kindar
patreon
Stepping Wild, Draft 2, CH 22
🕑 Added 2025-03-03 14:00:02 +0000 UTCTibs felt the guard’s eyes on him as he carried the man to the tavern. He’d been surprised she hadn’t run off to warn others. Of what? Tibs
Tibs felt the guard’s eyes on him as he carried the man to the tavern. He’d been surprised she hadn’t run off to warn others. Of what? Tibs wasn’t sure. It could have been to gather them so they could protect the village against what had to be some monster, since anyone before him hadn’t returned from the forest. Or to tell them he’d rescued one of theirs.
He was a sight; he knew that. He’d healed himself as soon as Firmen had opened the way to the outside, and cleaned himself when the man he carried was unconscious, but his clothing were thoroughly torn. The shirt had enough wood in it he could have repaired it, if he had time to practice, but he’d left his leathers behind. Those he couldn’t explain how they’d been damaged without him being injured.
Maybe it spoke to the woman’s dedication to her role as a guard that she’d remained at her post while Tibs walk past.
The tavern fell silent as he entered. The sun was closer to its zenith than away, and there were fewer people there than when he’d left the previous day.
“Where can I find his woman?” he called, and a chair clattered to the floor as she stood.
“Joman!” she shoved more of them out of her way to reach them. He lowered the waking man, and she embraced him. He seemed confused, then embraced her tightly. “Murry, bring us food!” They slowly moved to a table.
Tibs turned to the door, only to find people blocking his way. The nearly dozen older people that had been sitting previously looked at him as if trying to decide what he was.
“You…found him?” one of them asked.
“Things.” Joman was sobbing now. “There are things in the forest.”
“What kind of things?” the man demanded, sounding like he thought Tibs was one of those.
“I didn’t see anything.” He didn’t want to mark Joman as a liar, but he couldn’t confirm what he’d said. The best way he could handle it was to play on the man’s state. “I followed the trail of broken branches and tracks he left. I found him terrified and disoriented in a copse of trees. The way he’s injured, he might have hurt his head. Food, drink, and his woman will help him, hopefully.” He waited for their reaction.
The slam of a tankard on the bar made him look in that direction.
“Who are you?” the barman, Murry, demanded.
“Tyborg,” he replied.
“To Tyborg!” the man said, raising the tankard before Tibs could add anything. “Master of the Forest!”
“Tyborg of the Forest!” the others exclaimed; the few holding tankards raising them. He stifled the groan. Why were people always giving him titles? Those were reserved for the characters he played in the cities.
“When will another caravan come by?” Tibs asked as he stepped to the counter and found a tankard placed before him. Behind him, the cheers quieted.
“You’re better off seeing if Mother Natril will sell you a horse so you can ride to them. They only left this morning.”
“And what a commotion that was,” the old man taking his seat at the end of the bar said. He’d wobbled on the way there, and his words were slurred.
“I’d have expected them to be gone before anyone was up to witness them.” He contemplated the tankard, wondering how much of an acknowledgment of the title drinking from it would be.
The old man snorted. “Might have tried that, but they were almost fighting when I went to see what the noise was about. Didn’t look like they’d stop even when I told them you were dead.” He frowned, looking into the tankard before him. He gave Tibs a furtive glanced then whispered to the barman. “You see him too, right? He’s not a spirit haunting me.”
“You went into the forest,” the barman said. “No one’s returned from there…before.”
“What was the fighting about?” He sipped the ale. He wasn’t thirsty, he no longer needed to endure thirst, but after the walk and being saddled with yet another title he hoped no bard ever heard about; he needed the comfort of ale.
He was surprised it had taken confirmation of his death for Graiden and Rigel to leave. The guard chief had no patience for those who didn’t return in time, and while he could see Rigel arguing for a delay, since he’d grown fond of Tyborg, he couldn’t imagine how that would have escalated. The caravan master cared about his schedule more than he ever would one of the guards, no matter how lucky he felt Tyborg was.
“What fight?” instead of confusion, the old man’s expression was craftiness.
If not for the lack of light when he’d mentioned the almost fighting, Tibs could easily believe he was making it up in the hopes of being plied with ale.
“Maybe an ale is going to help you remember.” Tibs offered the copper to the barman. He took it away from the old man. “Who was fighting?”
The man’s frown was exaggerated to the point of being comedic. “I don’t remember. Maybe it’ll come back to me once my throat’s wet.”
“You can remember that much without a drink.” Tibs shrugged, moving the tankard to his lips. “And if you can’t, I’ll enjoy it. It is the drink I paid for until I give it to you.”
“The kid and the old man,” the drunk hurried to say.
Tibs frowned at the lack of light on the words. He handed the tankard over.
There was only one person the man could mean by ‘kid’. Even if there were others about Jeremy’s age among the recruits, only he still had the enthusiasm that sometimes made him seem much younger. And why would Graiden acknowledge him enough to fight?
“What was the fight about?” He could see Jeremy wanting to go off and search for him, and Graiden would seek to protect the young man from his own folly, but only to a point.
“Them staying.” The old man took a careful swallow, as if he worried it might poison him.
Tibs stared. “What?”
“The kid was arguing for them to stay an extra day or two. Give you time to come back. And he was wearing the old man down too. That’s when I told them you were dead. That you’d wandered off in the forest and that no one survived going there.” He, again, looked at Tibs suspiciously. “I figured they shouldn’t wast time on the dead.”
“How did Jeremy react?”
“Who?”
“The kid.”
“Called me a liar. That you’d never let a forest eat you.” He eyed Tibs and mumbled something in his tankard.
What was with Jeremy? What had he done to make the young man think far too much of him?
“The old man looked lost there, for a heartbeat,” the man continued. “Then he was hard as stone. If he’s dead,” he declared in an atrocious attempt at imitating Graiden, “we’re moving on. They he was ordering people about. The kid tried to argue, but he got told to go die in that forest if he wanted his man back so badly. Thought he’d do it too. He had that look in his eyes I’ve seen on young fools in love before. He was going to prove them all wrong.” He hurried to drink. “But on him the look was scary. Like he wasn’t just going to find his man. He was going to kill anyone who got in his way.”
Jeremy? Scary? Tibs couldn’t imagine it, but he knew the young man. To the drunk, he’d be a caravan guard. Someone who killed bandits and monsters without hesitation. There weren’t many songs about caravans, but towns and villages always had stories. After all, what else did the guards have to do until they left, other than tell of their exploits in exchange for food and drinks?
“But he left with them.” He did not want to have to go search for the young man, lost in the forest.
“I figured he’d accepted the truth—” he looked at Tibs again “—when he didn’t run into the forest, but that look in his eyes changed before he lost himself among them. He wasn’t going to get angry for being scammed. He was going to get even.”
There was some light on the words, but not enough for outright lies. The man had exaggerated things here and there, but the look on his face, the fear as he described Jeremy’s expression, told him he believed what he’d seen. Not that Tibs thought he was right.
How often had Tibs told the young man that if he was going to be a guard, the caravan had to come first. That he had to put whatever feeling he had aside and focus on protecting the caravan and its people.
Jeremy might have wanted Tyborg to be alive, but he’d finally put the caravan first. He just hoped it meant he’d work, instead of finding someone else to impress.
Tibs slid a copper to the barman and passed the new tankard to the drunk. “Extra payment for what you told me. Take your time with this one.” He turned to the barman. “How long until the next caravan.”
“Two seasons, if we’re lucky.”
That meant he’d spend the cold season here. Hopefully, someone had extra cold weather clothing he could buy. He didn’t have to worry about the cold, but doing that without appropriate clothing would make people wonder.
“Where can I get a bed to sleep in?”
The barman stared in disbelief. “Even with a bad horse, it can’t be more than a few days to catch up to the caravan. Why would you want to say here? We’re nothing like the places you see. The most entertainment I get is kicking Nealsin out once I’m done listening to him complaining about not refilling his tankard.”
“I wouldn’t do that if you did that,” the drunk said.
“Then watching him stumble home.”
Tibs shrugged. Even without the dungeon, he wouldn’t go back to the caravan. Jeremy would be intolerable after being proved right. That if they had stayed, Tyborg would have returned.
“Well.” The man sounded uncertain. “There’s space in the attic. Mother Natril has hay, and if you spread it there, it’ll be something. But I don’t know about that once the weather turns.”
This gave him something if he couldn’t work out a better alternative. “Where can I find Mother Natril?”
*
Mother Natril was the old woman who owned the farm Nadir of the village the caravan had ridden by on their way. He sensed the trees has been cut down well beyond where the fields ended. She was one of three farmers who provided the village with grains and vegetables. She had animals, but they worked the field and provided milk, not bred to feed meat to the people.
Unless the village’s hunters and trappers were willing to brave the forest, bread and root vegetables were what they had to look for during the cold season. He could bring them meat. Hunting for them would be a way to earn his stay.
Tibs helped her feed the bulls and cows while they talked, the goats and horses. He didn’t know why the barman had expected him to reach the caravan on either of them. They looked as old as Mother Natril.
By the time the sun touched the treetop, Tibs had earned himself a corner in her house. The one her daughter had slept in before she found a man and they built a home of their own. It came with the task of feeding the animals each morning, cleaning the stalls and walking the animals that couldn’t be set loose within the enclosure; the fence was too fragile to keep them from walking out.
He hadn’t argued.
He knew she wasn’t Mama, but she was a woman in need of assistance, and he found it comforting to help her. It also gave him something to do while he let Firmen and Merka get over their encounter.
In a few days, he’d go to them. Mother Natril would have rested, and he’d already warned her he intended to go hunting as a way to help the village. She warned him against venturing in the forest and cursed him for being young and stubborn.
*
Tibs felt the eyes on him as he worked. Sensed the presence, and was surprised their size was that of an adult, instead of a child. A glance over his shoulder, as he filled the feeding trough, showed him a form hurrying behind the house and remaining there.
Mother Natril was resting in her room, and the hidden person was the only one he sensed, so he formed disks of water, stilling them so they became reflective and showed him the man peeking around the side.
Tibs had hoped there wouldn’t be this difficulty.
Joman didn’t approach. Not while Tibs worked, not when he headed for the tavern once he was done. He’d refused to take food away from his host. She wasn’t ‘at death’s feet’ the way many bards described older village people, and sometimes entire villages, but she had little to spare, and Tibs had coins to pay for the vegetable stew the tavern had.
The man he rescued watched him warily from two tables away.
Tibs didn’t acknowledge him. He focused on eating and speaking with those who approached him.
From them, he confirmed why the man watched him.
They asked about the rescue. The monsters he’d had to fight. He denied any fighting and explained the rips in his clothing as the danger of walking through a dense forest, but they went so far as to claim Joman had seen him fight them.
He didn’t want to make the man sound addled, but Tibs stuck to the story he’d told. He’d found the man huddled in a copse of trees, terrified and confused. Whatever he thought he’d seen or heard, had to be because of his state.
But it meant the man had been aware enough he’d noticed how hurt Tibs was when he’d taken him out of the dungeon.
When Joman sat opposite him, he looked scared. “Why aren’t you telling them what you saw?”
Tibs motioned to the barman before replying. “I told them I saw you and brought you back to your woman.”
“But the things,” he hissed softly. “You can’t have reached me and not—” he closed his mouth as the barman placed a tankard before each of them. With a pitying look directed at Joman, he left. “You had bandages,” he whispered.
“Cuts from thorns,” he replied. He should have kept some of them. But it wasn’t like anyone would ask him to pull up the shirt Mother Natril had given him to check. Something her man had worn when still alive.
He wished he had the element of Mind. With it, he could sooth the man’s mind, make what he’d suffer hazy. Help him move on from that. Move forward with his life. The element could do so much more. Bards sang of adventurers making others believe whatever they wanted with it. Made people see things that weren’t there and hide what was. But if he’d had it, he would only use it to help the man.
And he was glad he didn’t.
Few elements scared Tibs, but Mind made him…uncomfortable. He could see how easy it would be to abuse it. Easier than abusing Corruption, he thought.
“The things are made of trees,” Joman whispered. “They’re what have the thorns. Like knives to cut with.” He rubbed his injured forearm. The cut had been shallow and already scabbed over. Tibs had removed the corruption, but otherwise left it to heal naturally.
“I can’t know what it was like,” Tibs said, trying to sound supportive. “Being lost and scared like that. I had your trail to follow, and it wandered.” He thought about adding details, but wasn’t that how confidence artists tripped themselves, when they tried to force what they wanted the mark to imagine? “You were delirious when I found you. Maybe hunger made you eat something bad.”
“I didn’t!” he hunched his shoulders as silence fell over the room and continued at a whisper. “I didn’t touch anything in that abyss forsaken place.”
“Maybe it was lack of sleep?”
“Why are you doing this?” he quietly implored.
Tibs wished he could explain.
Tell him he was better not knowing. That there were things that, even if you knew were real, was better convincing yourself weren’t. That there was nothing to gain trying to force what he’d experienced to be real, and so much to lose.
Tibs had seen madness take people in his travel. He knew the price obsession demanded.
So he remained silent.
The barman came by them. “How about you go home, Joman?”
“I want to know why he’s lying!”
“He saved your life,” the man snapped. “How about you just thank him for that?”
“Saved me?” Joman’s anger shifted as he smiled. “He controlled it. He made the trees move out of his way so he could carry me out.”
Tibs kept the disappointment from showing. Because he’d seen that. Because of how Tibs had to respond, the others would have to doubt the man’s sanity. He spoke as gently as he could. Maybe he could still make it the result of what he’d experienced, and not of a broken mind. “I didn’t. You were scared, tired, hungry, since you didn’t eat anything. Your mind—”
“You can’t fool me!” The chair clattered back as he stood. “You’re something of the dungeons. Something made to eat us.”
“I’m just someone who’s used to the forests; who can follow trails. I’m sorry you feel I’m responsible for what happened to you. All I wanted was to get you back to your woman.”
“Joman,” the barman said, his tone firm, taking him by the shoulder. “You’re going home. Now.” He pulled him away and to the door, returning after. “I’m sorry about that. You saved him, and—”
“It’s okay. He went through something he can’t know how to deal with. It scared him. He’ll calm down.”
The woman, at the table next to his, snorted. “You’re nicer about what he said than I’d ever be. I have sent him off and warned him never to bother me again.”
He shrugged. Just like he didn’t think there was anything he could tell Joman that would convince him, he wouldn’t be able to make the woman question what actions she might have taken, no matter how bright her words had been.
Author's Thoughts
I don't think I really changed anything here.
