The Fugitive

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 25th November 2023
Series: The Hunt for Gil

Characters: Rhysel, Amigene
Description: Two cotholders discover a stranger hiding in their shed
Location: Emerald Falls Hold
Date: month 1, day 18 of Turn 11

Thunder crackled in the darkening sky and the moons barely glimmered behind thick storm clouds. In the forest, the fugitive stumbled on, following the faint tracks made by wild creatures. Sweat dampened his back, stinging in his wounds, his eyes were gritty and his head burned. He'd long since lost all sense of where he was headed, how long he'd been running, or what drove him on past exhaustion, despite aching limbs and the feverish heat beneath his skin.

When the rain came it was a relief at first, drenching him in moments. He leaned against a tree and tilted his head back, cupping his hands to fill and drink. Soon he began to shiver and couldn't stop, his breath coming in shallow bursts. It would be easy to lie down, let the forest take him, but instinct kept him moving.

He was outside, in a Pass, and sometime soon, Thread would fall.

A clearing opened up before him, the rain coming down harder outside the sheltering trees. There was light ahead, seeping out between the cracks in shuttered windows. He shied away, but in the glow he made out another building, smaller than the first and dark. Half-crouching, the man crept towards it, reaching out until his fingers met rough stone walls.

The darkness inside smelled of damp straw, rust and rotted sacking, but it was shelter, protection from the sky and the rain and the Red Star. He crawled in as deep as he could before his limbs gave out. Shivers racked his body and the fire in his head rose again, flames licking at his temples until at last, consciousness slipped away.

***

The night's rain had turned the bare ground around the cothold to slick mud by morning, clinging to Rhysel's boots as he crossed to the feeding trough with a sack of leftovers. He splashed them in a puddle in an attempt to clean it off, grumbling. These downpours weren't uncommon in Emerald Falls and they didn't interrupt the day's work - the early milking, feeding the fowls, weeding the vegetable plot - but he knew his wife would scold him if so much as a single muddy footprint appeared indoors.

The air did have a clean, fresh taste to it, and the droplets of water sparkled on the leaves and the spinner's webs. He upended the sack and listened to the joyous snorting of the porcines as they rose from their wallows. At least someone was enjoying the mud.

That was when he heard the scream.

He recognised Amigene's voice immediately and was across the yard and around the back of the main cot faster than he'd have believed his seventy-plus Turns would allow him. Relief flooded him as he saw her, apparently unharmed. She was standing a few paces from the shed where they stored the odds and ends of cothold life - worn-out tools, old hunting gear, stored feed for the beasts. The low door stood open, and his wife was pointing at it with a trembling hand.

"There's something in there! It moved."

Rhysel's heartbeat slowed, but he approached cautiously. It wasn't like Amigene to get spooked by the small forest creatures which could sometimes creep into the outbuildings. "Is it a snake? I'll get my stick."

"No. It's big." She stretched her arms wide.

His heart skipped. "Feline?" If so, they'd be safer retreating to the cot until it left of its own accord. Usually the beasts were too shy to come close to a human dwelling, but perhaps the storm had driven it under cover.

"I'm not sure. I don't think so."

"Stay back." He held an arm out, palm outward, and edged towards the darkened opening, peering inside. With his eyes used to bright sunlight, he couldn't make out much, but he could smell unwashed flesh. Narrowing his eyes, he focused on the shape curled against the far wall, half-covered by an old feed sack, and made out a pale arm emerging from a tattered sleeve.

Rhysel backed up and lowered his voice. "I think it's a man."

"Holdless?"

"Why else would he be hiding in our shed? I will get that stick. Stay back," he repeated. A holdless man could be as bad, or worse, than a feline. If he was starving, he wouldn't leave so easily. He kept a wary eye on the open door as he fetched the stick, a solid length of wood with a carved handle. It felt reassuringly heavy in his hands.

The man hadn't waked at the scream, and there had been a sour, fever-sweat edge to the odour. Not dead if Amigene had seen him move, but he might be close to the end.

Cautiously, he extended the stick and poked at the exposed arm. The shape in the dark made a low sound and flinched away, pressing itself against the far wall.

"I think he's sick."

"Sick?" Amigene came up behind him, peering over his shoulder. Now she'd got over her shock and realised the intruder was no wild beast, she'd calmed, more than Rhysel would have liked. "Wait. I'll get a light."

She returned with a glowbasket, opened it and held it just inside the door, illuminating the dusty, cluttered space within. By the light, they could make out a figure huddled under scraps of sacking. Even curled up, he seemed to be long-limbed, the face thin and hollow-cheeked, half-obscured by matted hair that looked lightish brown, though it could have been dirty or sweat-stained.

Rhysel hissed in protest as Amigene squeezed past him, crouched beside the man and pressed her hand to his brow for a moment. "He's burning up. What are we going to do? We can't just leave him here."

"Actually..."

She glared at him. "Rhysel!"

"Have some sense, woman! He could be a bandit, or an escaped convict. We don't know what he's done. Either way, he doesn't look like he's long for this world. You should get back before you catch whatever it is he's got."

"He's a human being. We can't just drive him out into Threadfall, not in his condition." She held the glowbasket closer to the man. "If it's firehead, we've both had it already, so there's no danger. We should signal for a dragonrider to fetch a healer."

"N...no..."

The man's voice startled them, though it was hoarse, barely a breath. Rhysel gripped the stick and edged closer. "What's that?"

"No...dragonriders..."

Rhysel gave his wife a meaningful, I-told-you-so glance. Who but a criminal would refuse a dragonrider's aid? But Amigene had her stubborn look on, the firm line of her mouth and the glint in her eyes meaning she wouldn't give up easily.

"Can you hear me?" She bent her head, closer to the man. "What's your name?"

There was no response.

"Let's get him inside. He needs to warm up, he's soaked through." Amigene untied the strings of her apron and rolled it into a long bandage. She slid a hand under the man's head to lift it and gently folded it to cover his eyes.

"I suppose you want to put him in our bed as well?"

"Don't be silly, we can make up a bed by the hearth. There's that old rug in the loft, and a pillow."

"How are we supposed to carry a grown man from here to the cot? At our age?"

"We're hardly decrepit, and he's nothing but skin and bone."

"And what if he dies in our cot?" Rhysel's thoughts followed his wife's. Firehead was dangerous even for a healthy man, and this one looked weak and starved, in no condition to fight the disease.

"Then we'll have given a poor man a place to pass on in peace. He's had a hard time, wherever he came from."

Rhysel sighed and crouched, lifting one arm to get his shoulder underneath, and helped his wife to heave the man upright. He hung limply between them, head slumped to his chest, as they made their way out of the shed and across the muddy ground. "I suppose I'll be digging the grave as well. As if I didn't have enough to do."

"Oh, stop your complaining. He could be innocent. A traveller who got lost, separated from his party. Or perhaps the fever hit his hold. You know it can happen... If it comes to that we'll give him a decent burial, but he may be stronger than he looks." Amigene ducked through the doorway and they lowered the man to the floor in the clear space before the hearth with a sigh. The man was rake-thin, but he wasn't light; there was still muscle on him that the fever hadn't burned away. "Go and get those blankets down, and a towel. I'll heat some water."

Grumbling, Rhysel took the glowbasket, made his way to the upper level of the cot and fetched a stepladder to climb up into the loft space. It was dusty up there, but dry - the roof was well made and proof against Fall and rain. Sneezing, he poked around until he'd found the spare blankets and pillow, neatly folded on a back shelf. When he returned, Amigene had brought the water and was kneeling beside the sick man, lifting him up to a sitting position. His head still hung forward, long damp strands of fair hair hiding his face.

"Hold him up, we need to get these clothes off him. They're filthy." She wrinkled her nose. Rhysel placed the stack of blankets by the fire and crouched behind the man, supporting him while she tugged the shirt up from his waist and over his chest. As the back was revealed, he sucked in a harsh breath.

"Faranth's first egg!"

"What?" Amigene frowned as she tried to gently peel the shirt over his head without dislodging the bandage. "Wait, lift his arms...that one first. Now the other. There." She tossed the ragged cloth aside. "What is it?"

"Look!" He stared at the man's back, supporting him as his wife came around to see. Where there had once been skin was a mass of scarring, ridged and swollen, stretching all the way down to his waist in overlapping lines, hardly an inch untouched. Rhysel had seen old scars, had a few himself from farm work. These were maybe months old - they'd begun to heal, but had cracked and torn again in places, and the skin was still red and purpled with swelling and bruising.

"What is it?" His wife came around to look at and stared, aghast, her eyes round. "What happened to him?"

"I've never heard of anything like this. Even in the mines - and if he came from there, he made it an awful long way." Rhysel felt fear coil in his belly, snake-like, insidious. "It looks like he's been flogged. Deliberately, and half to death. But the Hold doesn't hand out justice like this, not even for the worst crimes."

The cotholders' eyes met. If it wasn't Hold justice...then who had beaten this man? And how had he come to be hiding in their outbuilding, burning up with fever?

Last updated on the January 6th 2024

[Prev: Closing In] Series: The Hunt for Gil [Next: The Quiet Guest]

Welcome to Triad Weyrs!

The Fugitive