Under a Blessing of Ashes - Part VII

hen they finally arrived back at their tents, Horvig was immediately placed within the Healer’s tent, where the old lady began to attend to the boy. Fultag then ordered the construction of a sleigh for him to be carried upon while they travelled. Most of the other tents were torn down as well, folded as small as possible and packed in the saddlebags until they reached their next camp.

The healer applied several poultices to the wound, a rider having arrived many minutes before warning her of the need. Horvig was conscious and winced as the cloths were applied to his wound, but otherwise said nothing. He had lost quite a bit of blood, but the dagger had not done any damage to his organs. She prepared a needle and twine though, for the hole would have to be stitched shut after she’d let the medicines do their work.

And so, as Horvig lay there in the small tent, the old woman kneeling over him, neither were surprised to see Fultag crouch within. “Wilt he live?” Fultag asked, his words dry.

She nodded then. “He wilt live. I must sew his flesh back together shortly.”

Fultag nodded. “Be out with thee.” The healer slipped out as she was bidden, leaving father and son alone.

Horvig waited until she left, before he let the shame show upon his face. Hot tears began to well up in his eyes as he gripped the sheets tightly in his hands. “I am sorry, father. I brought dishonour on thee and the Tagendend.”

Fultag nodded. “Aye, thou didst that. But thou wilt live so thou wilt be able to regain thy honour.”

Horvig let the shame-filled tears flow from his face then, his arms quivering in his misery. “Canst thee forgive me, father?”

The First Hunter sat there next to his injured son and watched him cry. He breathed heavily. “Thou art but a boy, Horvig. Thou must learn to be a man. When thou hast done that, my forgiveness wilt be thine.”

Horvig nodded, swallowing deeply, stanching the flow of tears. “I wilt learn, father.”

“I know thee wilt,” Fultag said, his voice firm, but gentle in a way that only a father could be to a son. He laid one hand upon his son’s forehead then, stroking back the boy’s black hair. He then crawled back to the entrance of the tent and gave his son a slight smile. “I hath great pride in thee, my son. Thou wilt bring honour to the Tagendend when thou rise to be First Hunter.”

The boy smiled back to his father, a secret moment they could never share otherwise. And then he laid back, hoping that one day he would be able to atone for his mistake that day. Looking up again, he saw the healer crouching over his belly once more, removing the poultice, and readying her needle and twine. Horvig gritted his teeth, and pressed his head back against the folded cloth that served for his pillow as she began to sew the wound shut.

The sun had passed beyond the grey clouds to the west by the time they returned to the wagons with a new load of wood. Fires were already burning the last remnants they had left behind, and the other Magyars had already set out the benches in preparation for that night’s performance. News of their victory over the Tagendend was known to all already, and so they were welcomed back with boisterous cheers. They were not just returning with wood, but they were returning victorious from battle.

All of them looked to the Eastern bank as they returned to their wagons, and saw that the Tagendend had kept their word, and had already begun their trek southwards along the Atra. The town of Doltatra would be theirs alone for the night, and so they could all relax and simply enjoy themselves. The smell of a delicious stew being cooked brought all of them even further delight, and soon, they were standing once more upon the ground, the wagon returned to its place within the semicircle of their camp.

Kashin stayed with his wagon-mates as they crossed through the camp. Adlemas had told the rest of how Kashin had stopped the son of the First Hunter from striking Hanaman, and almost all of his fellow Magyars paused to express their thanks and admiration. Kashin assured them all that it was simply his duty, and he’d do the same for any of them. Even as he said it, he knew it to be completely true. Even as he scratched at his tunic, he decided not to dwell on that, but instead have some of Varna’s delicious stew.

Of necessity, tonight’s performance would be a little bit different from the previous night’s. Kashin would still play an ogre attacking the Keep of course, but this time, the battles would be longer and more dramatic, to further impress the people of the town. All the other performances they did would be new, or enhanced in some way. And they would end with a great dance, while the musicians amongst them played lyre, drum, and tambourine. It was a Magyar dance of course, but the steps were not terribly difficult to learn.

Varna smiled at them all as they approached her bubbling cauldron. “‘Tis ready for the heroes. And to thee an extra portion, Nemgas, for thy bravery!” The hearty woman said as she clapped her hands together, thick arms bouncing beneath her bone.

“That is not necessary,” Kashin said, smiling a bit, waving his hand dismissively.

“‘Tis an honour!” Varna corrected in her boisterous manner, to which the other Magyars standing nearby cheered and patted the man on his back. Kashin felt his face blush slightly at this, something he had not wanted. The chorus attracted the eyes of many of the other Magyars, including Hanaman.

Kashin blushed again, his eyes looking to his fellow Magyars at his sides, Chamag, Pelgan, Gamran and the others, all gazing at him expectantly, urging him to accept the larger portion. Finally, Kashin just nodded his head to the broad woman and held out his bowl. “Very well then. I shalt accept thy offer.”

Varna took the bowl from his with a firm grin. “‘Tis more like thee!” She scooped up the normal allotment of stew, and then added half a spoonful more to his bowl. The chunks of beef and potato were nearly overflowing in the dark meaty broth. Kashin accepted the bowl once more, cradling it within him palm.

“I thank thee,” Kashin said, smiling through the red of his cheeks before he sat down to eat. One of the younger cooks brought hi a spoon to eat with and he smiled to her as well. Sitting down on the bench, he placed the bowl before him, and began to eat. The stew was delicious, and it warmed his throat all the way down.

The others sat nearby to eat their meals as well. The delightful banter continued around him as it always did, but this time, Kashin found himself constantly drawn into it at every turn. Quite a few asked him how it felt to stop Horwig from murdering Hanaman, though he had little to say to enlighten them. “It was just something I had to do. I could not let any of my fellow Magyars be hurt like that.”

“Thou hast but one arm,” Gamran pointed out, something they were all aware of. “Wast thou not afraid that Horvig might kill thee?”

Kashin shook his head at that. “Not for a moment. He was a skilled fighter, yes. But he was also a boy, and did not use his head.”

“He art a Tagendend. They hath ne’er used their heads!” Chamag snorted derisively.

“Then they shouldst be easy to defeat,” Kashin said, smiling, even as he stuffed some more of the stew within his mouth. It was already growing dark of course, the sun setting behind the storm clouds that were fast approaching. Setting his spoon down, Kashin scratched once at his chest, and then blinked as he saw a sudden blue light shine on the eastern horizon. It twinkled like a distant star, growing in power and then fading once more. Finally, it vanished from view in that dark sky.

None of them had spoken in those few moments, and Kashin wondered what it was. He remembered that he had seen that very light the previous evening at dusk. Why had he never seen the like before? He pointed his spoon towards the horizon. “Just what was that?” he asked finally.

The other Magyars looked at him with horrified expressions on their suddenly white faces. They had not gone white at seeing the blue light, but only when Kashin had asked about it. Kashin blinked at them, his curiosity only increased. “Is there something wrong?”

Chamag nodded. “Thou must not speak of him.”

“Him?” Kashin wondered aloud, and glanced back towards the Eastern sky, but saw only the darkness. The other Magyars nodded their heads, and continued eating their stew in silence. Kashin did as well then, letting those questions itch the back of his mind the way they could not itch his tongue. He smirked a bit then as he ate, though he was not quite sure why.

Hanaman had much on his mind that night. He could not help but watch the newest of the Magyars go about his affairs, trembling at each decision he made. Nemgas was now more a mystery to him than he had been when they plucked him from the snow nearly a fortnight ago. At first he did everything he could do to resist them, only relenting when either faced with death or Hanaman reminded him that he had saved his life, and now that life was his.

And yet, that very day, only an hour before, Nemgas had saved Hanaman’s life, and then gave up the right to declare the debt over. Was that the one-armed man’s way of telling Hanaman that he truly would be a Magyar forever now? But Dazheen had seen differently, warning him of a boon that Hanaman would have to grant. And Nemgas had asked him for a boon. What boon could he possibly want? Dazheen’s cards had attacked them when he’d asked that question, revealing nothing.

Hanaman felt a shiver as he remember that event. He had not gone to consult with Dazheen since that event the day before, although Bryone had told him that her mistress’s cards were behaving themselves once again. Even so, Hanaman would wait until they were upon their next city before seeking her advice again. Far too much was strange for his liking.

But if he granted Nemgas’s boon, he would make of Nemgas a Magyar forever. That thought filled him with firm pride and hope. Given what they had discussed earlier in the day, perhaps it was time he brought the man more firmly into their way of thinking. Perhaps he would not find certain things so bad if he had to do them himself.

Catching the eye of Gamran who was sitting next to Nemgas on the benches, Hanaman summoned the little thief. Gamran trotted over gaily, hopping and skipping a bit as he moved, his face still flush with the excitement, though subdued. At the fall of dusk, their conversation had gone quiet, but in the minutes afterward it had begun to grow in earnest until it was as boisterous as before. That always happened when they came this way though.

“Aye, Hanaman, thou wished to speak with me?” Gamran asked as he trotted up, eyes eager.

Hanaman nodded and smiled slightly. “Aye. Dost thee think that we canst sample from the goods of Doltatra without their knowing?”

“Oh, most certainly! They hath far too many goods. A few here and there wilt not be missed.”

“Good,” Hanaman said as he watched a few of the villagers begin to approach their camp. It would not be long before they would have to begin the performances. “Unless they doth bestow upon us proper recompense this very eve, then ye shalt need to take a few others and enter their warehouses to refill our supplies.”

Gamran smiled mischievously at that, rubbing his palms together. “How wilt we accomplish this?”

“We shall move the wagons across the bridges before dawn. While they watch the wagons, you shalt take a few others and pilfer what we need.” He paused a moment and let his eyes trail back to the group that Gamran had been eating with. “I wish thee to take Nemgas with thee.”

“Nemgas?” Gamran asked in surprise. “He hast but one arm!”

“No better protector hath we. Be sure that he partakes in the theft. I want him to do his part as a Magyar.”

Gamran nodded then, his lips returning to their jovial smile. “I shalt do as ye say, Hanaman! ‘Tis an honour to take Nemgas upon his first thievery!”

Hanaman could not help but smile as he watched the thief skip and hop his way back to his meal and his fellow Magyars. He knew in his heart that Nemgas would eventually be one of them so completely that even he would recoil at the prospect of being anything but a Magyar. But he could not help but wonder how long, and how arduous that journey would be. He prayed that Nemgas would not accidentally bring the Doltatran guards down upon them that next dawn.

And then Hanaman went about his business, readying himself for his own part in the night’s festivities. There was much to be done still, and already the villagers were arriving! And at that thought, he felt the first brush of a snowflake upon his shoulder.

Kashin had already begun the process of pulling on his ogre costume when Gamran slipped into the wagon with him. The thief was eyeing him speculatively. There was a diffidence in his manner that made Kashin pause, as it was so unlike his normal charmed approach. Kashin pulled the legs taut over his own, and leaned forward upon the bench he sat upon. “You want to ask me something, don’t you?”

Gamran’s eyebrows went up at the question, but he shook his head. “Nay, good Nemgas, not quite. Thy hast a discerning eye, but ‘tis not a question to be posed to thee. But ‘tis something I must tell thee.”

Pulling the left arm over his shoulder, the fake limb sewn back onto the costume during the day. He could not help but wonder if they would react as well to the severing as they did last night. But his attention was drawn instead to the almost apologetic expression on Gamran’s face. It was as if his fellow Magyar were trying to apologize for what he had yet to say. What could he possibly have to say that would spark such a reaction?

“Well, what dost thee wish to tell me?” Kashin prompted, which brought the little thief back from his sudden staring.

“Oh, ‘tis just that Hanaman dost think the villagers hath not properly recompensed us for our performance.”

Kashin shrugged a bit, not yet seeing where this might be leading. “Perhaps they cannot repay us the way that we would like them to.”

Gamran shook his head then, eyes filled with a bit of mischief. “Oh, they hath enough for that. Enough and more.”

“I suppose you have seen this for yourself?” Gamran nodded firmly, smiling proudly at his accomplishment. Kashin grimaced and began to slip the other arm of the costume on. “All right. So what does this mean for us? Are we going to have to eat less for the next few weeks?”

Gamran laughed a diffident laugh, one that was not sure whether it should have been heard. “Nay! We shalt this very night whilst we leave, sneak into their storehouses and take what little we dost need for the journey ahead.” The little thief did not see the scowl beginning to grow on Kashin’s face. “And Hanaman hath told me that thou art to accompany me and help me this night!”

Kashin’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

The delighted look fled from the little thief’s face then, and an injured one replaced it. “No?” The word sounded strange coming from his mouth. “What dost thou mean by that?”

“What I said. I am not going to steal from the villagers.”

“‘Tis to feed thee and thy fellow Magyars!” Gamran pointed out, a pained expression on his face. Though Kashin felt the wound he had inflicted upon the pleasant thief, he did not wish any part in his pilfering.

“Then have another help you. I will not.”

“But why? ‘Tis only what we need, and what they hath owed us. They hath refused to pay, and so we hath no choice but to steal it.”

Kashin gritted his teeth, even as he pulled his arm firmly into the costume, leaving only his head revealed. “I have never stolen anything before in my life. Why should I start now?”

“‘Tis only what they hath owed us,” Gamran repeated. His face was crestfallen. “I thought thee would be eager to help. ‘Tis what any Magyar must do.”

He breathed deeply at the strangely injurious remark. Kashin could not help but blink, feeling its sting burrow even into his heart. Why did it hurt him so much? He could not understand why, but he knew that it did. He felt his flesh tremble and itch underneath the costume, but there was little he could do about it. But there was one thing that he could do, one nagging thought that had to be answered.

“All right, Gamran. I will help thee without complaint if thou agree to tell me one thing.”

Gamran’s whole face lit up like a torch. Bright eyes beamed upwards, even as his nimble fingers began to work the lacings on his costume, helping Kashin get it closed. “Tell me good Nemgas, what dost thee wish to know?”

Kashin waited until Gamran had finished pulling the laces taut and had stepped back around before him. “Tell me what that blue light from the east at dusk had been.”

Sheer horror filled Gamran’s eyes then and he flinched backwards, looking to either side of the wagon as if to find an exit. Kashin kept his eyes upon the thief though, standing up, he looked down, making it clear that he would expect an answer. “Remember that thou hast agreed to this.”

Gamran reluctantly nodded, swallowing firmly as he said a silent prayer, some benediction for what Kashin did not know. “I wilt tell thee his name, but thou must ne’er repeat it, dost thee understand?”

“Aye,” Kashin said, nodding slowly, wondering what could fill them with such horror. “I understand.”

Gulping again, Gamran motioned for the larger man to bend down closer. He did so, turning one ear to hear whatever it was that the thief felt he had to whisper. Gamran cupped one hand over Kashin’s ear and said in the lowest possible tones, “Cenziga.”

Kashin almost repeated the word out loud before he remembered the thief’s admonition. Instead, he whispered back, “What is it?”

Gamran’s voice trembled, the words titillating upon his ear. “He is a terrible mountain.”

“A mountain?”

“Aye.” Gamran stepped back then, shaking from head to foot. Kashin reached over and set his hand upon the man’s shoulder, stilling his fright. “‘Tis all right,” Kashin assured him. “Thou hast nothing to fear when I am near.”

Gamran smiled slightly. “I thank thee, Nemgas.” It took him a moment to collect his wits though. After several long heavy breaths, he smiled more broadly then, face regaining its usual amicability. “And tonight thou wilt engage in thy first thievery! Oh, thou shalt know no greater excitement! ‘Twill be fun, thou shalt see!”

The taller Magyar nodded and smiled to his fellow. “Aye, ‘twill be fun.” Those words alone made Gamran smile all the more, completely returned to his normal self. Kashin did not really believe them of course, but he was committed now. But his mind was not upon the thievery that he would commit later that night. Instead, he wondered about that mountain, Cenziga. Even as he thought of the name, he felt daggers of ice inside his mind. There were no mountains upon the Steppe, so what could it be?

It came as no surprise to Hanaman that the villagers did not provide them ample compensation. It was the way of life for a Magyar to always be undervalued. There were always those towns that were only too glad to provide for them, though Hanaman had always suspected they did so only to avoid having the Magyars make off with their wares.

But it mattered not, as Hanaman had several accomplished thieves amongst his Magyars. Gamran was just the most skilled of these, but there were others. When they would stop in a larger city, they would all be hard at work picking pockets. They would have to pay a small fee to the local thief’s guild for stealing in their city, but with the likes of Gamran and others at work, they would have little difficulty in making up for any losses they accrued upon the steppes.

Not all of the Magyars were practised thieves of course. And Hanaman held no illusions about a career as a footpad for Nemgas. But it was important that they all steal at least once. Their very lives could depend on it after all. During the performances, while the townsfolk of Doltatra were rapt up by the pageant, Gamran had signalled to him that Nemgas was not going to cause any trouble by it either, which relieved him greatly.

And so, Hanaman rose two hours before dawn, intending for that morning to begin very well for them. Zhenava rose with him, seeing to their child, and making sure that everything in their wagon was in its proper place. They would be leaving before the break of dawn after all, and everyone would need to be ready. Hanaman pulled on a thicker coat and his boots before stepping out into the snow-laden Steppe. The storm had hit them towards the end of the performances, and had kept up through the night, leaving half a foot of snow in its wake.

He grimaced as he saw that. It would complicate matters, but not terribly so. The biggest concern would be to get the wagons moving through it. The fires had long since died, their dark ruins covered only by a thin layer of snow. Several other Magyars were already up, gathering their Assingh to hitch them once more to the wagons. Hanaman let them be about their work, waving to them as he passed. His feet sunk into the snow, leaving a clear trail behind him, but it did not slow him.

He came to the wagon of the bachelors, and climbed up to the door, rapping loudly with a gloved fist. A moment later it opened inwards, a smiling Gamran standing there dressed warmly in a brown jacket over his brightly-coloured tunic. Warm air from the wagon brushed over his face as it fled into the cold night air. Two lamps were lit inside the wagon, casting strange shadows against the wood, cabinets, and bunks at the far back. Five other figures were standing crowded, some pulling on boots and others jackets.

“Good morning to thee, Hanaman,” Gamran said, his voice light, breath catching on the air. “We art ready to be thieves!”

Hanaman could see Nemgas standing just behind Pelgan. A strange flicker crossed the one-armed Magyar’s eyes, but he did not say anything as he pulled a leather glove onto his one hand with his teeth, flexing his fingers. “Good. Thou wilt need a charm from Dazheen to ward against the snow.”

Gamran nodded, gazing out the door towards the layer of white snow that was already marred by boot prints. “‘I had hoped ‘twould keep on snowing. ‘Tis improper to use magic to pilfer!” He said this last indignantly, though Hanaman knew it was more bluster than anything else.

“‘Twould have been better, but ‘tis not to be this day. Get thee to Dazheen’s wagon and be gone before Aster’s rise.”

“We shalt be there by the rise of that ubiquitous planet!” Gamran declared proudly, even as he brushed back his hair with one hand. He turned about and smiled to the others in the wagon. “Shalt we be to Dazheen’s wagon then?”

Pelgan nodded, running a gloved hand over the hilt of one of his knives. “Of course.”

Nemgas also gave a curt nod, and tried to smile. “‘Twill be fun.”

“‘Tis the spirit!” Gamran said in a boisterous voice. He then smiled at all of them amicably, and back to Hanaman. “Well, art thou going to stand there in our way, or wilt we have to pilfer thy shirt to get thee to move?”

The jocularity of the statement made even Nemgas laugh loudly with the others. Hanaman bowed his head apologetically, offering his thief a warm smile. “Of course! And if thou dost not bring back enough grain I shalt have thee chopped and made into stew!”

Gamran’s grin grew wider, but also more mischievous. “When hath thee e’er known me to bring back less?”

Hanaman stepped back, giving the thief and his friends room to exit. “Ne’er hast it happened. Yet.” His gaze flickered once to Nemgas, though it retained the smile. A rare expression from him, but on a cold morning such as this, it would be good to warm hearts.

Pelgan, Nemgas, and Kaspel followed after the thief, both Nemgas and Kaspel each carrying an empty, brown sack. He watched as the four of them marched through the snow towards one of the other wagons. Hanaman then looked back to the two men still inside the wagon and nodded, his smile gone, replaced by his normal thin line. “Make ready to depart.”

Chamag nodded then, firm eyes clear. “We wilt be ready to leave an hour before dawn.”

Hanaman knew they would, as would all the rest of the Magyars. Silently, he closed the door behind him to make good on his own preparations.