HONOR BOUND

Chapter 12

It's so warm in here. Slowly I breathe in the earthy smell and the mixture of herbs and flowers cradling me awake, out from the depths of sleep, until I feel once more the heat on my skin. The sun is shining, already low enough to reach its rays in through the low door and onto my face, the last bright rays before it dips behind the rocks in the west and disappears for the night.

I raise an arm to shade my eyes before opening them. So I've fallen asleep again in the quiet, like I've done a lot as of late, but then I've probably needed it. Then I hear it again: distant bleating. That's what woke me up. The sheep are on their way back to the dale from the pastures somewhere higher up. With a sigh I push myself to sit up and grab the bundle of cloth beside me. I need to get up, but first I need to bind my foot.

It doesn't look that much different from the other one: the swelling and bruising have had time to fade many times over, the skin is back to its normal color and there are no scars. But the shape of the ankle is different, thicker, bumpier, and I'm swallowing tears while I wrap the strip of cloth around it. That doesn't really hurt, no, it's because the bloody ankle does not bend any more. I've seen enough injuries in my life to know that it's beyond repair.

Well, at least my hands still work somewhat, even if one finger is still rather crooked. I refuse to look at it as I wipe my nose with the back of the other hand and pull on my shoes. Together with the cloth they give some support to the ankle, and now I'm ready to crawl out from the low, turf-walled hut. A shadow flits past the doorway, startling me for a moment before I hear the loud sniff that accompanies it. It's just one of the dogs, those blessed creatures, come to check that I'm still where they left me.

After blinking a while my eyes begin to adjust to the brighter light outside and now I can see the sheep and the man walking with them. The dogs are back at work making sure that the flock stays together while the first sheep are already finding their favorite spots around the sod hut and settling down for the night. I smile at the peaceful sight, the man raises a hand in greeting and I respond in kind. Shame on me, I should've got the fire going already and see what I've been doing – sleeping!

The wood is dry, though, it's quick to catch the flames, and the first thin curls of smoke rises into the wind before the old shepherd has finished digging into his food storage. He joins me by the fire, I feed more wood into it while he tosses big chunks of dried bone and meat to the dogs and then begins to make our meal ready. We haven't said a word all this while; he's not much of a talker and I don't want to bore him with babbling, especially as I'm finding it oddly hard these days to come up with anything to babble about.

I see him in the corner of my eye: a man wizened beyond his years by the winds and sparse life on the mountain, bent and dry, with his long scraggly beard and hair looking like some ancient creature sprung out of the dark rocks. During the coldest winter he lives in a little hovel close to one of the villages down by the road, but all the winter he's waiting for the snow to melt and the grass to grow so he could once more lead the sheep to the higher meadows. That's pretty much all I have learned of him, in addition to the things I've been able to see by myself.

He's a hermit, yes, but not a hater of people. If he were, I wouldn't be here now. It would've been so easy for him to ignore the dogs who smelled something amiss and led him to the spot where he could see me. Too difficult, he could've told his keen-nosed companions, looks dead enough and that wall is so steep, let's get going now. But he didn't. To this day I don't know how he got me up and out of that ravine and into his hut, or how much time and effort he's spent on looking after me before I even knew I was indeed still alive, let alone able to do the smallest thing by myself.

The shepherd hands me a piece of bread. A lump of cheese has half molten on top of it, runny and delicious but searing hot, and I try to take a bite without burning myself too badly.

While we both munch on our meals, I listen to the silence that is not quite silent after all. Beside me the fire is hissing and crackling. The two dogs are polishing off their dinner, eyes half-closed in devout concentration, around us I can hear the steady grinding noise of the sheep's jaws as they chew their cud. And behind everything there's the eternal shush of wind as it sweeps over the mountainside, mild and gentle this time but always there.

I've grown accustomed to seeing this landscape; no wonder, because I have hardly taken forty steps away from the sod hut all this while. How long is it actually? I'm not sure and there's no point in asking the shepherd, either. Knowing the exact day matters nothing to him and I've lost count already a good while ago. In any case it must be many weeks, and for the first time I realize how the scenery around me has changed. It's still green but clearly the summer has worn on; autumn cannot be far away any more.

The notion sends a sudden chill through me. Very soon it'll be time for him to lead the sheep down to the village and to rejoin the world of people for another winter. What am I going to do? There's but one answer to that question, an answer that only leads to a handful of new ones. I'll have to go and by now I'm able to do it, too. I just don't know where to go.

What has happened in this corner of the world over the past weeks? The wind hasn't told us, nor has the shepherd had any reason to leave his flock alone with the dogs and trek downhill. Where are Rogher, Lady Inella, Lord Berdar and his troops? Who is alive? Who might be dead? Who's had to admit defeat, who has tasted victory, and who might want to get me in their hands? I swallow. My memories are disjointed and blurry yet frighteningly clear about one thing: I've betrayed my friend and his mission.

Still a few months ago I might have steeled myself and boldly gone to survey the situation and face the consequences. Not anymore. All I want now is to find a place where I could make myself useful enough to pay for food and shelter. No use denying it, I'm plain afraid of what I might hear, but I cannot hide up here forever. I'll have to go, and isn't it such a luck that most people in these lands have trouble telling one minstrel from another? Maybe even one with a distinct limp could get around without much attention.

The fire snaps a thick stick in two, startling me out of my thoughts. The shepherd picks up another stick and pushes the pieces of wood more closely together, then tosses it into the fire as well.

"I must get going." I didn't mean to say this now, but this is as good a time as any. "It'll soon be autumn."

The man merely grunts quietly in agreement.

"I wish there was something I could do to pay you back," I continue. "For everything you've done for me. I owe you my life."

"There's no need to," he says a bit gruffly. "That's what we do out here. Never know when one might get in a pinch and be in need of help. The mountain remembers a good deed, is what my grandfather used to say."

This is probably the longest speech I've heard from him in one go.

"Nevertheless," I say. "Thank you."

He nods a little, and again we sit in silence like we've done on so many nights after I was fit enough to crawl out of the hut. He's not used to talking and all of a sudden I have so many thoughts filling my head that they almost overwhelm me. It's as if they had all been asleep, floating around the wide open landscape while I've been putting myself back together, and now that I've given words to my intention to go, they come rushing back lest they be left behind. I still don't feel quite whole – maybe never will, maybe some pieces have gone missing for good somewhere along the way – but every breath makes it clearer. I have to go.

That night I sleep without dreaming. When morning comes and the shepherd is getting ready for the day, I get up as well and put together my scant belongings. He doesn't question my resolution, just shakes my hand in farewell and then turns to go. The dogs look puzzled, for a moment they hover beside me as if considering whether or not I should be herded to where everyone else is, but the shepherd's short whistle is enough to send them running after him.

There's really not that much to carry. The real miracle is that I still have my satchel, the one my father once gave me. Apparently Lord Berdar's men have just searched it but never bothered to tear it off my belt, so there it still hangs, a worn, almost empty bag of leather. Even though most of its contents have gone missing, its presence warms my mind.

Breathing in the sharp aroma of conifers, I walk slowly down the hill, walking stick in one hand. For now this direction is enough: down, down, down, until I find the road, then it's time for some decisions. Only now it occurs to me that I must look dreadful in these tattered, worn and torn clothes that hang from me like a sack. My hair is uncombed, my hands bony, and even though I've washed myself regularly in the small creek running past the sod hut, I'm sure that I smell of dirt. Nothing I can do about that, though, before I find a place with some hot water and soap.

My ankle does not like this sudden walking at all and I'm forced to stop frequently for a few moments to let it rest a while before going on. This isn't good! How am I going to get anywhere like this, if I need a break every fifty paces or so? I settle on a big boulder to rub the ankle a bit, blessing my decision to get going so early in the morning. At least I still have most of the day ahead of me, it's not quite noon yet.

By now I'm surrounded by forest once more, and it makes me nervous. Every noise makes my heart leap into my throat. The wings of a bird flutter and my breath catches. A branch croaks in the wind and I break into cold sweat. No, I cannot just sit here, I need to move! Holding my breath I push on, all the time listening to the trees around me and praying that I'm alone. Why did I have to leave, why today? When I could've waited a little longer and then found my way to the village with the shepherd and his flock and dogs? Oh, what a fool I am!

But if there is someone in the forest in addition to me and the animals, he stays well hidden. I finally reach the road, to my great surprise, without meeting anyone except a hedgehog, a suspicious-looking owl, and two roe deer that probably were less frightened of me than I was of them. For a good while I stand by the roadside looking left and right, trying to get my bearings right. It's late afternoon, bordering on evening, and the sun will be setting soon. It's not quite in the direction I thought it would... where am I actually?

Well, at least the road seems to be leading slightly to the east, so that's where I start walking. After a while it begins to look faintly familiar and some time later I'm sure of it: I've been on this stretch before. This is definitely the road we rode on our way from Noragayll to Tmer, and unless my senses have completely forsaken me, I should be headed towards the crossing and village of Mordhes!

That thought turns my feet into lead. Mordhes... wasn't that where Lord Berdar's men were headed, the last I heard of them? Yes, yes it was, and here I am happily walking in the very same direction!

This won't do. I need to think carefully now, to weigh my options, and since my ankle is hurting again, I might just as well sit down for a while and give it a rest, too. I don't want to sit by the roadside, though, and just as I'm peering into the surrounding woods to spot a suitable place, I hear a noise that's steadily getting closer. A rhythmic thumping – a horse, with a rider, because it's galloping.

In panic I rush away from the road and dive under the first tree big enough to hide behind, just in time before the horse emerges from behind a bend. It's traveling at a steady gallop, and I catch a glimpse of Lord Jhorell's colors before the beast and its rider disappear once more from sight. A lone rider, in Noragayll's colors, here? What is going on? He might be a messenger but not one in a terrible rush, otherwise the speed would've been quite different.

I crawl up to lean my back against the tree and try to catch my breath. What to do? The last thing I want is to run into Lord Berdar's men. Is it safe to assume that someone so obviously in Lord Jhorell's service wouldn't be headed that way if the place were in his sworn enemy's hands? No, it's not. I've learned many important things during my years in these northern lands, and one of them is that it's never safe to assume anything at all when dealing with armed men. And for that matter, how do I know that running into Lord Jhorell's soldiers would be any less dangerous? I have no idea of Rogher's and the Lady's fate and whereabouts. For all I know, that rider might have been on his way to tell people that I am to be captured and hanged upon sight!

If only I could go and ask someone, but as things are, it's best if I try to stay out of the way for a little bit longer. However, I won't get anywhere if I try to walk in the forest, not with this foot, so for the moment following the road is my only chance. With a sigh I scramble on my feet once more and return to the road. Turning around would mean walking straight into Noragayll, and that's a thought that makes fear squeeze my insides. No, east it is, and once I get close enough to Mordhes it'll be time to figure out what to do.

So I trudge forward, weary and miserable, ears pricked all the time to hear any other users of the road before they might hear me, thinking about all those comforts that I've been dreaming of and that are now slipping further and further out of my reach.