Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 3

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5 minutes

Violence

The Refugees

“Come along,” said the woman.

Her face and head were veiled in blue. She spoke sweetly, but the boy could hear the concern in her voice. He hurried up alongside of her, the weight of his pack bearing down on him, its contents jangling.

“Let me carry some of that,” she said.

He shook his head solemnly. “Your hands will not touch a burden while I breathe, mother.”

She smiled wanly, but did not speak her thoughts. The two resumed their silent march through the forest road. At length, the boy stopped, and raised his hand; a commanding gesture.

“What is it?” she said.

His eyes narrowed till they were nearly closed. She saw that he was intently listening.

“Something coming up ahead,” he said. “A large party.”

For a long moment, neither of them breathed.

“His praetorin?” she asked, in a whisper.

He continued to hearken to the sound, then shook his head no. “They’d not be this far north,” he said. “Not unless they suspected. And too little time has passed for them to be sure. No, it’s either some local king’s men, or a hunting party. Or something worse. Either way, we ought to get off the road until they pass.”

The woman nodded, surrendering to the boy’s judgment, though he was but twelve. The two hurried well off the forest road, and hid within a copse of black trees. Not long after, men on horseback emerged over the crest of the hill. The road was not wide enough for more than three riders abreast. The men wore crude armor of no common design, and carried weapons as varied. Others were on foot, and still others drove long, many-wheeled carriages that bumped and crashed along the rocky path, drawn by stout, tired-looking ponies. The carts had no windows, but it was clear what they carried. As the last of the train came over the ridge, the men in chains removed all doubt.

The boy looked at his mother. There were tears in her eyes.

“Where will they sell these wretched men?” she whispered.

He did not immediately answer. Though the group was passing, the boy was on his guard. His ears were sharp, and he’d caught another sound that he’d not mentioned to his mother. After a few minutes, he sighed deeply.

“To northern barbarians,” he said. “And if there are any left, they’ll cross the frozen bridge into the Knife Lands, and sell them there. I don’t suppose even these villains would sell to the Péist—”

She put up a hand, silencing him. Then, relenting, she placed a soft hand on his shoulder. “How do you know so much?”

His face became grim. “My father told me.”

She shed another tear, but wiped it away quickly. The stately smile returned to her face, and he wondered at this power of hers, this secret source from which she gathered joy, and strength.

“Shall we go on?” she said.

He hesitated. “I suppose, but-”

A sound of howling broke through the forest.

“I knew it,” he said, without emotion.

“What? Dogs?”

He fumbled in his pack, and drew out a short sword.

“Don’t move,” he whispered. “Don’t even breathe. Slavers use dogs.”

She put her hand to her mouth, then whispered. “Are you sure? I didn’t see any?”

But then she did. Out of the underbrush rose a half dozen brutish hounds. They hardly seemed dogs at all, but wild swine with dogs’ faces. Five trotted forward, the sixth holding back, and howling out a signal to the slave convoy.

“We can climb into the trees,” she said.

He looked at her, then shook his head. “Then we’ll be treed. Their masters will cut us down.”

“Then what, my son?”

She watched him struggle with the weight of protecting her. Even now, with the five evil hounds bearing down on them, she felt his burdens. He could not tell her that he did not know what to do; that there was nothing to do but fight, and hope for hope. She knew that. So she picked up a heavy stick, and stood by him.

The beasts came at them in a flurry. The boy stood forward, growling at the lead dog, and making himself large. It flew at him. He swung his sword, missed, and fell. In that instant, his mother brought the branch down upon the hound’s shoulder. Her hands rang, as if she’d struck a stone. The beast whirled, and ripped the branch from her hand. The boy drove his sword into its ribs. It howled again, but danced away from the blade; then, snarling in rage, it leapt on him. The other four followed suit, and the woman and her son could only ball themselves up, covering their faces with their hands.

At that moment, a cry rang out in the woods. They are coming, thought the boy. We shall be mauled, and then, when we are helpless, we shall be slaves. But he fought and kicked defiantly, hoping somehow to shield his mother. One kick connected, and a hound cried out in pain, then collapsed beside him on the moss. Risking a look, he saw that its eyes had rolled back into its head, and its tongue had lolled out of its mouth. There was another loud cry. A second dog was hurled into the thick tree beside him. Its body crunched as it broke on the bole.

He saw his mother, and ran to her. The two clutched each other, and looked with awe upon a tall man. The warrior’s hair was red; his sword, a deep, unnatural black, and twisted near the point. With it he hewed down two other dogs. The last one leapt, and bit down hard on the gauntlet of his sword arm. Armor or no, the jaw clenched, so that the wrist must soon break. With his free arm, the man drew an ax from his belt, and wedged the blade between teeth and gauntlet. Levering open the hound’s mouth, he reached inside, stretched the jaw wide, and pulled in two directions until the devil hound screeched. With one great final wrench, he tore the creature’s jaw loose, and threw it to the dirt to die.

The warrior fell to one knee, grimacing, and clutching his arm. At that moment, three men emerged from the trees. Two carried a heavy, weighted net.

“Watch out!” cried the boy.

The warrior dove to his left, then pivoted, and grabbed the net. With it, he yanked the two men forward, snatched up his black sword, and lopped off both heads with one mighty blow. Stunned, the third man threw his sword to the ground, and fell to his knees.

“Please!” he begged. “I no match for you. Dis true!”

“Indeed, you are not,” said the warrior, swinging his sword above his head.

“Wait!”

Mac Brón, for that was the warrior’s name, stopped his killing blow. Glancing behind him, he saw the boy with outstretched hand, pleading with him.

“Are you a fool?” asked Mac Brón. “He means to enslave you.”

The boy stood up, and walked boldly toward Mac Brón. Looking past him, into the forest, he turned to face the warrior.

“The others are not following. Not even the last dog. This man can do us no harm now.”

Mac Brón scowled. “If we leave him alive, he’ll tell the others.”

“No! No!” protested the man. “If’n I go back empty-hands, dey put me in da cage.”

The warrior studied him for a moment. The man was prostrate now, and begging like a dog.

“You see?” said the boy.

“I see,” said Mac Brón. “I see a dog.”

He raised his sword, and plunged it down through the man’s back, pinning him to the earth. Then, putting a boot to the wretch’s shoulder, he forced his body from the blade. The man lay prone, gurgling, and shivering in his death-agony.

“I told you no!” said the boy.

Mac Brón glared down at him.

“I perceive that you are accustomed to obedience,” said Mac Brón. “Some southern prince, I suppose. What are you, lost? But I do not serve you. Nor do we in the North show mercy toward the truly wicked, such as this.”

The boy stepped into Mac Brón’s shadow, and met his eyes.

“Then it is you who are the fool, warrior. For mercy is power.”

With that he stooped, and placed his hand upon the death wound. The blood oozed out of it, covering the boy’s sun-browned fingers. The boy looked up at his mother. She closed her eyes, and seemed to nod. Returning his gaze to the dying man, he now pressed his hand deep into the wound. The flow of blood slowed, then stopped. The man began to cough, and then to cry. Whimpering, he curled into a ball. The boy looked down concerned.

“You’ll live,” he said. “But I was not able to heal you entirely. Your heart is too black.”

The slaver looked up at him in astonishment. Then his countenance darkened.

“But…it still hurts,” he whined.

The boy sighed. “So it does. To remind you. But the pain will lessen in time, if you act nobly.”

Without a thank you, the man rose, looked from the boy to Mac Brón, then ran, hunched over, into the dark trees.

Mac Brón stared at the boy, face twisted in disgust. “Who are you?”

“We need to reach Tarkaric,” said the woman, softly.

“Tarkaric?” exclaimed Mac Brón. “That is a thousand miles or more south of here.”

“Almost two thousand,” corrected the boy.

“Well,” said the warrior. “You had better get started then.”

The boy fixed him, and held him in his gaze. Mac Brón studied his eyes for the dark mark, but the man-child met him stoutly. His eyes were pure and bold. “We cannot make it alone,” he said. “You can see that.”

Mac Brón laughed. “I would not make good company for you. Believe me. Anyway, I must return to White Rock.”

“Why?” asked the boy.

“Do you not see them?” sputtered Mac Brón.

He pointed back into the woods. His shades hovered above the ground, but did not approach.

“I am cursed,” said Mac Brón. “White Rock is sanctuary.”

The woman rose, and seemed to float, so graceful was her approach.

“But you came to help us,” she said. “Surely you aren’t cursed.”

“What do you know about it?” he snapped, then immediately regretted speaking thus to her.

“I know,” she said, “that you are still alive. And your shades, whatever they are, did not appear until you killed that man.”

He shook his head. “They pursue me wherever I go.”

“And yet no further than that,” said the woman, pointing. “I tell you, they will come no further while you protect us.”

Mac Brón frowned. “And then what? I see that you have power. But, even if you’re right, should I bring you to the Empire Road, and set you on your way, then the fiends will swarm me, and I shall never reach sanctuary before they overtake me.”

The boy and the woman looked at each other.

“We do not go by the Empire Road,” said the woman, softly.

“But you are miles away from sea,” protested Mac Brón.

The woman pursed her lips, considering what to tell him. “We cannot travel in a convoy. Not at this time. We must go by land.”

He scoffed. “Then how? Ocean, or imperial road. These are the only ways to Tarkaric.”

The boy shook his head. “There is another.”

Mac Brón laughed again, then winced in pain. He clutched the arm where the dog had bit him. The boy placed his hand upon the gauntlet, and Mac Brón felt a warmth go through him. He stared at the boy, dumbfounded. Then understanding dawned.

“Why do you not take Empire Road? Who are you? Why do you have this power?”

The two did not answer, and Mac Brón repeated the question, though he feared he already knew.

“The emperor and his family,” said Mac Brón, carefully, “were slain when Bohlgom laid siege to Wyverheld. That is why the king’s steward rules in his place.”

It was not really a statement, but a question. Once again, the boy fixed him in his clean gaze, and Mac Brón saw the matter clearly.

“We need to get to Tarkaric,” repeated the woman.

Mac Brón did not want to look at her. He felt that if he did, he could not then refuse her. Mac Brón looked at her.

“The way will be perilous…empress.”

She put her finger to her lips, and shook her head, glancing about at the listening trees.

“Warrior,” she said once more, “will you take us?”

Mac Brón heaved a great sigh, and crouched down to clean the blood from his black sword.

“You mean to pass through the Devil’s Beard?” he muttered.

They nodded.

“Then I shall take you as far as his eyebrow.”

“Thank you, warrior,” said the woman, the empress of Talahm-lár.

Mac Brón chuckled grimly, and cursed his fate. “Do not thank me yet, woman,” he said, more to himself than to her. Rising, he led them east.

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