Leawen

 

The night was cool compared to the day’s heat. Leaving Dilora’s wagon quickly, Leawen hurried down the road, checking behind him to make sure the woman was not following. He doubted she would, but he had learned to be careful.

 

There was a small park in the middle of Tar Valon, not that far from the gates to the white tower and sometimes after drinking or when he felt solemn, he came there to rest and contemplate in peace. Tonight seemed to be a night made for quiet contemplation. Stars stretched out on an endless, moonless sky. A soft breeze stirred occasionally and the air was cold enough to sooth his head, but not so cold as to make sitting on the ground uncomfortable.

 

Part of him wanted to be with Dilora now. Part of him did not care about what she knew or when they had met. And while he considered doing horrible things to her, including ending her life, a big part of him wanted their kissing to continue and proceed. But Leawen did not dare. This was not about him stealing some honey cakes or if he had lied to the magister. At worst what Dilora knew would get him hung, at best it could be cause of severe difficulties.

 

Leawen was not proud of his past. In fact he disliked thinking of it. There was very little memorable, some he was ashamed of and a lot that was unpleasant. Like the intense feeling of hunger that seemed to be part of any given memory of his. Sometimes it seemed hunger had been the dominating sensation of his youth.

 

Leawen did not just try to ignore his past. He had taken great effort to hide it. And over the years he had spun such great tales about his years before signing as guard, that they had become nearly as vivid and lively as the reality. Only these made up tales were so much more pleasant. Sometimes it was difficult to distinguish fact from fiction.

 

But tonight he wanted to remember. He needed to remember. When had he met Dilora for the first time? How old had he been? And what had they said? He hoped remembering the events of that time would help him decide what to do about the peddler-woman.

 

His gaze was fixed on a particularly bright star high up on the night’s sky as his lips formed a name he had not used in nearly a decade. “Alarn” Before coming to the tower, he had been Alarn most his life. Leawen had been the third name he had adopted since crossing the border of Altara heading north. In fact, he had only become Leawen somewhere in the nowhere south of Tar Valon.

 

But when had he meet Dilora? He remembered her face now as clearly as the look of a fat Tar Valon gold coin. But the image of her filling his mind was not identical to how she looked now, he clearly remembered how she had looked then. But when had he met her? Suddenly it was upon him:

 

 

His side was hurting. As he had fled, an arrow and punctured his flank. Luckily the head had hit right through, and clenching his teeth he hand broken the shaft in two pieces before pulling the wood out of his body. Just above his hip, the weapon had only pierced meagre flesh and some skin. But even now, a week since his fellow young highwaymen had been slaughtered by experienced soldiers of the Altaran queen or one of her henchmen, the wound refused to heal properly. Surely, part of the reason was that he had little time to rest.

 

Alarn was riding a proud, elegant black stallion. The noble owning the horse before him had nearly wetted his pants just hearing “This is a robbery” and had given him all he had owned without them needing to press the matter furhter. But right now he was contemplating weather to kill the beast with a well aimed stab in the throat or heart. It would be a shame, but he had not eaten for too long, and by tomorrow he would be too weak to carry it out. Already now, the hollow feeling in his belly was hurting worse than the oozing injury in his side.

 

Something to drink would not be bad either. The last water he had drunk was from a muddy pond and it had tasted of rotten fish. The stale flavour was still lingering on his tongue. As Alarn rode, his eyes scanned the horizon for signs of habitation or life. This was the hottest summer he remembered. The sun was a burning blaze set to scorch the life out of Altara. Even now, in the later hours of afternoon the air flickered. It had not rained in weeks and the little green left dotting the landscape was the colour of poisonous plants or thorny thickets. He would need to find water too, or his horse would drop dead without him laying hands on the mount.

 

Suddenly he halted his steed. Dust was rising from the east. Maybe some horses. Maybe a wagon. Or a hord of people. He considered riding up, but then decided against it. His horse was a beautiful and strong creature and in good times it could outrun must other breeds. But right now, any old mare could probably best it. Further, since he did not know what was coming there, after all, the queen’s guards were still roaming the area, well aware some of the young man that had recently become more proficient at holding up and robbing merchants and travellers, had escaped the trap they had set. Finding a spot with some remotely green grass between utterly dry, yellow hey, Alarn dismounted his beast before sneaking on.

 

It did not take him long to reach the road, and soon after he found a thicket on a slope from where he could overlook the road while he stayed hidden, even if his garment were ill suited to stay undisclosed. His shirt was real silk and would have fitted on a noble had it been any cleaner. The shirt also lacked a few of the buttons it should carry and some months back Alarn had torn the sleeves off, ripping the thin, delicate fabric roughly with his fingers. Above that shirt he wore a coarse leather vest that loosely dangled on his torso and still looked a couple of sizes too large for him. His pants were made of sturdy linen and were embroidered as it was currently the fashion in Illean with bees, while his feet were stuck in Saldean riding boots. At least Alarn assumed the boots were Saldean, for the man he had taken them from was from that very nation. Really, these boots were far to warm considering the weather and even in winter Altara was most the time to hot for boots like these, but Alarn was not inclined to take them ever off. He had never owned any footwear as soft as the leather of these boots and he usually wore them even as he lay down to rest at night.

 

It seemed the light was with him. Down the road came a wagon and it seemed the peddler was on his own. There were still some foolish enough to travel without companions or guards. Drawing his blade, Alarn suddenly realised the shape guiding the horse was a woman. Men alone on these roads lived dangerously these days. But for a woman to be on her way alone bordered madness. But he would not conplain.This would be easy.

~Dilora~

 

The hat shaded most of her surroundings, but she liked it.  It had its plus points and its negative points, but since she liked the hat, she wore it.  And it did keep the glare of the sun out of her face.  The sporadic woods of Ghealdan had made way for similar scenery as her wagon rumbled onwards towards Ebou Dar, and now, some few miles into Altara, Dilora was considering stopping for something to eat.  If it had been hotter in memory, Dilora could not remember it.  She fanned herself with the hat momentarily, then thrust it back on her head as the sun threatened to cook her with one stroke.  Sunburn would not look good on a peddler that needed every advantage over her male colleagues that she could get.

 

She considered that Altie must have been feeling the heat as much as her, if not more because the poor horse was doing a lot more work.  Dilora kept the pace level and made her friend stay on the nice even road instead of going to a shortcut in the shade.  The heat was enough that having to stop because Altie had pulled a muscle was not worth the scant shade the trees would provide.  Besides, this place had an ill-favoured look to it.  Casting her eyes around, Dilora saw leaves crisping in the sun; no animals gambolled or went about their business of collecting food, and there certainly looked to be no customers here. 

 

Altie seemed reluctant to move forward.  Knowing the mare did not like the heat any more than she herself did, Dilora cautiously reined in and had a look around.  She took the opportunity to fetch another water bottle from her wagon and took a long sip, wiping her hand across her mouth to catch the stray drops that had beaded on her lips.  The bottle she placed under her seat so she might keep a better eye on it and keep it cool at the same time.  Why did she have the feeling she was being watched…?

 

Giving the reins a gentle shake to get Altie moving again, Dilora felt watchful.  There was something around here she did not trust, not really.  Her bow was under the wagon seat with the quiver of arrows and the water bottle, easily ready to hand if she needed it.  She hoped she would not have to.  She plodded onwards.

 

He was hungry. No, hunger no longer described the sensation tormenting his belly. But it seemed destiny had been kind. This wagon did not look like much. Surely this peddler had no wealth loaded. But he was sure she would be able to carry some food, water and maybe some coin? A few silver pieces maybe? And of course, the peddler was a woman. Since she did not look Altaran, she surely was no danger to him. Altaran women were fierce, most others fainted seeing men like him, in his experience.

 

Waiting until the wagon had drawn near, he jumped out with a great roar and his blade drawn. The horse was rather shocked the way it nearly reeled. But the woman… he was not sure she was as impressed with his show as she should be.

 

Leawen produced the old pipe from one of his coat’s pockets. It was a rather small pipe and rather tattered, but perfect to carry around. Stuffing it with some leaf he lit it. A little smoke would do him well and would help him soothe his nerves.

 

“Get of that wagon, woman. And don’t try anything silly. If you try something, I will skewer you on that blade like a pig for roasting. Besides, my men are hidden in those bushes and have arrows pointed at you. If you do as I tell you, you will not be harmed, and we will not take more than what we need.

 

Was the woman frozen from fear or was she trying to work out if he was bluffing? The wide rim of her hat was shadowing her face, and with the sun standing somewhat behind her, he could not make out her face in detail. What was going on in her mind? “Listen… I will count to three. If you are not down that wagon by then, I can’t guarantee for anything.” Maybe it just was her silence that was freaking him. Somehow it compelled him to go on. “I am Tasken. Surely you have heard of me and my Younglings? The Younglings? We are the most feared robbers of Altara?” The claim left his tongue easily. He almost felt as if he had the others behind him. It had been like this so many times. Only now, all of them were dead. Only he had been lucky.

 

Leawen’s face was grim. Just why had he said that? What forsaken had riddled his brain? So, Dilora knew, he had been going under that name. Dilora knew that he was associated to these robbers? Well, did she remember? He signed. For her to not know that would be like hoping Dragonmount was not the place the dragon would be reborn at.

 

~Dilora~

 

An ultimatum.  A challenge had been issued for Dilora’s personal safety; a challenge issues by the “Younglings.”  Not that she had heard of those.  The buzz along the message routes had never mentioned any bandit groups by that name, so perhaps they were just starting out.  Still, a little caution never hurt anyone, particularly when being held to ransom.  Dilora put the reins into her lap and raised her hands where he could see she was not going to make any sudden movements.

 

Altie, for her part, knew what the gesture meant, and went to crop idly at the grass while her mistress was conducting business.  She was surprisingly intelligent, for a horse.  One day, Dilora vowed to write a song about her.  Well, Tasken, she thought wryly, we’ll see what you get from this.  Her mind was a touch defiant therefore when she climbed out of the wagon seat and stood alongside her wagon, her feet firmly planted on the mossy floor. 

 

She rather thought that his threats were empty.  Dilora had not seen many traces of other bandits concealed around her and while the blade in his hand was undeniably sharp, the one that held it looked as though he needed a damn good meal before he could have any skill with it.  Her heart went out to him.  Dilora had a feeling that he would not accept charity at all, and was probably only looking for something to eat.  If he had come along two minutes or so later he would likely have found her camping, with a large pot of richly smelling stew on the impromptu hearth.  Why hadn’t he used his skill to hunt? 

 

Dilora snorted.  This was hunting, of a sort – a very different prey, to be sure, but hunting nonetheless.  She held her hands in front of her face and studied the man.  He had dark brown hair and eyes that she burned into her mind so she would not forget him.  He was handsome, naturally, as most highwaymen always tend to be in the stories, tall, and slightly younger than she was.  Well, he would hardly be in his late thirties if he were calling himself a “youngling.”  Dilora couldn’t help but suppress a smile at that.  A dangerous move.  She cleared her throat in a placating manner and tried to look as harmless as possible.

 

“Please,” she cried in a dramatic voice laden with tones of the damsel in distress. “Please, don’t hurt me!”  Oh, to the Blight with her dignity!  She threw herself at his feet and clawed at the earth by his boots in the hope that he would think her more of a fool than she was.  Dilora loved to have the upper hand.  The look on his face was a picture of confusion.  She would not have put it past him to be considering her body while she was down there.  Shamming some sobs, she pushed herself to her feet before he could aim a kick at her ribs.  “Please… Please!  I’ll do anything you ask, just please, don’t hurt me!”

 

The events overtook him. He had planned to shout out to his “friends” to stay hidden. That he could take care of her on his own. But before he could say a word she was cowering at his feet, clearly in utter panic.

 

For a moment he was confused, for he had been certain he had seen a hint of a smile on her face just before, and he thought he had seen her scan the landscape as if searching for the men he claimed he had with him… Well he had them with him. Their memory lived on in his mind, even if there bodies lay in a shallow grave. But then he decided he had been mistaken. What he had taken for a smile surely had been an expression of utter terror, and her scanning was probably her just considering running away to let him have it all.

 

It was the still fresh memory of his girl dying that touched his heart. She had not grovelled at the guard’s feet like this woman did with him. But had her death been any less sudden, she might have. Did this girl have a man that loved her? Was someone waiting for her to come home safely?

 

He needed to do something to soothe her. He did not want her to cry on. “Sared! I told you to stay covered. And you too, Gahand! Can’t you see? She is scared as it is. I’ll do this on my own. The same applies to the rest of you. I’ll do this on my own.” Stamping his foot as well as he could with her so near, he shouted angrily: “Can’t you hear, Sared? All right, that’s better.”

 

Sheathing his sword, he tried to free his legs from her embrace. His low voice was hushed, as if he was trying to soothe a child. “See? I told them to stay hidden. They will not come out. Sared is a silly fellow, and Gahand is rather big and strong, but they will do what I tell them to. See? I am their leader. Now, if you continue to be as obliging, I promise you will not be hurt.

 

Somehow he made her stand. Her silly hat had gone. She had lovely hair. No, she was beautiful. Not that he felt desire. When the guards had killed his girl, they had killed all desire at the same time. Would the lust ever return? No, he doubted he could feel the same need for another woman. In fact he felt determined to stay faithful to her memory.

 

The girl appeared to be still rather shaken. He knew he was a crap thief. Especially when it came to woman. And if they were crying he could hardly stand it. “Look… all right… I have not been taught anything else. I grew up in the Rahad. All my men grew up there too. This is all we know to make a living. See? One day a man came and promised us wealth, shoes and filled bellies. It sounded so good. But he was a fool. And he is a dead fool now. But we will not go back to the Rahad. We just steal a little here, a bit there… See? Just look at my shoes! I never had boots like these in the Rahad.” Tenderly he brushed some hair from her face. But she was still such a scared little creature. “Look, we have never laid hands on a girl. We also have forced a girl against her will. You are a stranger. Altaran men are not like that. We value women highly. So please stop sobbing. We are not like that.” He shrugged. “There have been some fools insisting on fighting…” Shifting one of his sleeves up he showed her a rather impressive scar. “See? Some of those types are dead, but that was not my choice.”

 

What was it with her, that prompted him to talk so much?

 

“Anyway, all I am saying is that you don’t need to be afraid. I have to take some of your coins… and ah… some food and drink maybe. Now, let us do this the easy way… why don’t you show me where it is? And before you know it I and my men will be off?” 

 

~Dilora~

 

“Why do you have to take some of my coins?”  Dilora was not precisely scared.  If she had been truly terrified, or at least as terrified as she had let the man believe, then she would not have got to her feet as he had instructed her to.  Blind panic induced blind reactions, after all.  She did push herself to her feet though, and looked through big eyelashes at her attacker.  Light!  Here was her, an unarmed peddler and one at a hopelessly useless match of physical strength, being held up by a armed highwayman, and she was bartering for how much she would have to give him?  Dilora almost laughed at her own temerity.

 

So, from what he was telling her, his friends were going to stay in hiding until he gave the word.  Which meant, in fact, that these friends of his might be totally fictional.  She pondered.  Dilora wondered if she could flirt her way out of the situation but the youth looked too hungry for that.  “I have … I have some bread in my wagon that you’re more than welcome to share.  If I had received some warning, I would have made a pot of stew, or a cake for you.”  A little barbed comment to remind a person of their status never hurt once in a while.

 

He looked sharply at her.  Dilora raised an eyebrow calmly in response.  There was no way he was taking any of her hard-earned coin.  “I could always buy something from you, then I wouldn’t feel so bad about giving you money.”  Oh, Light, where would it end?  Would Dilora buying things from a highwayman in order to reduce the severity of the actions against him?  What could he do?  She doubted he would stab her with that sword.  The way he eyed her as though he was going to lick his lips made Dilora doubt that.  So the worst she would probably get was a ravishing which, under the circumstances might be tolerated.  The road was a lonely place, after all.