The Wretched of Muirwood (Legends of Muirwood 1)

Reaching out, she began untying his belt.

“What are you doing?” Colvin asked.

“He died saving us,” Lia said, freeing the buckle. “The abbey needs a new hunter now. I want to bring back with me what I can carry. Part of who he was. We never waste things in the abbey.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “The new hunter will need these things. I will never forget him. Never.” She brushed her eyes.

“Nor will I.”

Lia took the parts that made him a hunter in her eyes. The leather girdle and belt he always wore. The gladius and ash bow. A home-made leather quiver stuffed with arrows. Even the shooting glove and bracers that protected his arms from the bowstring. She garbed herself in his implements, for there was no other way to carry the items. It was strange, wearing those things that made him who he was. The gladius had a certain feel in her hand. The leather had a smell. On summer days he had let her and Sowe practice archery in the orchard which resulted in huge purple bruises on their elbows. Tears stung her eyes again. It was too much to bear.

While she dressed, Colvin took his rucksack with the food and then gently removed the arrows sticking into the body and cast them aside. He arranged the body on higher ground, and then knelt by it.

“Close your eyes,” he told Lia.

“What are you going to do?”

Colvin sighed. “I am going to give him a maston’s burial. You should not see the sign.”

Lia approached and stood near him and shut her eyes. A part of her heart burned with pain, as if the thicket from the night before was still blazing inside her. There was so much about mastons and their customs she did not know. As a wretched, she never would. It was unfair, but such was the way of the world. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, because part of her was just rebellious enough to be tempted to peek.

His voice was thick with emotion, but grew stronger. “By Idumea’s hand, I do not know all the words. I am a young maston still. But I kneel and through the Medium dedicate this ground in the Bearden Muir as the final resting place of Jon Hunter. By the Medium I invoke this, that when the time of his reviving has come, at some future dawn, he may be restored, every whit. May we always remember this final spot that others may remember what he did for us. That they may remember him through our words. Make it thus so.”

“Make it so,” Lia whispered. She opened her eyes and stared once again at the ashen face. Tenderly, she knelt and kissed his bearded cheek. Then they began fetching stones to cover him up.

* * *

“One of my favorites passages is found in the Tome of Isius. I encourage all my learners to memorize it, for it holds secrets even I struggle to comprehend: ‘Let a maston be humble before the Medium, without guile, and he will receive of its fullness. Power which shall manifest unto him the truth of all things, and shall give him, in the very hour, what he should say. And these signs shall follow him—he shall heal the sick, banish the Myriad Ones, and be delivered from those who administer deadly poison. He shall be led on paths where serpents cannot sting his heel. And he shall mount up in the imagination of his thoughts as upon eagles’ wings. And if the Medium wills that he should raise the dead, let him not withhold his voice. But only if the Medium wills it.’”

- Cuthbert Renowden of Billerbeck Abbey

* * *

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE:

Eve of Winterrowd

Winterrowd was a ill-looking fishing village surrounded by water on three sides, nestled within the convergence of two strong rivers that emptied into the sea. Lia had never seen the sea before. She had never imagined an expanse of water so vast and blue and never-ending. The harbor was thronged with small vessels.

Haze filled the sky above Winterrowd, and Lia realized it was from a hundred cookfires. Thousands of soldiers swarmed in the town.

“Is it over?” Colvin whispered in shock, turning the horse’s head with a subtle jerk to the reins. “Are we too late?”

“No, I do not think so,” Lia said, training her eye on the road south. From the vantage of the hilltop, they could see south to the town of Bridgewater. A long, coiled snake – the king’s army – still marched on Winterrowd though much of it was penned up outside. “The town is not burning. It must be Demont’s camp in the field there.”

Colvin whistled softly. “Yes, and that is the king’s army still advancing. They have camped at the outskirts of the village. Look there – you can see the pickets. That is the vanguard of the king’s army. Each army will break into thirds. One is the vanguard. They lead the battle. Then comes the main, and it is usually the largest. Then comes the rearguard, the reserve. The vanguard has already arrived. Sweet Idumea, they must have marched faster than the wind! Before midnight, the main and the rear will have arrived. There battle will happen on the morrow.”