kitchen, on the other side of the compound. Lunging from the corner, I passed the bewildered man, dogs tumbling out the door.
With only a rough understanding of the compound’s layout, I aimed in what I thought must be the right direction. A low shed stood near the kitchen, on an open patch of dirt, and I hurdled through fence rails to reach it. A thumping blow struck my side, bowling me over, stunned. Two large, panicked goats breached the fence and charged into the yard, converging with oncoming dogs. I took this as my cue.
A low box stood against the wall of the shed, a rout up, but I slipped on its edge, plunging into icy water. When I’d caught ahold of the slimy trough and pulled myself out, trying not to think of goat spit, men had gathered. One dog died, and one man would not walk without remembering me, but in the end, with tooth and staff and net, I was subdued.
Chapter 9
The northerner was marched into the night, across the courtyard, and pushed inside a stockade. “Leave us,” the steward said to the two liverymen, and they departed, sliding shut the gate.
“Come see my treasures,” the master said in mock comradery. “This is the famous white bear, but that’s nothing unusual to you.” They continued around the cloister to another cage, the steward steering the northerner by bound wrists. “This is different. I bet you’ve never seen a real lion before.” A tawny mound brooded in the cage, a low, hostile rumble in its chest.
“Ah, this is the one you’re interested in.” The three men had arrived at an empty cage. “This is where that stupid boy died. He bit me—see?” The master pulled back his sleeve in proof. “He might have come to like his place here, but that little cunt bit me. He was learning a lesson.”
“It was cold that night,” the steward added.
“Yes, it was cold. No one regrets the loss more than me.”
“His body washed up on the beach. Crabs had been at it,” the northerner said, his voice a whisper, “but marks on his skin showed how he spent his last day.” The master turned and struck his face, knocking him to the ground.
“The boy was paid for, and misfortune finds us all. But you come here, into my house, and for what, revenge? You’ll make law as you see fit? You need a lesson, like that boy did. Put him in.”
#
“So you’ve returned. It eludes me, though, how this improves the situation.”
When I came to, she was standing over me, a scowl on her face. Hard stone below, sturdy‑looking planks aloft, three walls of iron bars and one of brick—not a good start at rescue. I rolled off my back as gracefully as bruises allowed, my ears ringing quite like summer crickets. “Lady, you find me somewhat confounded.”
An unexpected sound rang through the chill air, the princess’s laughter. “You’re soaking wet. What did you fall into?”
It’s discomforting at any time to be seen with one’s fur bedraggled, let alone when it’s a princess.
“Don’t shake yourself!” she yelped. “Roll in the clean straw by the wall.”
I did as commanded. Dryer but tangled, I began combing out my coat.
With a sharp sting, she parted fur on my head. “You’ll live,” she said, examining the cut.
I was surprised again, this time not by her laughter but by her tongue. Soon the wound was clean. “You honor me, Lady.”
“We’re in the same cage,” she replied simply.
In the corner nearest the grate, in the already foul straw, I did as one must.
“I haven’t seen you at court,” she said. “Where are you from?”
“I grew up in the Stone Hills. My mother claims to be of some antique lineage, but her range is humble.”
“Old blood lines do run north. Perhaps your mother is right.”
“Perhaps, but most consider us rustics. What’s been the routine of your day? Will they bring fresh straw? Does food appear?”
“Sometimes there’s meat, sometimes just water. As you see yourself, the housekeeping is perfunctory.”
“Is the man‑sized door in this cage ever opened? I’ve already seen how the smaller gate is used.”
Heat came into her eyes. “The thing they call a wagon brought me here, and I’ve been persuaded into it and conducted other places and displayed, apparently for amusement. The only benefit being they sometimes use the vacancy to clean.”
“How is the food and water delivered?”
“They use the sliding grate for all, the wagon, the pan of water, and when it comes, the meat.”
“And the man door?”
“That’s never opened.”
Mingling with becalmed air, wood smoke accompanied morning noises over the wall—a squeaky hinge, horses talking in the barn, water being drawn from a well. I could see into the rest of the cages, now, perhaps as many as my claws.
“When do the men come?”
“Two men at midday.”
“Never more? Never less?”
“Always two.”
“They use a rake for the straw?”
“Yes, when they condescend.”
“Suppose the rake is in the pen, blocking open the hatch. If one of us grasped it, the other might escape. If the attendants were well enough occupied outside, the one remaining would have a way out.”
“But who would go and who would stay, holding a shitty rake and trapped if the first simply flees?”
“I follow or lead as you command.”
“Again, sweet tongue is not in itself a fault, but only deeds prove.”
“Truer words were never spoken. Let us judge each other accordingly.”
“A commoner, even one from an old family, doesn’t usually judge a princess.”
“As your cell mate, Lady, I’m willing to make allowances.”
Chapter 10
The steward walked to the cage, patting his pockets. “I’m sorry, Master, I seem to have misplaced my key. Just a moment, I have an idea.” He went to the northerner and began searching him, but the captive’s bound arms blocked access to his sides. The steward pulled the northerner’s knife from his own belt and cut his prisoner’s bindings. “Hold this,” he said and finished searching the young man. “There it is.”
Taking something from the northerner’s clothing, he strode to the cage. Slipping the key into the lock, he swung open the barred door and returned to where the other two were standing. “Well?” he said, gesturing at the knife in the northerner’s unfettered hand. “Do what you came for.” But then he held up a finger. “Better yet, I have another idea. What do you say we assist the keepers?” No one came to investigate the screams, assuming it was the master at play.
When things calmed down inside the bear cage, the steward said, “Once when I was young, my father told me if you’re ever in desperate need of money, offer your services to a rich man. I shouldn’t have listened.
“My mother is Fox Clan. She’s old and I’d like to see her before she dies but not with blood trailing behind me. For what part I had in it, I accept your judgment.”
In one corner a broom leaned against the wall, and the young man went and retrieved it. Hefting it, judging its weight, he swung and broke the handle across the steward’s head. After pulling the hard old man to his feet and helping him to the empty cage, he said, “They’ll want to know I overpowered you.”
#
The remainder of the morning was uneventful, and I contented myself with a game of guessing smells coming from the kitchen. Breakfast was sausages and apples fried in butter, served with fresh bread and honey. Then a stock pot was filled with water, ox meat, and vegetables, seasoned with salt and birch leaves—though out of sight, I knew. Eating man food had seemed without price, but now I regretted knowledge of it. As the day warmed, the aroma coming from the pot taunted my empty belly.
The stockade gate slid back, and two men with a handcart came in and began work nearby. “So this is last night’s excitement?” the older one said, leaning on his shovel. “They’re coming for the bitch.”
“A female cat’s called a molly.”
“What? You have wax in your head. Anyway, that’s what the toms are here for. They’ve been skulking around ever since she came.”
The men approached with their implements. The older one said, “I don’t like the look of these two. Putting him in the cage has got her riled up again. Just push some hay through the bars. And watch your fingers! We’ll give them a day or two before opening the grill.”
“What about feeding them? I won’t tell the stable master I was afraid to do what I was told.”
“You’ll do as told and grab that straw.”
A man menaced us with a stick as the other forced dry grass between the bars. The older one rummaged the cart’s contents, producing long metal pinchers. “Grab meat from the bucket and do the same.” One poked with the stick as the other did as he was told.
Afternoon passed with little to do, so when I tired of napping, I attempted conversation with the other inmates. A large brown cat didn’t respond, and I was secretly relieved. But never having met one, I was unsure if he even understood me. The ice bear was grumpy but then apologized—she was just so hungry it made her disagreeable. A goshawk stared at me until I stopped asking questions, then resumed preening. A grim old wolf recited a long list of his pack affiliations without my having asked. No one could add much insight as to why they’d become captives except to agree that men were cruel animals.
Night fell, the crescent moon silhouetting two ghouls on top the wall. “They often keep watch, my cousins, awaiting my death I presume.”
“What will you do with them after we get out of here?” I won from her a brief smile.
“My hope has waned with the days, but I welcome your confidence. They aren’t smart enough to do anything but follow orders. Exile will be sufficient.”
Chapter 11
After locking the steward into the empty cage, the northerner retraced his steps and found what he was looking for. “Wild brother, imagine my surprise when I saw you here. And you have a friend.” Four golden orbs stared at him. “You’d best find your own way. Getting out of here might prove the tricky part. Unlatching the door, the cats flew past him without further encouragement. A water barrel stood next to the wall. One after the other, they sprang to its rim then the roof’s edge and were gone.
Before making his own escape, the northerner returned to the caged man. “My mother’s clan is Thief Bird, but I haven’t been home since it happened. When we made port last year, I left the boy on the boat and went drinking and whoring. When I sobered up, the boat had sailed, and he was dead. I fear to meet my sister’s eyes.”
The young man pulled back his hair and slowly drew his knife across his forehead. From the cage the old man recited, “Atonement comes by my own hand.”
The northerner met no resistance while leaving the estate. The one houseman he encountered fled at the sight of his blood‑streaked face.
#
When the young man I’d been traveling with was brought into the courtyard, I was dumbfounded. How had we both come to be here? Two others accompanied him, I should say escorted, he was the only one bound. They made a circuit of the enclosure, ending up in front of an empty cage.
After some discourse one of them cut my friend’s restraints. He went to the third man and punched him in the stomach, causing him to crumple over. Then they all decamped to the cage of the grumpy ice bear. The princess must have been as confused by the spectacle as I, but what we witnessed next was an amazement. The bear’s hunger was pitiful, but to feed one of your own to a prisoner is uncommon grace.
It was curious, though, that the remaining man let the barbarian beat him without resistance and lock him in a cage. After shutting the old man up, the barbarian came to us and opened our door. The princess and I ran, making free of the walls.
Chapter 12
The northerner found the rented room occupied. “You brought your friend. Let’s celebrate our liberation with a feast.” He was able to find a late‑night chandler and purchased charcoal and cubes of pickled whale meat. The woman at the counter, brown as a polished nut, showed no sign of alarm though the young man had not yet washed his face.
The cats kept their distance while he lit a fire, but when meat began to sear they slunk closer. He put some in a dish, set it on the floor, and finished the rest himself. With more cubes sizzling in the pan, he flipped one into the air. Unsure which cat had won, he kept up the game until all were satisfied.
He’d slept well in this room, intent on his task, but now that it was done he tossed and turned. In the morning there would be nothing left to do but the hardest part. It was time to go home.
#
Once out of the cage and beyond the wall, we ran for the relative safety of the middle town’s roofs. I’ll admit having been winded when we reached them. Squeezing between chimneys, we stopped, listening for signs of pursuit.
“While it remains dark, I’m not concerned about men, but what of your cousins?”
“I’m afraid I can’t offer much insight. I’ve seen little here besides my bars.”
“You said they’ve been keeping watch, so they probably have a hideaway somewhere near where we were held. I encountered them once before, by the docks, but I’d wager I know that part of town better than they do. Let’s make for my lair.”
“Why not break for open country?”
“We should assume they’re hunting us and that they have an advantage in the upper town. They’ll have scouted the ways out, and can we say for certain it’s just the two of them? Better to try for my den. I know that ground, and I have a weapon there.”
The princess was quiet a moment in thought. “Lead on.”
We stepped out onto the slates, the princess allowing some distance between us, a good huntress. A wide avenue presented an excessive gap, compelling us to the street. The few humans we encountered went along oblivious; it was sufficient to wait in a shadow. Before retaking the roofs, we risked stopping at a spring‑fed basin, thirst vanquishing caution. Deepnight had settled when we neared the dockland.
“I think we can safely hide.”
The princess easily traversed the hops and ridge walks down to the ledge. Bumping open the window, I said, “Forgive me, Lady, for not mentioning it earlier, but I have a roommate, and I swear I’m blameless for the disorder … and the smell.”
Chapter 13
Looking out the little window, the northerner saw clear sky. He gathered what mattered and packed it into his bag, and the two large gray cats followed him out the door. Halfway up the slope, where water trickles from a big pile of boulders, he stopped to fill his flask. There wasn’t much food left, but once they quit town they could hunt and forage.
The cats lapped at a runnel snaking across the pavers, the male keeping close but the female skittish. Without conscious thought, the young man lurched back from the fountain, something flashing by the corner of his eye. The street erupted in furious screams as two forest cats tumbled into the open, two others hugging the mound, all four producing an astounding clamor.
Pedestrians stopped, and people came out of doorways. Upright again but with no notion what to do, the northerner observed the melee. The old watchman stepped up beside him. “Friends of yours?” he shouted above the din, leaning on his pike. The engagement resolved as one of the cats in the street retired, limping. Quickly joined by its comrade, they made for a stairway at the side of a nearby building.
“Grandfather, may I borrow this a moment?” The northerner grabbed the old man’s spear, hurling it into the air before he could react.
“Nice throw, young man,” he muttered, but remembering himself bellowed, “That’s city property! You can’t just make as you please!”
Retreating uphill the northerner called, “You should have the pelt for your trouble. Wasn’t it your weapon that slew the beast? A fine winter cap and mittens too.”
The district of walled estates could not be avoided, and as they passed through, it was all he could do to keep from breaking into a run. Hood up and head down, the young man thought of trying to collect on contracts he’d made with other houses—the dead man must have been on many lists. As they left buildings and walls behind, he decided against it, but he also decided it wasn’t stealing to keep the money he’d been given in advance.
Roads became tracks and soon trails and then foot paths. A few days earlier, skirting the edge of the great forest, the female cat vanished. Purple hills rising in the distance, it was now just the two friends.
The wildcat slowed and stopped. “Is it time?” The powerful hunter closed the distance between them, and the young man knelt, stretching out his hand and rubbing it’s chin. They remained a moment longer together before the cat stepped off the trail.
His course began slanting downward, out of the coastal hills and toward the shore of the Freezing Sea. Outsiders, if they claim to know anything of it at all, never fail to disparage this country. They say the wind‑scoured rocks look like the earth’s flesh has been stripped and torn away leaving only bones.
There is disagreement among the elders as to how people first arrived here. Some say they came as explorers. Some say they were exiled. Those who believe the old religion say humans are but pieces in a game played by the gods, fulfilling ambitions beyond comprehension. All anyone from this harsh land knows for certain is that it was meant for its people and they for it.
#
I’d made it this far, at some personal risk and considerable discomfort I might add, and all I had left was to get the princess safely home, a hundred thousand paces or more. We needed to move. I crept to the barbarian’s pallet and sniffed his nostrils. He sat up, swatting at his face. We would be leaving this messy refuge for the last time, and for just a moment, a wave of nostalgia washed over me. But cats don’t like getting wet.
Wisps of morning fog ushered us uphill. Where a spring emerges from a mound of stones, we stopped to break our thirst. The princess would not condescend being close to the barbarian, but I’d learned there was safety at his side. My feeling was as much exasperation as surprise when her cousins attacked. It did at least answer the question of whether we were opposed by only two. If there were more, all would have come to the ambush.
Taking recent events as inspiration, I launched myself at the point where the one who had jumped from the top of the rocks would land. His feet were extended for impact with the ground, and like a goat, I rammed him directly in the side with my head. Gasping for air, he rolled into the bushes edging the boulders. To my rear I could hear the princess engaging his brother, and I pitied that one more. At a shriek of pain from the square, I let my opponent withdraw.
Seeming to have reassessed their situation, the cousins started up a stairway, one limping and falling behind. I didn’t catch the javelin’s flight, but I saw it pin the straggler to the wall. Without need of conference, the barbarian, the princess, and I departed, progressing uphill and soon gaining the blufftop. I relied on the man to guide us through the canyonland of walled estates.
The first few days on the road, the princess was quiet. We discussed possible threats we might encounter and how to deal with them, but her responses, though always polite, were brief. The weather remained mild, rodents were in plenty, and the journey fell into a comfortable rhythm. One morning, rolling in damp grass together, we both broke into laughter. As we washed, we recounted every disgusting detail of the cell we’d shared. But she soon reverted to introspection.
The trail met a stream, its sides dense with willow stems, and we turned inland. By the next morning, the edge of the great forest loomed. The princess and I were roaming ahead when a cough sounded from a nearby thicket, a challenge. She stopped and sat down on the path.
New‑sprouted leaves cast fluttering shadows in the pool of sunlight where she rested, making her appear like a fish suspended in shallow water. “You’ve been a faithful knight,” she said, “but tell me one thing. How was it you came to my aid in the first place?”
“I admit to no high aim, Lady. I wasn’t welcome at home, and I simply wanted something to do.”
“Report of my return is spreading, and my guard awaits me. If I succeed, the pretender will be routed by high summer.” She was quiet a moment, seeming to come to a decision. “Do families from the North keep old customs?” asked the Princess of All the Woods. “My mating festival will be held at Midwinter. Come to the contest. Let your deeds be measured against other suit.” Her whiskers curled in a mischievous grin. “I’ll try to rig the outcome.” With that she disappeared into the trees.
The barbarian and I kept company together a while longer. Travel was pleasant, and we were merry. One day, the Stone Hills visible on the horizon, I stopped on the trail, lost in thought. “Is it time?” the man asked. He knelt, and we nuzzled as brothers do.
Hard by the sea, snowmelt collects below this long ridgeline. If a stranger became lost in these bogs, he’d never be seen again, but I was entering the land of my birth. My mother used to say these hills were our family’s place before the first memory, but in the past that never meant much to me.