The Burden of Ash and Blood - 3. Chapter 3

Sam jolted up in bed, heart racing as he escaped the nightmare that had seized him. That damned bandit remained trapped in his mind—a forbidding presence he couldn’t shake. His clammy hands felt slick with blood, but in the dim blue glow of Graeme’s armour, he realised it was just sweat. Shadows spilt across the room, drawn out by the unnatural light, conjuring unsettling illusions.

Rubbing his eyes, he sat up in bed, confused as to how sleep had managed to claim him unknowingly. He was still dressed, lying atop the bedclothes rather than under them. A heavy coverlet, however, had been placed over him. Surely Graeme had done that.

He glanced at the other bed. Graeme lay on his right side, away from Sam, with a blanket covering the back of his head—hiding from the world even in sleep. His slow, even breaths served as an anchor to reality. Sam knew he was perfectly safe, but the unease coursing through his veins persisted. He’d thought—foolishly, perhaps—that leaving the house would’ve helped fight off these nightmares. Once they’d left Reabury, it was feasible they would diminish. It was a faint hope, but one worth clinging to.

He swallowed, mouth dry as dust. An ewer on the chest of drawers beckoned, and he silently rose out of bed to pour himself a cup of water. He took a deep draught, then wandered toward the window, nudging the drapes aside. Night was still upon them, its stars twinkling brightly. He sighed, realising there were still many hours before their journey began. After emptying his cup, he returned to bed and lay down. His fretful state of mind finally began to dissipate, albeit not completely. A thread remained, tickling his nerves.

While true rest eluded him, the fractured drift of time proved he’d at least managed to doze off. Relief washed over him as dim light from behind the drapes announced the new day. Graeme remained resting peacefully. The last thing Sam wanted to do was wake him, but it was time to leave. With a voice just above a whisper, he called his name, but the knight didn’t stir. He tried again, louder, but Graeme remained lost in slumber. Lightly touching his shoulder caused Graeme to startle awake with a hoarse gasp, and Sam jerked his hand back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to . . . um, it’s morning.”

Graeme hummed deeply. “Very well.”

While allowing him time to fully awaken, Sam donned his gambeson and fastened his shortsword belt.

“I’ll leave so you can dress,” he said while gathering his belongings.

Graeme offered another wordless hum in reply, which brought a twitch of a smile to Sam’s lips. Clearly the knight was slow to wake in the morning. In time, they’d learn each other’s quirks. Entering the empty lounge brought yesterday’s gathering to mind, and he smiled again at the memory.

Outside, the still air was crisp, allowing his breath to billow in his wake. No clouds marred the sky, its deep blue yielding to a blaze of orange along the eastern horizon, heralding the sun’s arrival. The horses nickered in greeting upon entering the stables. He packed his saddlebags, then set about tying the extra horses in a line. He knew travelling with the six of them—Lonnie, Daisy, and the bandits’ four horses—would slow them down considerably. Hopefully they’d find an interested buyer upon reaching the first town, Eriswell.

Entering the inn, he found Gabrian wearing his nightclothes and sleeping cap, tinkering behind the bar.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Sam said.

“You did, but I was hoping you would. I’m gathering some vittles for your trip.”

Sam smiled. “You’ve already done so much for us. Thank you. But I certainly don’t need to break fast this morning. I’m still full from last night. You outdid yourself.”

The innkeeper bowed his head in thanks. “I still have plenty of apples. This year’s harvest gave us so much. A little cheese. Also some bread, but it’s from yesterday so it’s a little stale. That ought to keep your bellies happy until you reach a wayinn tonight.”

He handed Sam a cloth bag full of food.

“Thanks,” Sam said, then let out a chuckle. “I feel like I’m saying thank you a lot.”

Gabrian smiled. “It’s our pleasure, I’m sure.”

At that moment, Graeme emerged from the hallway, wearing his helmet and armour, baldric, and white tabard featuring the soaring red hawk coat of arms. In one hand was his heater shield, and the other held a bag of his possessions. The sight caused Sam’s breath to falter. How he’d managed to befriend such a man, he had no idea.

“Goodness!” Gabrian exclaimed. “You certainly know how to make an entrance, Ser Graeme.”

The knight approached. His helmet, with its narrow eye-slit, revealed no hint of a reaction to Gabrian’s statement. Yet its wrought expression, along with his long stride, exuded an intimidating presence. Gabrian took one step back in reflex.

“It has been a great pleasure being your guest,” Graeme said. “I’ve dwelt in many inns, and I say with certainty that yours is amongst the finest.” Leaning his shield against the bar, he extended his hand out. “You have my thanks.”

The innkeeper stared at the knight’s gauntleted hand a moment before shaking it. “You honour me,” he replied with a nervous stutter, still unsettled by the contrary nature of Graeme’s kind words clashing with his imposing demeanour.

The knight’s gaze turned to Sam. “Shall we depart?”

• • •

“You scared him, you know,” Sam said, then took another bite of his apple.

A grand tree, bare of its leaves, provided a welcome spot to eat their simple lunch. They sat with their backs against its wide trunk—Sam on one side, Graeme on the other. This allowed the knight to remove his helmet without any passing travellers—and Sam—from seeing him. Not that they’d encountered any. The road was deserted, and rightly so. Given the hibernal time of year, travelling through these highlands was dangerous.

“Who?” Graeme asked.

“Gabrian.”

“The innkeeper? He did appear nervous. But how did I frighten him?”

Sam chuckled. “When you’re wearing your armour and carrying your longsword and shield, you give off a threatening aura.”

“But my weapon was sheathed. And he must’ve known I meant no harm to him.”

“Sure, but when an armoured knight stomps toward someone, it’s hard for them not to react.”

“I was not stomping. I only drew close to thank the man.”

Surprised to hear a defensive inflexion in Graeme’s voice, Sam laughed again in an attempt to lighten the mood. “He commented about your appearance, and then you came at him pretty quick. When people can’t see your face, it’s difficult to judge your intentions.”

“But the comment made me smile.”

This came as a revelation to Sam, and he imagined the knight’s handsome smiling face. With patience, perhaps one day he’d get his wish. “You have to remember we can’t see that.”

A long pause followed. Sam took another bite of the juicy fruit, watching the horses crop at the overgrown dry grass.

“Do I frighten you?” came Graeme’s voice, almost meekly.

Sam swallowed, and for a brief, senseless moment, considered telling him the truth—that every time he saw the knight ready for battle, his loins stirred. “No, you don’t scare me. But I’m not like most people.”

An unfamiliar metal clank replied, like something snapping shut, followed by the crunch of dead leaves underfoot. Graeme emerged from the other side of the tree trunk, staring him down. “I will try to be more cognisant of my manner.”

This wasn’t spoken harshly or sourly, only as a mere acknowledgement, but Sam now wished he’d kept his mouth shut. How Graeme presented himself to others was a delicate matter. His face had drawn such scorn, and his armoured identity created barriers of its own. The world denied him the simple state of existing, free of judgement.

“Sorry, I was out of line. It’s not my business to assert how to express yourself. It makes me no better than the others you’ve talked about.”

The apology fell on deaf ears as the knight walked away. Even his usual rigid posture had slackened. Sam’s chest tightened at the sight, and he muttered a curse at his insensitivity. The sack of remaining apples lay on the ground nearby. He snatched it up and returned to the horses, watching Graeme pat Tusk’s neck. The knight spoke to her, but the fallen leaves under Sam’s boots masked any possibility of comprehending the words.

With Graeme leading the horses, Sam took the rear position to keep watch over the team. He supposed the distance between them, at the moment, was prudent. Riding abreast would have been awkward.

The Rothgoraian mountain range to the west had loomed over them the entire day. And by late afternoon, the peaks had eaten the sun, leaving them in shadow. A wayinn stood waiting beyond a hill’s rise. Sam had vague memories of these places. They were shabby, built only for purpose.

The property had no guests, and the owner was surprised to receive Sam and Graeme. Supper was filling but unremarkable. Nothing like Gabrian’s cooking. The ale, likewise, was lousy. Sam was not one to drink stronger brews regularly, but given it had helped him fall asleep the night before, he missed it now.

As they ate and drank, Graeme’s mood had returned to his customary warm yet reserved manner. While this heartened Sam, he still longed to apologise again—to express his genuine remorse—but arguably those bitter feelings were best left behind on the road. He’d learnt a valuable lesson, and he silently vowed never to repeat it.

The sleeping quarters were predictably undistinguished. Just a place for travellers to rest their weary heads. The room held only one bed, but it was wide enough for both to sleep comfortably. As the day before, Graeme remained nonchalant at the prospect of sharing a room—even sleeping in the same bed—but Sam found it difficult not to become bashful.

They undressed by rushlight, turned away to give each other privacy. Sam finished hurriedly, and was already under the warm bedclothes while Graeme still worked to shed his armour—each piece clattering as they were heaped onto the floor. The many years of travelling alone had forced the knight to devise methods of doffing his armour. Sam may not be his squire, but refusing his help made no sense. The first time he’d offered assistance, Graeme had turned him down. Of course, that had been a mere hour after they’d met. A great deal had unfolded between them since then. Perhaps Graeme would be more receptive to the idea. But just as Sam worked up the confidence to ask, Graeme climbed into bed. A private smile broke across Sam’s lips, hoping his courage would hold for a future opportunity.

“I hope you rest well, Sam.”

Graeme’s voice was soft, his words genuine. It was clear he’d accepted Sam’s apology, and a well of emotion burgeoned within Sam’s chest.

“Thank you. Goodnight.”

Despite the space between them, he felt the warmth of Graeme’s body against his back. It brought a novel sense of comfort and safety he so deeply yearned for. Potentially, Graeme’s presence would push the bandit from his mind. Or perhaps exhaustion would overwhelm him. The dim light of the burning rush held his gaze until it winked out.

And then sleep ultimately claimed him.

• • •

The morning confronted them with leaden clouds and light flurries. The night before, the proprietor had warned them of the encroaching weather. “Feel it in my bones,” he’d said. This only spurred them to action, driving the team of horses at a hastened pace.

By midmorning, a fork in the road beckoned, and they took the northeast route leading to the town of Eriswell. At long last, the Rothgoraian peaks were at their backs. Hours passed as they traversed the foothills. The weather cleared, and what scant accumulation that remained had melted by day’s end.

Upon noontide of their third day over the foothills, the bleat of sheep caught their attention. The stout animals, countless across the fields, watched them pass as they grazed on the tough grasses sprouting from the stone-laden earth. Perched on a hill in the distance, a shepherd's hut stood vigil—smoke trailing in the wind from its stone chimney.

Sam, keeping watch from the rear, recognised the austere yet beautiful landscape, and called out to Graeme. “We’re bound to see Eriswell soon.”

The knight turned in his saddle to offer a nod of understanding. Rounding a bend of a craggy hill, they caught their first view of the town. It was ringed by a wall of hulking boulders—no doubt harvested from their surroundings—but reinforced in places with timber palisades where the fortification had failed.

Graeme stopped at the town’s entrance to speak with a gatekeeper, who pointed into the city as though providing directions. The interaction was brief, and with Graeme’s signal to Sam, led them into the town proper. After days of travel on the quiet road, Sam found himself deafened by the bustling streets. Reabury had never been this noisy, even during celebratory festivals. Buildings of every shape and size, seemingly with no regard for aesthetics, crowded one another. Washing hung overhead. No matter where he looked, something was there, pressing heavily upon the senses.

Luckily, Graeme was unfazed and kept the horse lead line in check, and townsfolk were considerate enough to give them a wide berth. Arriving at a crossroad, Graeme veered left, and before long, a looming stone hall appeared before them. A wooden signboard—featuring the carving of a horse head—hung from a pair of sturdy chains. A horse trader.

Sam dismounted, guiding Winx to the front of the line, but stopped short upon reaching Lonnie and Daisy—his parents’ horses. Selling them would break the final connecting thread he had with his mum and pa. He gave each horse a gentle rub on the nose, saying goodbye in his own way. Swallowing a lump in his throat, he approached Graeme, who stood patiently beside his own horse.

“Could you mind Tusk while I arrange to sell the horses?” Graeme asked in a delicate manner, keenly aware of Sam’s grief.

Sam nodded, accepting the reins, along with two oatcakes retrieved from Graeme’s cloak pocket. It seemed he had an endless supply, or he was restocking them without Sam’s knowledge.

The knight laid a hand on his shoulder, followed by a firm squeeze, then led the six horses through the building’s broad archway. Sam blinked a tear away as he watched Graeme hail the owner within, and they soon fell to negotiations as the man inspected the new arrivals.

Lips softly nipped at Sam’s shoulder, and he leapt back in surprise. Tusk, the once stolid warhorse, had warmed up to Sam surprisingly quickly. Undoubtedly, offering her oatcakes had hastened the process, and Sam fed her the treat. Not wanting to miss out, Winx closed in with a snuffle, and Sam gave her the other.

For a brief moment, a smile tugged at the corners of Sam’s mouth as he rubbed her neck. He knew it was absurd to associate the loss of Lonnie and Daisy with his parents, but he was swiftly learning these painful emotions were rarely logical. It was difficult to separate the memories of the past—their smiling faces—from the knowledge they were now wrapped in linen, held down under the weight of cold earth, and slowly decomposing.

He shook his head at the ghastly thought, but failed to force his mind to recall happier times. Instead, he wrenched himself back to the present, using Winx as an anchor. His hand moved along her neck again, murmuring endearments that meant nothing, save for their comfort. And as the minutes passed, the raw sorrow managed to ebb away.

He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his gambeson, which brought Graeme to the forefront of his thoughts. Glancing back through the archway, he found the knight approaching with his coinpurse in hand. As usual, there was confidence in his stride. Sam longed to garner even a modicum of that surety. He straightened his back—mimicking the knight’s poise—and wore a smile to greet him.

“It is done,” Graeme announced, then opened his purse. “I have your share for your two horses.”

Sam reached out and touched Graeme’s hand, stopping him. “It’s fine. Keep it.”

The knight looked down at the purse caught beneath Sam’s restraining hand and his own. “But it’s rightly yours.”

“I just . . . don’t like the idea that my parents’ horses were turned into coin in a bag, if you get my meaning.”

“It was a fair transaction.”

Sam pushed against the purse. “We’ve been sharing our resources, our money. You’re okay with that, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Then just keep the coin for me, okay? Use it for our food and lodging.”

It was clear Graeme didn’t fully understand his reasoning, yet Sam found himself unable to explain it without sounding foolish. He knew Mum and Pa wouldn’t mind that they’d sold their horses. Regardless, it felt so wrong.

Graeme tucked his purse away. “Very well,” he said, then laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Come. Let us find a warm inn and recover our vigour for next morning’s ride.”