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Carole Cummings

draws back, lays his head to Dallin’s shoulder, tells him,

“I want to sleep now. Real sleep. And then I’ll… and then
I’ll come back. All right?”

Dallin squeezes his hands. Sighs, sags just a little—

relief. “I’ll be Watching,” is all he says.

He came awake by slow degrees. A vague awareness of his own existence first, broadening back into himself, getting to know the shapes of his mind again, then reaching out, stretching into his body. The aches came next, stiff pain all through him, making him heavy and reluctant to move. The scent of wood burning, then the heat radiating from it, warm and comforting.
Ka-thump ka-thump ka-thump
against his cheek, and he smiled, slow and drowsy.

He knew that sound; he knew that cadence.

Wil opened his eyes, blinked about the darkness, the undulating flicker of the fire scudding over first his own hand, lying relaxed in front of his face, splayed over the familiar weave of Dallin’s shirt, the familiar curve of Dallin’s chest. Stretched his squinted gaze a little farther, pulling the rumple of a bedroll into focus, an empty bowl on the floor, a water-skin. Let his eyes roam farther, over unbroken curved stone…

A cave? The sound of rushing water came to him, all at once, babbling and chuckling not far away. Wil could smell it—fish and loam, river-reed and silt.

The Flównysse. Looks like I’ll finally get to see a real
river after all.

He sighed, tried to stretch without moving too much, but the aches flared, so he only twisted his neck a little so he could get a look. He was, apparently, lying quite literally in Dallin’s lap, Dallin semi-propped against what looked like Wil’s pack and blankets, long body stretched 347

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out, with Wil sprawled half along his torso and half on the cave’s floor between his legs. A thick-furred bedroll was pulled almost over Wil’s head, Dallin’s arms locked protectively around Wil’s shoulders.

“All right?” Dallin whispered.

Wil smiled. “I didn’t know I’d be so sore,” he whispered back. “Some shaman you are.”

Dallin’s lip curled up on one side, sardonic. “You’ve been lazing about for four days now, going on five. And your brain nearly exploded out your ears before that. A little soreness you can live with.”

“
Four
days?”

“You had a rough go of it,” was all Dallin said.

“Hrmph.” Wil didn’t have an argument for it, so he didn’t bother. “And how long have you been lazing about with me?”

Dallin shrugged, closed his eyes and stretched. “A Watcher’s job is never done.”

“It would seem so, yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t.”

Wil let it go. He stretched, too, a wide, satisfying yawn curling all the way up from his toes. “I see that burn looks better.”

It did. Deep and almost gory before, blistered and raw.

Now it was healed over with new pink skin, smooth and slightly tight.

“Someone came over all auntie at me and insulted my shiny-new healing skills,” Dallin retorted. “What else could I do?”

Wil stared at the burn, noting how close it had been to Dallin’s eye. Wil’s mouth tightened. “How did it happen?”

One sandy eyebrow went up. “You’ve just woken.

Don’t you want—?”

“
How
did it
happen
?”

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Dallin sighed, resting his head back to stare at the curve of the cave’s ceiling. “At the gate.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, careful of the burn. “You were out cold, I could barely feel your heartbeat; I’d never seen so much blood coming from one person. And then the sky just…

opened up. And then the fires started, but the rain took care of most of them pretty quickly.” He puffed out a heavy breath, Wil’s body lifting as Dallin’s chest rose and fell. “It was bloody pandemonium, Wil, you should’ve seen—” He cut himself off. “The ground started to sort of… roll, and everyone broke for cover. I thought that would be a good time to get ourselves out of there, so we made for the horses.” A pause and a crooked smirk.

“Well done you, by the way.”

Wil returned the smirk, a little weakly. “Told you we’d need ’em.” Trying for smug and not quite making it.

Dallin snorted. “Right, well…” His hand came back down, pulling the bedroll up over Wil’s shoulders then sliding beneath it, thumb dawdling absently along Wil’s backbone. “We were trying to barrel our way through the gate, and they were giving us a pretty good fight, more than I’d expected, considering. I thought Calder was a goner for a few minutes there. But then these…” His hand waved about. “Just…
fire
, it came out of nowhere, great gobs of it, like a ghost was throwing balls of it, and the Guard decided we weren’t worth the trouble.” A shrug. “One of them caught me, is all.”

“Sorry,” Wil offered, a little too tentative and quiet.

“Ha.” Dallin shook his head. “I’m not. Might not’ve got out of there, else. Anyway, at least the fire didn’t follow us. The rain did, though. Great torrents of it, for bloody
days
. The Planting should be damned prosperous in the spring, with all that ground water storing up. It finally let up two days ago.”

Two days ago. When Wil had finally found his way to 349

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the river and at least a semblance of sanity. And then fell into a sleep so deep that for the first time in his life, he didn’t think he’d dreamt at all. Or at least if he had, he didn’t remember it.

He turned slowly, trying not to grunt or groan, folded his hands over Dallin’s breastbone and rested his chin atop them. “Maybe Calder was right,” he muttered.

Another snort. “I doubt it, but what about?”

Wil shrugged and stared cross-eyed at his fingers.

“Maybe it’s all too big for me.” He frowned, chewed his lip. “Maybe I’m not strong enough for all this. Maybe it really did drive me mad, and… I don’t know… maybe it would be better if…”

He trailed off, brooding. He could feel Dallin’s eyes on him, and he lifted his own to meet the stare. Found the dark gaze tilted, the mouth curved wry and just edging on throttled mirth.

Wil twitched, snapped, “
What
?”

“Nothing.” Dallin set a soft pat to Wil’s shoulder, almost condescending but not quite. “I’m just waiting for the badger to chew its way out and negate everything you just said.”

A light flush flared at Wil’s cheeks, and he looked away, tried to growl and couldn’t. “Shut up,” was the best retort he could muster.

Dallin had the decency not to snort out loud, but Wil could feel it rumbling in his chest. His hand settled on the back of Wil’s head. “It’s the middle of the night,” he said, a reassuring smile in his voice. “Save it all for daylight, yeah? We’ll have plenty of things to worry about in the morning.”

Wil’s eyes closed again. Lethargy had never left, but now it sank in deeper, curled down as if it meant to stay.

He frowned. With a huff, he reached up and flicked his fingers at Dallin’s hand.

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“Are you putting me to sleep, Shaman?” he mumbled into Dallin’s chest.

“Neat trick, innit?” Dallin retorted, not a smile in his voice this time, but a grin. “I promise not to use it on you just to get you to shut up when you’re in a particularly bothersome mood.”

Wil dragged open his eyes. Huh. Maybe that was why he’d been sleeping so deeply for so long. It occurred to him that perhaps he should be vaguely pissed, Dallin making free with it like that, but it didn’t feel like making free—he’d paused, waiting to see if Wil would object, waiting for permission.

Wil only scowled a little and burrowed under the fur, not being particularly careful with his elbows, just for spite. “Bothersome,” he muttered, and let his eyes drift shut again.

This… was not at all the sight to which he’d expected to wake. Wil blinked, rubbed at his eyes then gave his head a good, sharp shake. No, still there.

He’d been alone when he’d opened his eyes mere moments ago, well-rested and surprisingly serene, all things considered. No slow coming back to himself this time, just an instant of going from sleep to waking, an unconcerned understanding that he was alone—no big, broad, not-so-soft Dallin for a pillow this time—then a sharp awareness of gnawing hunger.

Out for four days, going on five, and exactly how had he been getting fed? He wasn’t
hungry
hungry, certainly not starving, just really damned hungry, so something had obviously been managed. And now that the heaviness of a morning visit to a privy-loo-bush-whatever was knocking at his groin, he had to wonder—how had he been…?

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Never mind, he didn’t want to know.

He’d been dressed in a soft, sage tunic made of velvety suede—far too roomy, but very warm—and drawers when he woke. It took only a few seconds to blink about the little stone hovel and locate some trousers: his, from his pack, he was pleased to see. And his own drawers, too, while he was at it—thank you, Dallin—though all of the food he’d had stashed in the pack was now gone; turned rotten and tossed, he supposed. His shirts were all gone, too, though there was a pair of trousers and three pairs of stockings left. Upon less-casual inspection of his surroundings, he noted the rifle was missing, though the knife had been set neatly atop his pack. The absence of the rifle bothered him somewhat. He hoped he hadn’t lost it in all the… whatever had happened while he’d been…

swooning.

Too much, too big, too dark…

Swooning
. Swooning
. Like a… like a… swooning…

thing.

Weak
.

With a small growl, Wil dragged on stockings and boots, dropped the knife into the left, and ambled a little stiffly to the mouth of the small cave. He paused to squint into bright daylight…

And found himself peering out onto a camp of at least twenty brawny, blond giants. Massive shoulders bloody everywhere. At least two-thirds of them were women and even they were at least half-wider than Wil. Hair long and pulled back at the temples in beaded braids, or queued in long tails down their backs. More than a few of them even had feathers twined at the ends of the plaits. All of them in varying shades of the earth—browns and greens, russets and grays—all of them in leathers and suedes and flaxes, all of them in short, heavy animal skin coats, lined in fur or wool, and all of them armed: bows and quivers, 352

Carole Cummings

guns and holsters, swords and scabbards. Milling about a central fire-pit, bigger than the smattering of individual blazes that radiated outwards from it. Kettles or pots of water hung over them from makeshift tripods. Ownership seemed to be defined by saddles and cooking supplies, set up about each fire. Another several giants stalked the perimeter, keeping watch.

Wil didn’t choke on fear when he saw them. He choked on astonishment. The fear came after. Not really fear, exactly. More like an overfaced disquiet. He’d got used to Dallin, certainly, but this was… different. He didn’t feel so puny around Dallin. Too bad they kept themselves so secluded and didn’t breed outside their borders—a country full of men and women like this and Ríocht would never dare fire another shot. People like this didn’t just let someone walk in and take from them, after all.

They looked very much a part of this place, their beiges and greens blending with the hunchbacked foothills that sprouted up almost at their feet and rolled upwards and outwards, plumped with unbroken tree-cover, like the backs of great green sheep, but for a brown strip of road that wound up the spine of the anchoring highlands. Lind.

And with the steady mutter of the river behind—just behind, on the other side of the rock formations in which this little beehive of caves nestled—Wil guessed he was now standing in Cildtrog, birthplace of Dallin Brayden: pride’s people; from the valley; brave. On the whole, he’d say his introduction to the place, after all the drama of deciding to come, and then trying to get here, was rather anticlimactic. Just as well.

With a nervous glance outwards, Wil spotted Dallin easily; Dallin’s hair might have been going a bit shaggy just lately, but it was short compared to everyone else here, and it made him easy to single out. He stood just at the edge of the campsite, in intense conference with 353

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Calder—naturally—and Shaw, and another three giants.

Wil couldn’t hear anything from here, but for all the body-language, they may as well have been screaming.

Dallin was shaking his head a lot, jaw set hard, eyes narrowed, riding right over Calder and anyone else who dared speak, with what appeared to be a rather scathing opinion of something. Calder’s tanned face had gone red, and if he didn’t stop pointing that finger at Dallin’s chest pretty soon, Wil mused, he was likely to lose it. Shaw just looked worried, while the others stood a little apart, watching calmly. Every now and then, one of them would interject with something, Dallin or Calder would listen and respond, then it would all begin again.

A debate over the worth of Wil’s life again? A reliving of the mess he’d apparently made in Chester? In Dudley?

All the way back to Old Bridge? Ríocht and Cynewísan?

Everywhere in-between?

Wil sighed, eyeing the little enclave then eyeing the fire-pit. The smell of cooking meat was wafting toward him now, tapping at his empty belly, which in turn started shrieking at his brain. He wanted to know what was going on with Dallin and Calder, but he wanted food more.

Well, all right, he wanted food first. But before that, he’d have to wade through a sea of giants.

He ventured slowly from the darkness at the cave’s mouth and into sunlight, placing his boots carefully in the spongy, winter-pale grass. He was still stiff and sore, and a little dizzy, eyes dazzled in the bright light of day, and a headache he hadn’t noticed while he was lying down was sending a dull pulse through his temples. Not so much
hurting
; more like rattling its chains and clanking a stern warning.

…your brain nearly exploded out your ears…

Wil supposed a lingering headache was a small thing, by comparison.