“What is the point?”
The servant hesitated, and Raithe took the opportunity to return to the bank and search out more rocks.
“I need your help,” the man finally said.
Raithe picked up a large stone and carried it up the bank, clutched against his stomach. “With what?”
“You know how to—well, you know—live—out here.” The servant looked at the deer carcass that had gathered a host of flies. “You can hunt, cook, and find shelter, right? You know what berries to eat, which animals you can pet, and which to run away from.”
“You don’t pet any animals.”
“See! Good example of how little I know about this sort of thing. Alone, I’d be dead in a day or two—frozen stiff, buried in a landslide, or gored by some antlered beast.”
Raithe set the stone and returned down the slope clapping his hands together to clean off the sand. “Makes sense.”
“Of course it makes sense. I’m a sensible fellow. And if you were sensible, we’d go—now.”
Raithe lifted another rock. “If you’re bent on sticking with me and in such a hurry, you might consider helping.”
The man looked at the riverbank filled with rounded stones and sighed. “Do we have to use such big ones?”
“Big ones for the bottom, smaller ones on top.”
“Sounds like you’ve done this before.”
“People die often where I come from, and we have a lot of rocks.” He wiped his brow with his forearm, pushing back the mat of dark hair. Raithe had rolled the woolen sleeves of his under tunic back. The day wasn’t warm, but the work made him sweat. He was thinking of taking his leigh mor and leather off, but decided against it. Burying his father should be a miserable task. A son should feel something at such a time, and if uncomfortable was the best he could manage, Raithe would settle for that.
Malcolm set down a pair of rocks, letting Raithe place them. He paused to rub his hands clean.
“Okay, Malcolm,” Raithe said, “you need to pick bigger ones or we’ll be here forever.”
Malcolm scowled but gathered up two good size stones and carried them under his arms like melons. He walked unsteadily in sandals. Thin, with a simple strap, they were ill suited to the landscape. Raithe’s clothes were shoddy—sewn scraps of wool with leather accents, which he’d cured himself—but they were durable.
Raithe searched for and found a small, smooth stone.
“I thought you wanted bigger rocks?” Malcolm asked.
“This isn’t for the pile.” Raithe opened his father’s right hand and exchanged the rock for his father’s hunting knife. “He’ll need it to get to Rel or Eberdeen if he’s worthy—Nifrel if he’s not.”
“Oh, right.”
After outlining the body, Raithe piled the stones from the feet upward. He wished he had an extra blanket to lay over his father. He didn’t relish setting rocks on his exposed face. Instead, he cut pine boughs, which did a fine job. In the process, he found the other end of his father’s sword laying in the brush. He dropped it in the scabbard and considered leaving the copper with Herkimer, but grave robbers would take it. His father had died for the shattered blade; it deserved to be cared for.
Raithe glanced at the Fhrey once more to be sure. “You’re certain he won’t get up?”
Malcolm looked over from where he was lifting a rock. “Positive. Shegon is dead.”
Together they hoisted a dozen more rocks onto the growing pile before Raithe asked, “Why were you with him?”
Malcolm looked over, surprised. He pointed to the torc around his neck as if it explained everything. Raithe was puzzled. Then he noticed the necklace was a complete circle. The ring of metal wasn’t a torc, not jewelry at all—it was a collar.
Not a servant—a slave.
The sun was low in the sky when they dropped the last rocks to complete the mound. Malcolm washed in the river while Raithe sang his mourning song. Then he slung his father’s broken blade over his shoulder, adjusted the Fhrey’s sword in his belt, and gathered up his things and those of his father. They didn’t have much: two wooden shields, a bag containing a good hammer stone, a rabbit pelt Raithe planned to make into a pouch as soon as it cured, the last of the cheese, the single blanket they had shared, a stone hand ax, his father’s knife, and Raithe’s spear.
“Where to?” Malcolm asked. His face and hair were sweat covered, and the man had nothing, not even a sharpened stick to defend himself.
“Here, sling this blanket over your shoulder—tie it tight—and take my spear.”
“I don’t know how to use a spear.”
“It’s not complicated. Just point and stick.”
Raithe looked around. Going home didn’t make sense. That was back east, closer to Alon Rhist. Besides, his family was gone. The clan would still welcome him, but it was impossible to build a life in Dureya. They could cross the Urum River and push west into Avrlyn, nothing but wilderness out there. They might be able to disappear, but he’d have to get past the other Fhrey strongholds. They had a series of outposts along the western rivers, a series of fortresses like Alon Rhist built to keep men like him out. His father had warned about the fortresses of Merredydd and Seon Hall, but he never said exactly where they were. Raithe didn’t like the idea of walking into one. And even if he did get by, what kind of life would he have by himself in the wild. By the look and sound of him, Malcolm wouldn’t survive the first year.
“We’ll cross back into Rhulyn, but go south.” He pointed over the river at the dramatic rising hillside covered with evergreens. “That’s the Crescent Forest, runs for miles in all directions. Not the safest place, but it’ll provide cover—help hide us.” He glanced up at the sky. “Still early in the season, but there should be some food to forage and game to hunt.”
“What do you mean by ‘not the safest place’?”
“Well, I’ve not been there myself, but you hear things.”
“What sort of things?”
Raithe tightened his belt and the strap holding the copper to his back before offering a shrug. “Oh, you know, tabors, raow, leshies. Stuff like that.”
Malcolm continued to stare. “Vicious animals?”
“Oh yeah—those, too, I suppose.”
“Those…too?”
“Sure, bound to be in a forest that size.”
“Oh,” Malcolm said, looking apprehensive as his eyes followed a branch floating past them at a quick pace. “How will we get across?”
“You can swim, right?”
Malcolm looked stunned. “That’s a thousand feet from bank to bank.”
“It has a nice current, too. Depending on how well you swim, we’ll likely reach the far side several miles south of here. But that’s good. It’ll make us harder to track.”
“Impossible, I’d imagine,” Malcolm said, grimacing, his sight chained to the river.
The ex-slave of the Fhrey looked terrified, and Raithe smiled. He could have shown more empathy, especially given he’d felt the same way when Herkimer had forced him across.
“Ready?” Raithe asked.
Malcolm pursed his lips, and Raithe could see that the skin of his hands was white on the spear. “You realize this water is cold—comes down as snowmelt from Mount Mador.
“Not only that,” Raithe added, “but since we’re being hunted, we won’t be able to make a fire when we get out.”
The slender man with a pointed nose and narrow eyes forced a tight smile. “Okay, I was just making sure.”
“You sure you’re up for this?” Raithe asked as he led the way into the icy water.
“I’ll admit it’s not my typical day.” The sound of his words rose in octaves as he waded into the river.
“What was your typical day like?” Raithe gritted his teeth as the water reached knee depth. The current dragged, forcing him to dig his feet into the riverbed. The water frothed around his legs.
“Mostly, I poured wine.”
Raithe chuckled. “Yeah—this will be different.”
A moment later, the river pulled them both off their feet.
Bonus Short Story