set the boy down. He wrapped him tighter in his cloaks and did his best to keep hope. The boy’s lips were blue, his skin a deathly white. He’d lost so much blood, right when he needed its warmth the most.
Still standing, Haern pulled an emblem hanging by a silver chain from beneath his shirt. It was of a golden mountain, and as he held it, he prayed over the boy.
“Just keep him warm and alive, Ashhur. And don’t forget me, too. I could use the damn help.”
He put away the emblem, sat down beside his nameless boy, and pulled him close so they could share their warmth.
“It’ll get better,” he said, not sure if the boy could hear him or not. He was so thoroughly wrapped Haern couldn’t see his eyes. “Don’t worry about any pain. As my father once said, pain is a tool that should always be under our control. It teaches us when we err. It distracts and weakens our opponents. And for you, it’ll help you for the rest of your life. Who cares about a silly scratch from a sword when you’ve been struck to the bone, yeah?”
He felt like a moron yammering on, but he did so anyway. At last he heard the boy snore, and he leaned his head back against the bark. His eyes looked to the clouded heavens.
“Couldn’t you at least stop the snow?” he asked Ashhur.
Ashhur didn’t bother to respond.
*
H aern slept through the night, waking only once at the sound of hoofbeats. He curled his body tighter against the tree and kept perfectly still. From the corner of his eye he saw the light of torches. Unable to see his tracks veer off the road because of the fresh snow, the horsemen rode right on by.
“Never mind,” Haern whispered once they were gone. “Go ahead and let it snow.”
He closed his eyes, leaned his head against the boy’s, and slept until morning.
*
H aern had little food and water, certainly not enough for two. He ate the food, deciding he needed the strength for carrying the boy. He did his best to get the child to drink, though. Other than a few quick sips, he was unsuccessful. His back ached, and his arm throbbed, but he forced the pain far away, as he’d been trained to do by his many mentors. He carried the boy, stopping every hour to rest and catch his breath. Any time he let him go, the boy collapsed to the ground.
So much for making the brat walk, Haern thought.
He shook his head and immediately felt guilty. Of course the boy couldn’t walk. He was sitting at the reaper’s door. That he had his eyes open was a miracle.
They walked along the road, encountering no other travelers. Evidently no one else was dumb enough to make their way north in such weather. The snow had stopped in the morning, and as he followed the road, he observed the chaos of hoofprints. None crossed over or appeared to be heading back. Either they would continue on to Veldaren, or at some point turn around and meet them. Haern stayed alert just in case. He was in no shape to fight a group of horsemen.
Keep walking, he told himself. Keep walking. Keep going. The son of Thren Felhorn would not die unknown in the wilderness. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
Near the end of the third day, he finally found a farm. He crossed the fields, every bone in his body aching. The boy hadn’t had a drink the entire day, and his skin was hot with fever. Part of him wondered if the cold was the only thing keeping him from burning alive. At the door to the home, he stopped, hid his swords with his cloak, and knocked.
“I come in time of need,” he shouted, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. “Please, I have a wounded child with me.”
The door crept open. In the yellow light of lamps he saw the glint of an old shortsword. A man looked through the crack, saw him holding the boy.
“Winter’s nearing its end,” said the man. “We have little to spare.”
“I’ll pay,” Haern said. “Please, I’ve walked without rest for days.”
The man glanced inside, whispered something, and then nodded.
“Come on in,” said the farmer. “And by Ashhur’s grace, I pray you mean no trouble.”
Haern found what appeared to be the entire family gathered in the front room, under blankets and around a stove whose heat felt glorious on Haern’s skin. He saw two girls huddled beside each other, their hair a pretty brown. The farmer had two boys, one of them of age, and they held knives as if to help their father should it come to bloodshed. His wife sat beside the fire, tending it.
“He has a fever,” Haern said, setting the boy down beside the stove. “And he hasn’t had food or drink for days.”
“I’ll get some water,” the wife said as she stood. She cast a worried glance at her husband, then vanished into the next room.
“My name is Matthew Pensfield,” said the farmer, extending his hand. Haern accepted it, and was shocked at how much his own hand shook. He hadn’t eaten much, he knew, but had it really affected him so greatly?
“Haern,” he said as he pulled his cloaks tight about him and surveyed the house. It seemed cozy enough, and not a hint of draft. The man had done well in building it.
“I know some of the Haerns,” said Matthew as his wife returned. He had a hard look, his square jaw covered with stubble, but he spoke plain and seemed more at ease now that Haern showed no inclination to violence. “Good men, own several fields west of here. What’s your full name? I might have heard them speak of you.”
“Just Haern,” he replied, nodding to the boy. “And I have no name for him. I found him wounded; why does not concern you. That room beyond there, is that your kitchen? Might we speak in private?”
Some of the farmer’s worry returned, but he nodded anyway.
“I reckon we can.”
Once in the other room, Haern dropped his voice to a whisper.
“I have a difficult request for you,” he said. “I need you to take care of that boy until he’s regained his health. I cannot stay.”
“We don’t have enough food to…”
He stopped as Haern drew out a handful of coins and dropped them upon the table. His eyes stretched wide. The gold shone in the dim light.
“People will be hunting for him,” Haern said. “No matter what, you treat him like your own child. When he regains his health, he’ll tell you his name and where his family might be, assuming they’re still alive. Until then, give him up to no one.
“What if they threaten violence?” Matthew asked, his eyes lingering on the gold.
“Would you give up one of your daughters?”
The farmer shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t.”
Haern let his cloak fall away from his left side, exposing one of his swords.
“I hope you understand,” he said. “I’ll return, and if I find him abused, or dead, I will repay you tenfold in blood.”
“He’s sick and wounded. What if he dies of fever?”
Haern smiled, and he let the coldness he felt in his bones creep into his eyes.
“How well do you trust your children, your wife, to tell the truth? I will know one way or the other what happened to him. Do not give me cause to wonder.”
Matthew swallowed. “I understand. This land is harsh, and we’ve taken in children before. Once he heals up, and the weather breaks, I’ll take him where he needs to go. If he doesn’t know, well, there’s always a need for more hands on a farm.”
Haern slapped him on the shoulder, nearly laughed at his terrified jump.
“Good man,” he said. “Now how about a warm meal?”
He ate some soup while he watched the wife tend to the boy. She put a wet cloth across his forehead, dressed his wounds far better than he had, and then used a spoon to slowly get him to drink. Haern was impressed. Seemed these Pensfields knew how to take care of themselves. Whoever the boy was, he could do far worse for a temporary home.
The soup did wonders for his mood. Its warmth seeped deep into his chest and then spread to the rest of his limbs. Combined with the heat of the wood stove, he felt warmed within and without. He could feel his muscles
