The Freetown Bridge

Chapter One: Summer 1103 ac Departure-1

Chapter One: Summer 1103 ac

DepartureSitting on the hillside, Iona watched the thick mist curl up and across the valley floor obscuring the trees and the river. She tapped her fingers on her thigh and waited patiently, sure it would not be long. After less than two minutes her patience was rewarded by a shrill tribal cry and a wail of surrender. She would have to make a note of that feminine scream, and mock Gerard mercilessly for it later. Once she had saved his life for the second time in one day, she considered that she would definitely have license to mock him.

Carefully, she picked her way down the sodden grass slope and walked slowly into the fog. She could see barely three feet in front of her. It was an effect that was immensely disorientating but she was damned if she was going to be caught floundering. Slow sure steps, feeling for the edge of the river with her toes, were her only choice. Ducking and dodging the surprise tree branches that leapt out of the mists, she listened intently. In her left hand she clutched her bow so tightly her knuckles had whitened, an arrow nocked and ready to draw. Her right hand darted between grand balancing gestures and the hilt of her knife, primed to snatch it free of its sheath at a moment's notice.

She did not have to prowl about in the fog for too long before she found what she was looking for. Against a towering birch tree that protruded out of the cloudy canopy, Gerard was pinned. A sleek elven woman, who appeared to be at least a foot taller than him, held a short staff at his neck, and from the look of her stance, her whole body weight was resting on it. She was bent forward, her nose to Gerard's ear and her lips curled in an unpleasant leer. Clearly, she was reciting some kind of trespass warning embellished to intimidate all those who were unfortunate enough to receive it.

Gerard's face was scrunched and skewed to one side, as he strained to distance himself from her. From her sharp features, the jewels in her ear and the markings on her chin and cheeks, Iona could see that the woman was of Clan 'Il Taran', and by the look of it, quite a high ranking member of the Clan Militia. From her stance and body language, Iona could also tell that as high ranking as she maybe, this woman was so intent on intimidation that she had yet to notice Iona's presence. She could hear her mother's voice still whispering in her ear; 'always press an advantage'.

Breathlessly Iona slipped forward, barely moving her feet, until she was less than two feet from the woman's back, her hand on her knife, her bow still ready. Then, in an instant, she lunged pushing the woman forward onto Gerard, crushing him against the birch bark. She ignored his pathetic wincing. Without hesitation, she leant forward until her mouth was below the woman's ear and began to hiss and jabber in elven. The woman's face contorted in anger, and for a second she made to retaliate but one more hiss from Iona changed her mind and she began to loosen her grip on her staff and on Gerard.

Not wishing to hang around to have her pride further damaged, the woman stalked away into the mist and Gerard looked at Iona.

“Thanks,” he said limply, “thought I was a goner then.”

“S'alright,” said Iona, dryly, “any time.”

“What the heck did you say to her to make her let go?” he said, rubbing his neck and smoothing his robes.

“Oh, just an old elven word or two,” said Iona mysteriously. “I called her the mother of a whore.” Gerard just gaped at her.

“And that made her let me go did it?” he muttered, in grudging awe.

“No, that was this,” she said holding up her small steel blade. “I had it pressed onto her kidneys. I could have killed her with a twitch of the wrist. That was what made her let you go. She knew she had been bested.”

“Oh,” said Gerard, his eyes not leaving the glinting blade. “Sometimes, you're terrifying you know that? Not that I'm complaining of course,” he added quickly as Iona turned to walk back up the hillside. Haplessly, he stood and watched her ascend for a minute. Then, as she disappeared into the mist, he realised that she hadn't bothered to check that he was following and raced to catch up with her.

“When you said 'you don't know what's down there in that fog,' ” he gasped finally level with Iona again, “What you meant was that I didn't know what was in that fog but you did, wasn't it?”

A scornful smirk curled across Iona's face as she turned to look at the flushed cheeks of the wheezing wizard.

“Glad you've finally worked that one out,” she retorted, “Now perhaps we can get to where we're going without getting ourselves killed.”

“Absolutely, right you are. You lead on then, madam,” said Gerard, trying to sound cordial whilst still flushed and panting. Fire flashed in Iona's eyes, as she turned on her heels, started back up the hill and growled

“And don't call me Madam,”

Iona could tell it was going to be the longest ten miles of her life. She had picked Gerard up in a tavern on the turn gate and was supposed to escort him to the transport circle on Skal Ferra. It was a good ten mile walk, through the mountain pass across Elven clan territories, a route Iona knew well. It should have been easy; Iona was of a local clan and had walked the pass a hundred times in all weathers. Even with a human in tow she should have been safe enough. After all he was only a wizard, and a practically unarmed one at that.

Gerard was clearly no danger with a weapon, except perhaps to himself. Unfortunately, it did not stop him from trying. Keeping him on the right track was proving to be like trying to herd frogs with a teaspoon. The problem was that he was fixated by the fact that she was a woman. He had somehow got it embedded in his head that he would have to escort her; a thought that would have offended Iona had it not been so laughable. She took a deep breath and pressed on to the peak of the mountain.

Tariqa gazed one more time at the endless yellow grasslands in front of her and sighed. Stretching out to the soft blue horizon without so much as a single sapling to break up the sky line, it was truly breath taking. The wild wind whipped through the grasses, making fleeting paths and eddies and throwing ripples on to the otherwise still river. Above her, the cloudless sky seemed to mirror the vastness of the veldt below her. Turning around, she looked back where she had been. Far in the distance she could see the silhouettes of the huts in her village. Straining to make out the shape, and half imagining it, she fixed her gaze on her mother's house in the centre of the village. Next to it, the tavern and on the other side the bell tower. The squat hut of the village shaman; the forge and the tanners' workshop with its strange bitter smell stood in a triangle by the river. The baker's house, with his rosy wife who had slipped her buns on the sly when she was tiny. The bald ground in the centre of the village, the indaba tree and the well with its pure sweet water. A jolt in her stomach reminded her that she did not know when she would see all this again or even if she would be back at all. A warm tear snaked down her nose.

The air was heavy with humidity, so that it clung to Tariqa's face and clothes and left a familiar warm taste in her mouth. Mercilessly, the sun beat down baking the earth hard and crisping the grassland. The game lay listless in any shade they could find, which was little and patchy. Even the crickets were too hot chirrup. Slowly, she turned her head taking in every last detail and holding the picture in her mind's eye. Her heart raced; maybe this would be the last time she ever laid eyes on this beautiful country, this home that was more than just a land to live in.

Impulsively, she reached down and snatched up some blades of tall grass, and as she had ever since she could remember, weaved them deftly into a little ring, taking care not to pop the seed heads. When she finished it, she tucked in into her coin pouch slightly embarrassed by her sentimentality and knotted the pouch tightly closed. At last, she could put it off no longer. As hard as this was, there was no other choice in the matter. Some things were worth leaving kith and kin, hearth and home for. Reluctantly, she turned her back on the village, closed her eyes and rubbed the small bronze ring on her left thumb. Cold wind rushed past her face, and when she opened her eyes again the veldt had gone.

The bedroom was murky when Josephine opened her eyes. A shiver rushed over her, part cold, part anticipation. She had barely slept, her whole body churning with adrenaline and her brain buzzing with sights and sounds that would come. Warm breath tickled her neck and ears. William's head rested on the pillow next to her, his rough face oddly serene with sleep. In the gloom, she stared at his pale cheeks, his soft eye lids, the contented smile on his lips. She stroked his course black hair gently and turned away from him, her heart knotting in her chest.

Deftly, she slid out of the bed, without waking him, and crossed the room to the window. The hot orange sun was peeking over the shimmering horizon. A cool light wind wafted towards her from the sea, a hint of salt in the air. The streets below her, shrouded in the grey of the pre-dawn, were mysteriously silent. Restlessly, she left the window and went into her lady's chamber. The maid, whose name she was ashamed to say she could not remember, had laid out her adventuring clothes as though they were a gown and stays for the state ball. She splashed water from the jug into the wash stand and hesitantly washed her face.

Every movement was deliberate, as she divested herself of her nightgown and began to dress. Steady, studied motion might stretch time out and delay the inevitable. The sun rose, forcing bright summer light along the streets of the town, into every crag and alleyway. Figures scuttled about on their early morning business, not stopping to socialise with each other. Thoroughly, Josephine checked her packs and pouches, and fastened on her belt, crunching the buckle as tightly as possible. She bound up the long golden brown tresses of her hair in a strip of blue cloth, making a thick sturdy knot. Then she moved on to her braces and grieves, pulling each strap tight, securing each buckle, trying to hold back time somehow. Then she crept back into the bedroom, where William lay softly snoring, his head and arm now on her side of the bed.

She stood for a while and watched as he slept, and then she moved to the dresser. The last thing she was going to put on was there, its dark shape shining against the polished wooden surface. The jewelled pommel of her knife decorated with a deep blue gem, glinted in the dawning light as she picked it up and made to secure it to her upper arm.

Just as she fastened the last silver buckle, the bell from the Law Temple Tower chimed out across the city, marking the morning six-hour. The heavy, sonorous peal called the faithful to the dawn service at the temple and stirred the rest of the city people in their heathen beds.

William stopped snoring and rolled over. Sleepily, he opened his deep brown eyes and looked soulfully up at Josephine, who was standing at the end of the bed, one foot resting on the bedstead as she adjusted her boots again. He blinked and smiled at her, and said with reproachful humour,

“You're ready early, you weren't going to leave without me where you?”

Josephine looked at him with sad eyes, her face still hidden from him by the morning shadow and shook her head.

“Of course not,” she said, as a silent tear squeezed itself from her eye.

It was strangely quiet thought Jacob as he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the barracks for the last time. The chill of the early morning crept over him and he got up and went to the bathhouse. He looked at the faces of his sleeping comrades, peaceful for the moment. They did not normally sleep so soundly without the aid of strong spirits. They had seen too much not to dream and it was not uncommon for men to cry out in their sleep.