The child looked around the fog laden forest. He shook in the cool of the morning as he rode atop Siegyrd’s shoulders. There was a dull, vacant emptiness in his gaze. Siegyrd began to whistle, a complex melody that sounded like chattering songbirds. The first few notes startled the boy, but after a while he began to pick up on it. He smiled despite himself.

  Mareth heard the whistling long before he saw Siegyrd, but knew who it was. While singing was his forte, the younger brother had a penchant for anything musical and liked to challenge himself in new ways. This whistling songbirds trick was quickly becoming a favorite for him. Mareth packed up without much thought. The brothers, one or both, were often gone when he awoke. They always returned, and it gave him time to collect his thoughts, refine his notes and journals, as well as take in some well-loved quiet.

  The shape in the fog was quite a bit taller than Siegyrd, and strange, a kind of second head atop another.

  Mareth called out, “Siegyrd, that you?”

  The whistling stopped, and Siegyrd called back, “Aye, and a little friend.”

  “Friend? Who’d be living out here?”

  The figure of Siegyrd with the boy on top of his shoulders stepped out of the fog. “An orphan it seems. May be needful for us to take a detour.” Siegyrd said.

  Mareth looked at the grubby child and raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth to speak up, but he couldn’t think of anything to say, so instead shook his head and busied himself packing up his belongings. Siegyrd stepped into the still standing wards with a slight ripple and felt the warmth. The boy felt it too and let out an audible sigh of relief just as those same wards made a screeching noise and the boy was wrapped up tightly in a faintly glowing web of blueish- purple magics.

  “Ah, help!” Silas shouted.

  Siegyrd’s forward momentum carried him through the barrier and left the boy behind in the web, and he looked back surprised.

  Mareth muttered something unintelligible and then grabbed his clubstaff and approached the boy, now hanging about seven feet in the air. “Calm down, calm down lad. Didn’t attune it to nameless grubby orphan boys. I will have you out in a moment.”

  Silas’ fear gave way to a childlike curiosity as he looked at the magics enveloping him.

  He tried to crane his head against the tautness to get a better look. “It no hurt.”

  “Well of course it doesn’t hurt, silly child. It’s made to restrain not to torment.”

  The boy scrunched up his face and repeated the word, “Towment?”

  Mareth chuckled as he dismantled the ward carefully, restoring what power he could from it back to himself.

  Siegyrd saw the complex recycling of the song and spoke, “A useful method. Did you learn that as well in our soulsleep?”

  Mareth replied without looking at Siegyrd, focused on his work, “No no, it was taught me long ago.”

  “Then why have you not used it before.”

  There was focus on Mareth’s face and he did not reply for a few more minutes. Siegyrd was content just to watch, but the boy babbled. “Funny talking folk.” He started shifting his weight, feeling a slight bounce to the web, and rocked himself in it smiling.

  “Stop that, boy. Hold perfectly still.” Mareth scolded.

  The boy did not stop, but rather moved all the more. Mareth sighed deeply, paused his work and instead grasped a portion of the spell and pulled it tighter.

  “Yeow!” Silas complained.

  “Listen, or it will get more painful still.” Mareth said.

  “Why hurt me?” Silas began to cry.

  It was Siegyrd who spoke next though from afar, “When in the power of another trying to help you, listen and obey. The small pain will help with larger lessons later.”

  Silas’ crying grew worse, but he stopped moving so much in the web, and Mareth was able to finish his work. He reached out as he finished the recycling of the song and nodded to Siegyrd then toward the boy. Siegyrd understood. Mareth released the spell, pulling its power back into himself, at least in part. Some wisps escaped, but the boy fell roughly three feet, fear pausing his crying, and then Siegyrd caught him, spun him around, and set him on his feet. A combination of shock and the falling feeling made the boy forget about crying. He looked up at Siegyrd, then at Mareth and pinched his face together in a look that he meant to be serious, but instead both of the men laughed.

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  “Come on, little one, let’s get you a bit of food and at least somewhat cleaned up. It’ll take a bit before we can mend or replace your clothes.” Siegyrd walked to his own pack and pulled a bundle of rations and handed it to the boy. “Here’s the start. Not certain what my brother seeks to do with you, but I have some notions of my own.” After this statement, Siegyrd grinned mock wickedly and then winked at the boy who was too enamoured with the food in his hands, and soon on his face, to notice.

  #

  Aerendir sat with his legs crossed and Balmung in his lap. He cleaned off the blade thoroughly with a cloth and sang a brief song of purification over it. A series of simple runes formed around the base of the blade right above the cross hilt as the magic purged anything he could not see to get with the cloth. When he was done, he looked up to see the lion lurking on the outside of his vision, eyeing the corpses.

  Aerendir stood slowly, and the lion stepped back into the shadow of one of the far trees. The fog had largely lifted, but still provided concealment to the gaunt beast. He sheathed his blade and walked forward, gently gathering Gareth’s body.

  “This one you cannot have.” Aerendir said, and the lion shrunk back further, entirely out of sight. Aerendir performed the rites of ash in a simplistic manner, a short prayer song in the ancient tongue and a flourish of stomps and claps. The magic rippled, curling waves into the fog and then small sprouts breached the forest floor and wrapped themselves around Gareth’s head and body, pulling them together. When that was complete he looked like a man in quiet and thankful repose, wrapped tightly by a blanket of leaves.

  When Aerendir finished the final note, the face and body faded away into ash and dust and were consumed into a series of low lilac bushes which quickly bloomed out of their season and spread the scent through the forest.

  “Now,” Aerendir said solemnly, “the rest is yours.” And he strode away through the retreating fog toward his own camp. Behind him the lion waited, cautiously, but not for long, before moving in.

  #

  Mareth and Siegyrd finished packing up the camp when Aerendir returned, and Silas knelt with his nose pressed against a nearby tree with a sour look on his face.

  Aerendir gave Siegyrd a look who shrugged and pointed to Mareth. Aerendir shrugged himself and walked over to don his armour. As he did so he ran through his intended next steps, “I have a strong sense of where we need to go, but I don’t know how long it’ll last. There is a tug.”

  Mareth raised an eyebrow, “a tug? Like a boat?”

  “He means a fateline most likely, or fateguide.”

  “A what?” Mareth said.

  “Oh what’s the equivalent for you, ehh.”

  “Instinct is too base, perhaps” Aerendir said.

  “Intuition might be the best word, brother,” Siegyrd finished.

  “So, you have a hunch of where we need to go.” Mareth said, “What about the kid?”

  Silas was peeking back toward them, but the moment Mareth turned his attention, Silas snapped his head so his nose touched the tree.

  “I saw that, little one. Ninety more heartbeats now.” Mareth said.

  Silas stomped his foot in anger, and then Mareth spoke again, this time more firmly, “Start counting.”

  Silas clenched his teeth and scrunched his brow like he was focusing hard.

  “Can he count?” Aerendir inquired.

  “Not likely, but who knows. If he can’t I can, and he’ll learn the feel of the time anyway. Time sense is like teaching someone to play music by ear.” Mareth said.

  Siegyrd said, “Fateline might be considered somewhat similar. More than a hunch, but less than objective certainty. I don’t know of anyone who could teach it, but I know many who have learned.”

  Aerendir began, “I call it a tug be…”

  “Because it feels like you are being pulled in a particular direction right, though you don’t know why?” Mareth said.

  Aerendir nodded.

  Mareth let out a long sigh, then paused for some seconds before responding, “I don’t like it, but who am I to argue with you two. The second question remains.”

  Siegyrd and Aerendir both looked toward Silas. The boy could feel the stares of all three men on the back of his head and had to fight with all his tiny will to keep from looking back at them.

  They all stood in silence for a little longer, and then Mareth said, “Time. Now come apologize to Siegyrd.”

  Silas waddled forwarded and muttered, “Sowy, Seegard.”

  “For what?” Mareth prodded

  “Disobeejents.” Silas said softly.

  Siegyrd looked down, then knelt and looked into the boy’s eyes. “Look at a man’s eyes when you apologize, but otherwise good. It is erased.” He set his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “I am glad you are here with us. You are a blessing, child. We will do for you the best we can for as long as you are a member of our company.”

  The boy didn’t quite understand, but he nodded.

  Mareth then knelt beside Silas as well and said, “Here’s the favor of why discipline matters – without it, you will die. We will protect you as best we can, and these two are craaazy strong.” Mareth emphasized the word with a flourish of his own muscles.

  Silas chuckled.

  “Now, your clothes you have, and a small sack, here is a weapon for you to learn to use. For right now there are two very simple rules. 1). Only unsheathe it after asking to do so or being told to do so. 2). Keep the point and blade away from you, whether cutting thrusting or anything. Understood?”

  Silas took the small sheathed dirk with a kind of wonder and instinctually grabbed the hilt, but paused and looked up. “Can I see?”

  Mareth replied, “You may, slowly.”

  The boy drew the dirk, which was the length of his own forearm, though half for a grown man, and looked at the blade. It was a simple steel knife with an antler handle. There was no pattern or etching, only a slight rainbow-like patina from the hardening process.

  “Whoa” He said in a slow drawn out awe, and then very slowly put the blade back into the sheathe.

  Mareth held out his hand and the boy reluctantly put the knife back in Mareth’s hand, but the man took it and with a flourish of magic or sleight of hand, the boy could not tell which, produced a small leather strap which he looped the sheathe through and tied into a belt to put around Silas’ waist.

  Aerendir and Siegyrd watched with slight grins.

  Mareth finished by saying, “We will teach you many things, boy, including how to use that – both for production and protection.”

  The boy beamed, his eyes half closed as he struck a strong pose that mimicked the way Aerendir stood.

  The three men laughed, and the Siegyrd spoke. “He’s coming with us for now then. Unless you think we should take him back to Ruthaivan?”

  Aerendir shook his head, sensing again the strong tug of the fateline, “We’ve already wasted too much time. We take responsibility for him, come what may, and who knows what part he may play.”