Pirate and King, chapter six

6

They’d set off in courage and hope, clinging to faith and a pair of small stones taken from the village shrine. Just two glassy beige pebbles that no longer shone, for Heaven had turned its back on the mortals.

They’d been warned that their journey might prove long and hazardous. In all of Burrough’s history, only Zelf the Widow’s Son had succeeded in reaching Milardin and coming home safe. Rykkan and Nusie hoped for a quarter of Zelf’s famous good fortune. They were certainly going to need it.

Their way tended southward at first, past the last orchard and into the heavily wooded Wylde Hills. The path soon dwindled; first becoming an overgrown trail, then a deer track marked by occasional stones. These moss-covered rocks they tapped with their own. “Building the magic”, as Nusie put it. After a time, the trackway vanished entirely, leaving the pair to get on as best they could by heading downslope.

“We’re makin’ for the Loudwater, then on ter the Laren River,” Rykkan mused, when they stopped for a rest and a bit of something to eat. It was noon and the sun was high. They’d found a glade filled with clear light and old, tumble-down ruins. Bigger than anything folk ever built, or elves, for that matter. Steps, like, but twice man-high and broad in proportion. Covered in ivy and patches of dusty mosaic. There was a single carved balustrade, too, curving up past the treetops then broken off short. Almost too big and ancient to comprehend.

Rykkan squinted up at it, scratching his red-brown beard and rolling pack-weary muscles.

“Water collects downhill,” he assured himself. “Keep movin’ down and we’ll come soon enough ter the river.” Then pulling his bow from one of their dropped packs, Rykkan asked, “Fancy a bit of partridge or cony, Nus?”

Nusie looked up from making the fire. There was an art to it, for flame was mischievous even with plentiful tinder, flint and steel.

Click, click, click went the curved fire-steel band as she tapped at her flint. A tiny shower of sparks glittered down onto the bundled char cloth, which refused to ignite. Nusie had been whispering an old hearth cantrip, but she shook her head ‘No’. Paused between verses to say,

“We’ve no time ter spare cleanin’ and guttin’ yer catch, Ryk. Tonight, maybe.”

Rykkan sighed, regretfully stashing his bow. It was a fine weapon for birds and small game, but… what if these woods held something fiercer than partridge or rabbits? Swords and the like were forbidden to mortals in Arvendahl territory, and he didn’t know how to use one in any case. Most likely just chop his own head off, trying. Still, as Nusie got a flame going and blew it to life, Rykkan explored a thought.

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“What would you say ter me makin’ a spear, Nus? We might run into boars or monsters. Could be bandits, too.”

Nusie snorted. They’d settled on the lowest step, from which they could see the whole sunlit clearing. She’d set out their packs and folded their bedrolls for seats.

“Any fool bandits out here would’ve starved to death waitin’ fer travelers, Ryk. You’ll more likely get hit by an acorn than a club… but I suppose it’s best ter be safe.”

That cheered Rykkan immensely. As Nusie set about making tea with dried cloudberry leaves and spring water, her husband-to-be got to work. First he popped a bit of sugar pine gum in his mouth, then pulled out his knife and used it to hack down a sapling. Ash it was, and a very fine piece of wood.

Rykkan thanked its spirit as he trimmed away branches and peeled off most of the bark. A bit later he gulped hot tea, dried goat flesh and cheese, accepting the meal with a grunt of thanks. Barely tasted his food and drink, though, so caught up was he in crafting his weapon. Had to sacrifice his knife to make the spearhead. Pine gum would do for adhesive, while Nusie provided the cordage. It was twine, good and strong. Rykkan wrapped the stuff carefully round and around the joining of spearhead and wooden shaft, humming tunelessly under his breath.

Just a bit of work later and pop, there he was with a beautiful six-foot, steel-bladed spear. Rykkan posed fiercely as Nusie cleaned up the remains of their meal, making her laugh with his antics.

“Yes, very manly,” she teased, adding warmly, “But I hope that you never have ter use it in wrath.”

Against a young boar, he might have a chance. Against an elf-lord…? Nusie shuddered, putting that thought very far away. She was over both ears in love with Rykkan, though it wasn’t good luck to say so aloud. An Arvendahl would simply open the ground like a mouth underneath Ryk. The rumbling earth would swallow him up, spear and all. She’d heard stories, and didn’t want to be part of one. Nusie made the sign against evil behind her back but kept a smile on her face. Afterward, fed and armed, they at last departed their campsite.

“This wouldn’t be a bad place fer a house and a bit of a garden, Nus, do you think?” Asked Rykkan, as they were leaving that warm, sunlit glade. Nusie paused to look back with him, holding Ryk’s hand and imagining.

“Might do, at that,” she agreed, pretty and slim as a fawn.

He wanted so much. Longed to start their new life, to love and protect her for all of their days, to make good things grow from the earth… but they had a job to do first and a village to save.

“If the clouds shower gold, we’ll buy this place off of the Arvendahls and come back to live here,” laughed Nusie, craning her head to look up at him. Always merry, his Nus. Then it was time to set off once again.

Most of the afternoon was spent making their way through rough and scrubby terrain. There was little wildlife, and even the birds were quiet, as the sun picked its slow way across the sky.

They happened upon a scrap of paved road in the early evening. Half-covered in leaf litter, pocked with crazily tilted mile markers, it arose from the ground like a sea serpent, then disappeared into the side of a hill. The travelers stopped to examine that broad, ruined thoroughfare, puzzled.

“What’s this, and how’d it come about?” wondered Rykkan, squatting down to examine those ancient stones. “There’s never been so much as a trail between Burrough and Milardin, much less a grand street.”

Nusie looked around, spying a few piles of twisted metal covered in flowers and vines. Very strange and unsettling.

“Ryk…” she whispered. “How long has Burrough been sealed away, and who’s left ter ask fer help?”