Chapter Two
Androkles sighed and looked at the shabby little inn, wishing for the hundredth time he wasn’t so far from the Glories. The building was squat and run down, and he had only been able to identify it by a painting of a pot of wine on the door. It was entirely made of wood, too, not stone, and had grown moldy along the ground. It was also suspiciously quiet for only an hour past sundown. Just over a month into his journey, he was finding that the barbarian lands to the north were as bad as everyone said.
It had been a week since someone had thought they’d seen Della’s group. Androkles couldn’t fathom how a woman and four Skythander beast-man bodyguards would be easy to miss, but hardly anyone had seen them, and never travelling. They only seemed to appear when they were buying food, and had never been seen on the road.
This inn was the last place in the tiny village he hadn’t checked. Della had yet to sleep in an inn, as far as he could tell, so he wasn’t particularly hopeful, but there was nothing for it. He straightened his cloak to hide his xiphos, since the leaf-blade had a tendency to make uncivilized people nervous, and clapped some of the dust out of his skirt. He ran his hands across his hair to flatten any strands that had escaped his braid, and, satisfied with his appearance, went inside.
Ducking through the doorway, Androkles saw that the lamps were in good Glories style, shaped like a teardrop laid sideways, and were mostly still lit. A series of undecorated wooden tables and chairs sat arranged in unorganized fashion throughout the room, leaving space by the fire for a few sleepers wrapped in blankets. Everything was quiet and dead; only the wait-boy, a pale, skinny child with disheveled brown hair, was awake. He sat on a table, idly swinging his legs. Upon seeing Androkles enter, he wearily hopped down from his seat and greeted him with a bow. “Welcome to the house of Keld, master. Please sit wherever you want.” Then he watched while Androkles looked for the cleanest chair and table and sat.
“You’re not closed, are you, boy?” Androkles asked. “Why is there no one here?”
“No, master. We’re open,” began the boy, but he had to stop to suppress a yawn before continuing, “We’re open and we have bread and cheese, apples, and plum-wine, and a warm fire. And we do have some guests but they’re asleep now,” said the boy, nodding at the fireplace and the people lying there.
“Will anyone show up? I was hoping to gamble," Androkles asked, not caring how annoyed he sounded.
"I don't know, master. I don't think so because it's getting kind of late and folks don't usually show up this long after dark. But tomorrow when everyone gets in from the fields they can gamble," replied the boy.
Androkles sighed with resignation. He opened his coin-purse, looked inside, and said, "Fine. I do want some food, but first I have a question for your master. Is he in?”
“He’s gone to bed, I’m afraid. I’m not supposed to wake him up, especially, if, um …” said the boy, who trailed off and looked unsure how he wanted to finish that sentence.
Androkles allowed some of his annoyance into his voice as he said, “Well, if you can answer then maybe I won’t go wake him up myself. Has a group of Skythanders come through town, guarding a woman?”
The boy didn’t even have to think about it. “The beast-men? No, master. And I would know because I’m always here and I’ve never seen one in my life. Have you?”
“Of course, boy. They’re nothing special. Are you certain?”
“Yes, master. Sorry,” said the wait-boy. “But I’ve heard that a long way north of here, there’s an intersection with a well, and some people have seen some there. Are you looking for them?”
“That’s my business. And how long is ‘a long way’?”
“Oh, that’s, like, um, I’m not sure. But I’ve never been there. Are, um, are you going to order, master?”
Androkles scowled at the boy for his audacity, but he had a point. “Alright, it looks like I’ve got two coppers left. What’ll that get me?”
The boy gave him a look of nervous appraisal, then answered, “I think … a pot of plum-wine and an apple, I guess. Or some bread instead of the apple.” He gave several quick glances at the xiphos, which had been exposed when Androkles sat, as though the sword would jump out and start attacking people on its own.
“Do you have any grape-wine? Or beer?” Androkles asked.
“No, master, just the plum.”
“How can you not have beer? I walked through barley fields half the day!"
"I don't know, master. We just don’t have any right now."
"Then a pot of plum-wine and the bread.”
The boy left to fetch the goods, and Androkles sighed to himself, wondering if he should bother loosening his sandals. Now that he was well and truly out of money, Della’s homelands were starting to seem mighty far away. He might have to resort to finding work soon, and who knows what sorts of work the barbarians would pay him for. It’d probably be worse than slave work. The boy appeared again with a plain drinking pot and half a loaf of bread, which he placed before Androkles, taking care not to let the pot roll and spill.
He took a large bite of the bread. It wasn’t bad, actually—a little saltier than bread in the Glories, but it had been made with good grain. The wait-boy said, “Hope it does good by you, master.” Androkles grunted a reply and took another bite, finally allowing himself to realize how hungry he was.
But the boy tapped him on the shoulder and asked, “Can I have the coppers, master?” Androkles sighed and held them out for the boy to take, but the child seemed hesitant. After a moment, the boy gritted his teeth and carefully took the coins from Androkles’s palm, trying not to touch his hand.
In the Glories, boys his age would have been tripping over themselves to serve a veteran like Androkles. Arms and legs thick with muscle and covered in scars, and having survived long enough to retire? They'd be sure he was a hero, and he'd have to swat them away to enjoy a meal. Or at least, that’s what he’d been expecting. And that’s how it probably would have gone, if he’d married someone else.
Not this boy, though, because he was a barbarian with no sense of proper civilization. The boy quickly bowed and said, “Thank you, master." Then he turned and headed toward a pile of cleaning supplies in the corner, where he began half-heartedly doing chores.
Nothing else to do, Androkles watched him. The boy was obviously not a Laophilean—flat, pale brown hair, too-pale skin, forgettable features. Completely plain child, nine or ten years old. His spotty, purple tunic had probably been white and properly fitted a year ago, but now it fit too tightly and only went halfway down to his knees. It looked like the boy was going to be cold this winter, too, if that's all he had. No footwear, either. One had to wonder if all barbarians dressed their children so poorly, or if the master of the house was a stingy bastard. The child was obviously a slave, but in the Glories a slave who looked like that brought shame to his master.
Androkles looked away with disdain and stared into his pot, unable to bring himself to finish the second half. It tasted like it had been in a pitcher all day, and had been watered down too much besides. It had no foam, like the beer he had intended to buy. This far north, it should have been all beer, not fruit wine. Beer in the north, beer in the south, and the wine of grapes for the Glories, after all. And what were they doing with all that barley, anyway? He looked deeper at the drink, but it was just a flat, dark surface with no color. This whole journey was getting more obnoxious with each passing day. His friend Nikon would have been laughing at him, if he was still alive. Nikon came from a wealthy family, and he liked to tease Androkles about being poor, even though it was always affectionate. Nikon would have … well, never mind. Nikon was dead.
As if to deliberately break his reverie, the wait-boy knocked Androkles’s elbow with a broom handle, causing the pot to spill all down his front, soaking his dusty white cloak in purple plum-wine. Androkles shot to his feet in a fit of rage, fast enough the chair flew backward. The boy was too shocked to cower, eyes wide and mouth hanging open, holding the broom with both hands in front of him like a shield.
Fast as a snake, Androkles grabbed the broom away. “Turn to the side, boy,” he said darkly.
“… why?” asked the wait-boy in a small voice.
“I’m gonna beat you on the back of the thighs for ruining my cloak! Now turn!” said Androkles, scowling hard enough to cause lightning.
The boy grew even paler somehow, cowered, and began pleading, “Please, master, please, I’m sorry! Have mercy!”
“Turn around or I'll beat your skull, you rebellious slave!”
“I’m not a slave, master, just an orphan! Please! You look strong enough you’ll break my legs!” said the boy, shaking with terror. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he trembled almost from head to foot. Androkles had seen that look plenty of times in grown men, begging for their lives. It wouldn’t do the boy any good.
“Turn around. Now.”
“Please, master, forgive me,” said the boy, not yet turning, but losing his resistance. He held out his hands in a gesture of prayer.
Androkles scowled at the boy, suddenly feeling a bit indecisive. That child was a scrawny, weak, pathetic thing. Underfed, no dignity, no family name or future. If a child like this died, no one would notice but his master. Sort of like a certain veteran with no money, now that he thought about it.
“Master, please, if I’m hurt he’ll throw me out!” begged the boy.
The boy should know better than to ask Androkles for mercy. Androkles was not a man known for mercy. “I probably would break your legs, now that I think about it,” he said crossly, setting the broom aside.
It took the boy a second to realize that he had avoided a beating, but once he did, his relief was so thick in the air it could be touched. He knelt and bowed like he was in front of an idol to show his gratitude. Jumping up, he said, “I’ll get you another drink, master. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want it. The first half of that one was awful,” said Androkles. “In fact, everything about this inn is awful.”
The boy diplomatically took Androkles’s side. “Yes, master. Everyone complains about it, and I’m really sorry. And I’m sorry I’m clumsy. But I’m an orphan and you had mercy, so I think Palthos Orphan-minder will bless you in return,” said the boy, timidly reaching for the broom.
“The gods can’t see everything, boy. And I’d need a lot of mercy from a puny god like the Child.”
“The gods can’t see everything, master, that’s true. But some of them are kind, and Palthos is a kind one. He’s more powerful than you think. Even more powerful than the other gods think. And he’s certainly more powerful than you,” said the boy. With that pronouncement, he looked Androkles in the eyes, and Androkles noticed for the first time that the boy’s irises were a deep black in color, not even brown, with tiny white flecks like stars. He held Androkles with a piercingly sharp gaze for the briefest moment, and then the boy nodded humbly and gripped his broom with renewed purpose. “Not to give offense, master. I’ll pray to Palthos to bless you tonight.”
“Pick a different god, boy. That one’s a trickster and meddler. Pray to a good soldier’s god, like Arkos Oathfather or the Hewer,” replied Androkles, taking off his cloak to deliberately wring it out on the floor. An impressive amount of plum-wine dripped from it and splashed all over, and the boy kept diplomatically silent as he wiped the rough wood planks set into the dirt with a rag. Androkles added, “They call Palthos the Child and the Orphan, but he’s also a bit of a bastard, in more ways than one.”
Then with a frown, Androkles wondered whether the gods had heard the blasphemy. Everyone cursed the gods generally, but it was foolish to curse them individually. It would be just Androkles’s luck that one of them would hide Della from him and he’d never see his money again. They were spiteful like that.
Since he hadn’t been able to gamble, he wouldn’t be able to pay for lodging when the master of the inn woke up in the morning. That made it time to leave, he supposed, so once his cloak was thoroughly wrung out he said, “I think I’ll sleep elsewhere. Boy, watch those broom handles from now on,” said Androkles, fastening his cloak around his shoulders.
“I will, master. And keep your eyes open for the blessing,” said the boy.
He snorted and said, “Unless it’s big enough to trip over, I’m sure I’ll miss it.” Then, wrapping his wet cloak once more across his shoulders, he left with as much cool dignity as he could fake.
If Della and her bodyguards weren’t in town, that made the crossroads with the well the next place to check, so he turned north and started walking. The bright, nearly-full moon had already gone nearly halfway across the sky by the time he made his way out of the village. It was cold, but only enough to be annoying. Just chilly, except where his cloak was wet. That was cold. Perhaps he really should have beaten that boy for soaking it; there was no way he could sell it now. He would have to sell his xiphos next, and there was no hope of getting a fair price for a good iron sword in these lands.
Being angry made him less weary, so he decided to walk a few miles into the country and sleep in late tomorrow morning, enjoying the moonlight and the solitude. And it wasn’t like he was particularly keen to curl up somewhere in town, where he might be discovered. That would be undignified. He was a traveler, not a vagabond. Yet.
He didn’t make it very far past the rickety wooden walls of the village before he noticed the wind, which made that cold feel awfully biting. Maybe he wouldn’t be going far after all. He also started wishing again that he still had a shirt. Selling it hadn’t bothered him at the time, since no one really wore them without the armor, but it would have kept the wind off. His sandals were in good repair, at least, as was his skirt.
The road ran roughly northwest, and the moon lit up the hills and mountains making them glimmer like old silver. Thick trees draped along the hills looked almost like raw wool in the moonlight, spread evenly over the landscape. He cast a long shadow, which seemed a bit longer than moon-shadows in the Glories. Perhaps it was because he was further north than he was used to. He’d never been this far north, and so far, he wasn’t impressed.
After an hour or so, Androkles was glad for the distance he was shaving from his journey, although it didn’t help his mood much. He grew continually more nervous that the wait-boy really would pray to the Child and the god would decide to meddle with his affairs. Unless the gods were going to drop Della in his lap with all his money in a sack, he’d rather they kept to themselves. He didn’t have the time, resources, or inclination to honor them; better just to be ignored.
As he crossed a small bridge over a dry gulch, he stubbed his toe brutally on something sticking up from the wood, stumbled, and fell over. He immediately looked around to make sure no one had seen it, but the roads were still empty, of course. With a loud curse, he sat back and examined his toe up close where he could see it in the moonlight. It wasn’t bleeding. Or broken. Just stubbed, and it hurt like a dozen beestings. He felt around for the nail that he had kicked, intending to yank it out and toss it as far as he could. When he found it, it was all the wrong shape. It was round and flat on the sides and …
Yanking it from between the boards and holding it up to inspect in the moonlight, Androkles had to grin. A four-weight gold coin had somehow had fallen between the boards and been left behind. That was impossible. A coin worth a hundred silvers would never be simply missed, like a buckle or a bottle plug. That was a half-season of work for a soldier. Looks like he had been merciful to the right orphan! He couldn’t help but laugh with joy, so he did, loudly, into the empty night.
“Thank you, oh great god Palthos Orphan-minder! I’ll use some of this to feed the next hungry orphans I come across,” he promised to the starry sky. After a moment, he added, “And I’m sorry I called you a bastard.”
When he stood again, he found a new spryness in his step to match his much-improved mood. He began flipping the coin in the air, listening to the ringing sound it made as it spun. Although he could hear a large pack of wolves howling over the hills, they didn’t seem close enough to cause any concern, and they wouldn’t want his gold anyway.
What a coin it was! His friend Euphemios would already have been trying to convince him to split it or make a gamble, if he’d been here and not dead, Androkles thought with a grin. Euphemios would have found a way to lose or waste it before the sun came up; the man’s wages had always been gone after a week. No, the best thing to do was split it somewhere and use part to buy another cloak, and probably a tunic or robe. And some beer, hearty and heady. And whatever else he wanted, for months.
Maybe another mile down the road, he’d find the corpses of Della and her bodyguards, sacks of money still on their backs. Then perhaps he could give the gold coin to some widow to honor the gods, and she and her brood of ten hungry children could eat for months. It would be a heroic thing to do: suddenly appear, war veteran with noble head held high, in front of a weeping widow clutching a sickly babe to her breast. She would of course be starving, and this would happen in some sunlit City market where she was begging with a lot of people around. And they would all see him walk up to her and drop this giant gold coin in her hand with a beneficent look on his face, full of resolve and mercy, and they’d use him as example to teach children.
Ha! And then he’d retire to his family house and get himself a farm and new wife. And she’d give him four handsome sons and one beautiful daughter, in that order.
His imagination wandered through another dozen such scenarios, each more cheering than the last. The gold glinted admirably in the moonlight. It certainly did. Higher and higher he flipped it, straining his thumb to send it soaring into the air. After perhaps another quick mile, flipping the coin every so often, he was pleased to note that the light wind had done its job and his cloak was finally dry. Stained, but dry. He walked along, flipping his coin ever higher. It was heavy, marvelously so. Let some bandit come and try to take it! Androkles would give the man’s blood to the earth as an offering for the Hewer, and the bandit would meet Raphos Corpse-eater. Or whatever god took the wicked dead in these lands.
At the very moment when the coin reached its highest point, some white thing shot out from behind a bush and sank its teeth into his thigh, right through his thick linen skirt.
Its timing had been impeccable—Androkles had been too startled to decide between defending himself and catching his money, and accomplished neither. He almost struck the thing as hard as he could with his fist, but in a moment of clarity, it occurred to him that it might come away with a chunk of his leg. He shook the haze of surprise away and grabbed one of its snow-white ears, giving it a nasty tweak. With his other hand, he unsheathed his xiphos, ready to kill.
Its ear was softer than he’d expected, and the thing let go surprisingly quickly as he gave it another twist. It yelped loudly and squirmed, but he didn’t let go. He grabbed its ear all the more tightly, holding the head away from his leg. It was a large albino dog or something, and probably diseased given its hairless legs, which was just his luck; he would have to … Was that a shirt? It was wearing a shirt.
He dropped it in horror and surprise. Then he reflexively grabbed its tail as it tried to scamper away, unsure why he did so. It weakly tried to shake free, but he was far stronger. Holding his xiphos under his arm, he clutched it by the shirt and held it up to look at. It seemed surprisingly light for something that size, and oddly shaped, and squirming... Then it turned its head and looked him in the eyes.
“Oathfather!” Androkles cursed. He almost dropped it again, but didn’t. It was a Skythander kit, a beast-man’s child. White hair, white cat-ears and white tail, and otherwise like a normal person; human, more or less. And beastly sharp teeth. He wasn’t about to forget the teeth. “And every other last damnable god,” he added.
At that moment, it turned its face away as if to hide. It lost all its fight and started crying softly, sounding exactly like a regular child. It had gone completely limp in his arms. It … no, he. The kit’s shirt wasn’t long enough, and Androkles could see it was a boy.
“Oh, shut up!” Androkles snarled. He didn’t want to put the kit down, since he might try to run off into the woods again. Or bite him. What in Raphos’s rotten garden was a Skythander kit doing out on a lonely road in the middle of the night? No one along the road had seen any Skythanders for ages. And why was the kit attacking armed travelers? It’s not like the xiphos was easy to miss--it swung freely from the sheath on his rope-belt. Someone must have put the kit up to this, and they would need punishment. Maybe Androkles would be beating someone purple after all. Starting with this kit.
“Seriously, shut up. Shut up!” Androkles scowled, and the boy, who hadn’t really been looking at him directly in the first place, shivered in terror and choked back sobs. He flattened his cat-ears and curled his tail around his feet, looking thoroughly chastised. It made an impressively pitiable sight, Androkles admitted to himself.
“Oh, quiet down. I should beat you for biting me, so do what I say and maybe I won’t. Now shut it. Quiet. Calm down … There you go. Quiet down.” The boy struggled to regain his composure, or some semblance of it, anyway. Androkles waited with what he considered to be admirable patience, and eventually the kit quieted down.
“There now. How old are you?” Androkles looked intently at the boy, who only met his gaze in the briefest of glances, clearly terrified. He looked to be of an age with the wait-boy from the inn, just barely tall enough to come up to Androkles’s chest.
“I’m nine. I’m … nine,” said the kit, with a clear, soft voice.
“Fine. Now, where are your parents?” said Androkles.
The kit just looked at him and tried very hard not to cry again, holding his breath and clenching shut his eyes. Androkles sighed. The kit probably thought Androkles was going to cook and eat him or something.
“I don’t know!” the kit finally exclaimed, and with the words he began choking back quiet sobs again.
“What does that mean?”
“They left me … behind on … purpose and I … can’t find … where they went!” said the kit with what breath he could catch.
Had the boy been exposed? He seemed old to be left to die like an unwanted infant, but it happened. Whatever. Androkles looked him dead in the eyes, and the kit quickly went silent. “I see. So why did you bite me?”
“Please don’t kill me, master!” said the boy, almost breathlessly.
“Who put you up to this? Were you trying to rob me?” Androkles insisted.
The boy tried to answer, but he looked unable to gather his breath and wasn’t able to spit out a single word. He shivered fit to fall apart, probably from a mix of cold and fear. Androkles’s old mentor Diokles would be kicking him in the ankles right now for interrogating a child, if he’d been alive. Hard.
A weak, child’s voice from the deep shadows on the side of the road said, “Please put him down, master. Please let him go.” Androkles scowled at the bushes he couldn’t see into and changed his mind about Palthos, who was indeed a rotten bastard of a god. Watch for his blessing, indeed!
Androkles looked carefully into the shadows but was unable to see anything despite the moonlight. He told the white-haired kit he held, “If I put you down, you better stay put, understand? You run off and I really will get mad. Got it? You stand right there.” The boy nodded, so Androkles set him down on his feet.
“Now,” said Androkles to the bush, “You come out of there right now, or I’ll beat your friend purple.”
“He’s sick, master,” said the first one with a trembling voice. “He can’t get up anymore.”
Gods. Arkos Oathfather, Huntress, Hewer, Corpse-eater, and every other poxy, blighted god. This was beyond a bad joke. Blasted trickster Child.
He sighed loudly; he should really just leave at this point, he knew. It was unlikely they could give him any useful information, and Androkles was not a man known for helping children. The opposite, usually. He told the voice in the shadows, “Where are you? I’m coming in there to get you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
The owner of the voice coughed, then quietly said, “I’m in here … in … no, over here, under this one.”
“Why did you pick one with thorns?” asked Androkles crossly.
“Because of animals, they …” then the voice coughed again. “They’ll eat me.”
“I don’t even see you under here. Look at me. Move. Do something. Where are you?” asked Androkles again, digging around and scratching his arms on thorns.
Finally, Androkles saw a hand waving weakly and followed it to the rest of the child. He slid it out from under the thorn bush by the arms. It wore a shirt as well, and had no pants for some mysterious reason like the other one, and was also a boy. But this one’s hair, tail, and ears were deep black, in stark contrast with the white of the other. Another beast-man kit. Of course it was.
The black one groaned and tried to hunch over, but couldn’t quite do it. He looked too weak to move, almost completely limp.
The white one, trying to speak humbly while his voice kept catching, said, “I just wanted your money for food because he’s going to die. Please, master, I’m sorry. Can you feed us?”
Androkles turned and gave the white kit a look that made him step backwards, trip, and fall squarely on his ass with a whimper. He looked at the ground and started choking out sobs again, this time through stubbornly clenched teeth.
Feed them? He had to stop and think about that for a moment. It occurred to him that they might be orphans, and he’d just given his oath to feed the next ones he came across. It also occurred to him that if the Child had given him the gold coin, the god could just as easily have given the boys some bread and left Androkles alone. No, he was probably being meddled with; the gods had toyed with his father until the man killed himself, and apparently they weren’t quite done with the family line.
The boys looked at him meekly, shivering in the cold and terrified. He couldn’t deny that something about the sight moved him, but only a fool made his decisions from emotion. “Boys, why do neither of you have pants on?” Androkles finally asked, trying to look less menacing. “Even though you have shirts.”
The white one, pulling down his shirt for decency, said, “It’s because we’re lost. We didn’t have anything at all until we found these bags. They’re not even shirts; they’re just bags I made holes in with my teeth. We found ̓em and put ̓em on.”
“Seriously? Then why were you both naked? And why are you out here in the first place?”
“It’s because we’re lost! We don’t have anywhere to go. Or else we’d have food. And we’d be somewhere warm.” He looked at the ground and started sniffing again, trying to keep his composure.
“You know, crying isn’t going to help anything,” said Androkles.
“I can’t help it!” the kit exclaimed sadly. “I didn’t even cry at all until now, only just a little bit.”
Androkles had been expecting anger from the child, but instead, he simply looked crestfallen. It made him feel guilty, somehow. Even the strongest men cried when appropriate, like when a dear friend died, or when one’s wife betrayed him. The child looked like he deserved a little mercy, abandoned and alone with a dying friend in the wilderness. It wouldn’t hurt to be a bit kinder, he supposed. Slightly.
Was that genuine pity gathering in his chest? Curse the gods. Thais would have been smug about that, if he’d been alive. He’d always teased Androkles that his heart was too small for his body.
“Are you gonna help us? Please? Master, please, he’s really sick and I’m afraid he’s gonna die,” said the white one, still fighting back tears. “And me too, probably.”
Should he help them? If the kits had been exposed, the Skythander traders he was looking for would be none too happy to have the boys dropped back in their laps. One didn’t abandon a boy this old lightly; there must be some good reason for it. And the kits weren’t his, after all, and he had something important to accomplish. Perhaps he should just …
But he knew in his heart that he had already decided. They were orphans and he had to feed them to keep his oath. Further deliberation was useless. Sighing, and looking up at the heavens with a scowl, Androkles said, “Well, I’m not going to just wander off and let you freeze to death. Come here.”
The white one nervously walked over to him, trying to wipe the tears from his cheeks and accomplishing nothing but smearing dirt all over. The boy’s legs seemed thinner than normal, now that Androkles got a closer look. Suspecting the kit was starving, given the circumstances, he lifted the bag the boy wore as a shirt to look at his stomach and chest.
It wasn’t good. He was thin as a straw. After checking, the black one was even thinner, if that was possible, which explained why the boy couldn’t stand up. Any serious veteran knew what starvation looked like, and these boys were on the verge of death.
“You have to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath. Two starving boys in the middle of nowhere. No wonder the white one was crying so much—he was probably at the last, flickering end of desperation, about to lose all hope and die. Androkles had seen that before, too, in a dozen places he didn’t like to think about.
At least the cloak was dry. He spread it out on the ground, then gathered the boys into it. The black one lay completely limp, although awake and looking around. “Now hold each other tight, and warm each other up,” he said. He wrapped them like a lunch, tight as he could, their heads poking out one end and a knot at the other to hold their feet in. Then he fished around in the dirt until he found the fat gold coin and slipped it into his coin purse, which he tied tightly shut.
They shivered fiercely inside the cloak, and the black one might die soon no matter what Androkles did, but at least they’d start warming up now. And if he could find wine and vinegar, and maybe some sugar, and make a nice warm fire, he might steal them back from Raphos Corpse-eater’s grim claws after all. Oh, and water. They would need water as soon as he could find any. Too bad that gulch under the bridge had been dry. That left the well somewhere up ahead as his only option.
For a moment he considered how to carry them. The easiest for him would be to toss them over his shoulder like a sack of grain, but he’d been carried that like several times after being wounded, and it was hard to breathe. No use rescuing them if they were just going to suffocate. He finally decided to hold them crossways against his chest, like a mother nursing a babe, almost. It would make his arms tired, but it would have to do.
“Are you both okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” said the white one.
“Ya,” whispered the black one, rasping a bit. That one probably wouldn’t make it.
“Then we’re off. I don’t have any water or food, so I have to carry you until I find some. This might be uncomfortable so say something if you start to have trouble. Got it?” asked Androkles.
“Yes,” said the white one.
“Ya,” whispered the black one.
“I’m serious. I’d rather have you complain than die.”
“We will,” said the white one. “And thank you so, so much.”
Although the wait-boy had been vague, Androkles hoped he wasn’t too far from the crossroads and the well. He would just have to trust that it would be close enough, or the god wouldn’t have bothered. And if he did find the parents there, perhaps they could tell him where to find Della. And after they told him, he could punch them until they agreed to take the boys back. They’d deserve it after making him go through all this trouble.
Androkles started walking at a brisk marching pace, which he had done a thousand times before in the army, and with worse wounds than the bite in his leg. A soldier was never too tired to march, the officers always told him from horseback. Fortunately, the bite had not been deep, since the kit had a small mouth. It would be a bloody mess in the morning, but he could ignore it for now. He’d have to beat the kit for it, but that could wait until he was less likely to die from starvation.
Although he heard the wolves again as they howled over the otherwise silent hills, he didn’t see any, and they always seemed far enough way that they’d leave him alone. The bright full moon kept him from falling over any rocks and smashing his cargo, thank the Path-clearer. Or the Erastria Moon-goddess herself, perhaps. With dark humor, it occurred to Androkles to be glad the boys were starving, or they would have been a lot heavier and slowed him down.
Although, now that he thought about it, wounded soldiers were much heavier, and he had carried those many times, sometimes for miles. And if the wounds were bad, they got lighter as he went along. Now that was a dark thought. Good soldier’s humor.
After a while, the kits started getting heavy, despite his strength. Not heavy enough to make him stop, of course, but his arms went from tired to aching to burning to growing numb. This would have been much easier in the late morning, after a good sleep and with a belly full of breakfast. Perhaps he could convince the black one to hold off dying while he took a nap.
It took longer than he had hoped, and the sky had turned from black to indigo as the moon fell behind the hills. His arms had more or less become deadweight, but he made it to the crossroads. The kits hadn’t made a peep, but every time he’d checked they were both breathing.
Turning one last bend, Androkles saw the wide, flat clearing he’d been expecting, and by the mercy of Diorthodon Path-clearer, he found a pull-cart and a few travelers by a faintly-smoking firepit. He made his way over and looked at the six unmoving figures in travel blankets, who lay encircling the fire pit like daisy petals. Unfortunately, none of the company were Skythanders, but there was room between them to put the kits down and keep them warm. Judging from the cart, some merchant had made camp here. Perhaps one trader would know another.
The boys were still asleep, somehow. He could not imagine the exhaustion that would allow them to sleep while carried by a marching soldier. Well, actually, he could. Quite well at the moment. Since he was the marching soldier.
He laid them carefully so as not to wake them, then stoked the fire and put a few more logs on. Looking around, he found the well he’d been hoping for, a decently-made ring of bricks in which a leather bucket hung by a rope. He filled it, drank his fill, and poured some of the rest out; the kits only needed a little. Too much and they would be sick. He took it back to them and carefully lifted their heads, one by one, and helped them drink. They hardly woke, but they did drink. As soon as he was done, they were asleep again. Let Diokles or Thais complain about him now, he thought. The kits would be fine until morning.
He stood and looked at them, cat’s ears poking up above their little heads, soft fur, white and black, where a man-child would have hair. Androkles had never seen a Skythander kit before, let alone a gaunt, starving one. The adults had quite a lot more fur. Perhaps they grew it in like a youth growing his first beard. But these two were alive and sleeping, and that was a success.
Food could wait until morning. If the company was so weary that not even one guard was awake, then he didn’t want to upset them by waking them up. There was something strange about a merchant company with no one awake to stand guard, but Androkles was too tired to think about it right now. He took a rock and wrote “Wake me up” in the dirt by his head, then lay down and was out like a candle.