The Reluctant Guardian: Homeward V

  Homeward:

  The Reluctant Guardian

  Barb Hendee

  T·N·D·S

  Tales from the world of

  the Noble Dead Saga

  Barb and J.C. Hendee / NobleDead.org

  First Edition, September 2012

  Copyright 2012 by Barb and J.C. Hendee.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Design, layout, and cover art by J.C. Hendee.

  eISBN: 9780985561659

  BNID: 2940015128253

  ASIN: B0095Y50L6

  ISBN-10: 0985561653

  ISBN-13: 9780985561659

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior contractual or written permission of the copyright owner of this work.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to persons, living or deceased, businesses establishments, events, or locales is entirely incidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright/Colophon

  Table of Contents

  The Reluctant Guardian

  Other Works The Noble Dead Saga

  Tales from the world of the Noble Dead Saga

  The Vampire Memories Series

  The Reluctant Guardian

  For Bieja, the whole world seemed to have gone mad.

  Chemestúk, the village where she’d lived her entire life, was on fire, and she heard screaming from all directions in the night. Once the soldiers had come riding in, she’d run to take refuge in her little wattle and daub hut, and now the sounds of horses running, flames growing, and the angry shouts of men filled her ears.

  Well into her middle-aged years, Bieja had both seen and fought her share of horrors. Part of her longed to grab a pitchfork and rush out to defend her home… defend her neighbors. Another wiser part told her that would be foolish—and futile—and the village was already lost.

  She dashed to the open cupboard shelves around her makeshift hearth and shoved dried tealeaves, turnips, flour, and a small bottle of cooking oil into a burlap sack. Then she hurried to her bed, reached under the straw mattress, and pulled out a little leather pouch and an overly creased letter. These she tucked into the neckline of her dress.

  Cracking the door, she peeked outside at only fire and chaos. Two soldiers on horses thundered past and one threw a torch at the roof of the village smithy.

  Anger flooded Bieja in a wave, but again there was nothing she could do. With a quick breath, she darted out and around the side of her hut, which had thankfully been built on the village’s outskirts, and she ran into the trees.

  She was not young nor lightweight nor lithe. She was solid and stout, but she was also strong. Carrying her sack of belongings in one hand, she held up the skirt of her old purple gown and kept running through the forest until the sounds of flames and screams faded behind her. Only then did she stop, lean back against a bare tree trunk, and slide down, panting and feeling like a coward for running.

  “There was nothing you could do,” she told herself firmly. Of late, she’d been talking to herself more and more often. “You know that.”

  She did know it. There was nothing she could do for anyone who’d remained in Chemestúk, and she cursed herself for not having seen this coming.

  Only two days before, soldiers in the light yellow tabards of the House of Äntes had ridden through and conscripted every man in the village under the age of forty. Bieja had heard they even went up to the keep above the village and took the zupan’s son, Jan. Tonight, soldiers from the House of Väränj dressed in chain armor and bright red tabards had come riding in with torches, shouting that all here were “traitors” to their country, Droevinka, and then they’d begun setting fire to the village.

  None of it made any sense, and Bieja didn’t even know what these noble houses were fighting over—except probably power.

  Now, sitting in the darkness, leaning against a tree, her anger swelled at these selfish men who seemed bent on destroying their own nation. All that mattered to her was that her village was gone, and she was alone. In truth, she’d had few friends there, but Chemestúk had been her home… the only home she’d ever known.

  The noises of destruction and anguish grew even fainter, and her anger gave way to anxiousness as she glanced about in the dark.

  What now?

  With a soft sigh, she reached into her dress’ neckline and pulled out the creased letter and the pouch. She’d never thought to use them, but now…

  Several moons ago, her beloved niece, Magiere, had come back to Chemestúk, but Magiere had not come alone. One who’d arrived in her company had roused Bieja’s suspicions right away. With his nearly pointed ears and his white-blond hair, she’d taken him for an imp or changeling, some forest spirit trying to dazzle Magiere’s wits.

  And so, quite correctly, Bieja had gone after him with a carving knife. Who wouldn’t?

  Fortunately, she’d quickly been proven wrong. He was merely a half-blood, part elven, and it was obvious he loved Magiere, and she him. At first, Bieja wasn’t sure what she thought of feeding supper to some pointy-eared foreigner, but her opinion of Leesil improved upon his better acquaintance.

  Magiere had been taking a side-trip before heading off to the east, but before she and her companions departed, Leesil had come to Bieja and given her a letter. She couldn’t read it, as it was written in Belaskian instead of her own Droevinkan, but along with the letter he’d left her six silver sovereigns of his and Magiere’s new homeland. That was more money than Bieja had ever seen firsthand in her life.

  Leesil asked if she would consider traveling on her own all the way to Belaski’s coast, to a little port town called Miiska, to live in a tavern there called the Sea Lion that he and Magiere had purchased. He told her that if she’d wait for them there, they would finish their own journey and head back to meet her.

  Though touched by his offer, Bieja had no intention of leaving Chemestúk. Dark and filthy as the place might be, it was her home. It always had been.

  Disappointed by her answer, he’d still understood.

  “If you change your mind,” he told her, “travel to Miiska and ask for Karlin or Caleb and show them this letter. Either should recognize my scrawl, and it tells them that you’re Magiere’s aunt. They’ll get you settled at the Sea Lion. And this isn’t charity. Caleb could use the help.”

  By way of answer, she’d patted his leg and told him good-bye, but sitting there alone in the forest, she gripped the letter tightly.

  For the first time, Bieja thought on Leesil’s offer.

  · · · · ·

  After a sleepless night, Bieja rose the next dawn knowing that she had to head back into Chemestúk—to see what or who might be left standing. Setting her jaw tightly, she made her way through the trees until she reached the village’s edge.

  “Oh…” was all she could say.

  Not a hut in her line of sight was left intact. There were only smoldering remains of what had been the homes of neighbors… and her home. Nearly everything she’d owned had been inside that hut, but at least there was no sign of the soldiers.

  Stepping onward, she hoped it wasn’t all as bad as the first look, but as she walked through the charred and smoking remains of Chemestúk, she grew numb.

  “Hallo?” she called out, trying not to wonder if only she had survived. Deeper into the village, she spotted some huts that only been half-
burned. A few cook pots and other belongings had been thrown out into the open pathway. Her gaze fixed on a large piece of canvas lying in the mud.

  “Bieja!” a voice called.

  Whirling around, relief flooded her mouth. One of the few people she cared about ran toward her down the road from the old keep.

  “Julianna!” she called back.

  Long-legged and a bit gangly, the young woman wore a red dress that whipped about her ankles. She didn’t slow down until she was about five paces away.

  She was a lovely thing, with long, dark blond hair and freckles smattered across her small pale nose. Once, she had been an orphaned girl—both her parents having died of fever—living on the charity of other peasants. She’d been a filthy, nearly invisible ghost of a thing, but then Zupan Cadell and his wife, Nadja, and their son, Jan, had come to live in the keep here. Julianna had taken a job as a servant for them.

  Nadja had grown fond of Julianna, inviting her to live up at the keep, and the girl had changed a good deal in the past few years. She’d grown into a capable young woman with little time for superstition or gossip. As a result, she was one of the few people that Bieja liked.

  In appearance though, Bieja made quite a contrast. Over twenty years older, she’d grown plump inside her purple dress, which had worn thin from far too many washings. Her gray-streaked black hair was pulled into a braid, and she was well aware that her deeply lined, round face appeared to be set in a perpetual state of ire.

  “Oh, Bieja,” Julianna breathed, panting as she leaned forward to put her hands on her knees. “Are you all right?”

  Bieja’s anger returned in a flash. “None of us are all right! Look what those soldiers did here. I haven’t seen anyone but you left alive.”

  “There are some,” Julianna rushed to say. “The zupan has taken all survivors into the keep. We have food for now. I sneaked out and came down to see if I could find anyone else.”

  Bieja’s temper softened. “You’re a good girl, thinking of others. I’ll help you look.”

  Neither spoke for another moment, and then they both began making their way down the path, trying to search between and around the smoldering huts, occasionally calling out to see if anyone would answer. Bieja knew that some here were so fed by fear in their daily lives they might have hidden inside their own homes and burned to death. She didn’t say this aloud.

  Julianna let out gasp as she stepped carefully between two dwellings. “Bieja!”

  Grabbing her skirt, Bieja rushed to the girl, ready to fight whatever threat lingered here, but she stopped when she saw what lay at Julianna’s feet.

  It was the body of a steel-haired older man, still muscular, though his hair was now matted with dark red where his head had been split open.

  Julianna shook her head in disbelief. “Poor Yoan… why did they do this to him?”

  Bieja wasn’t sure what to feel. Yoan had been the unofficial elder of the village for many years, and a superstitious old coot in her opinion. She’d argued with him often—and loudly. But he’d been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. Now he lay dead outside the smoking remains of his home.

  “Bastards!” she breathed through gritted teeth. “May they all rot in the seven hells.”

  She wasn’t even sure if she cursed the Äntes or the Väränj or both. This was all so senseless.

  “Did you hear the Äntes soldiers stormed the keep a few days ago,” Julianna whispered, still staring down at Yoan’s face. “They took Jan. The zupan tried to stop them… but he couldn’t.” For the first time since her return here, she began blinking back tears.

  Bieja sighed. “Don’t you worry about Jan. If anybody can rescue himself and high tail his backside home again, it’ll be Jan.”

  Those weren’t just words of comfort. Bieja believed them to be true. Grasping Julianna’s hand, she pulled the girl away from Yoan’s body.

  “We should keep looking.”

  As they walked, something more occurred to Bieja. “While the Äntes were in the keep, did you hear anything said about the cause of all this?”

  Bieja understood the tyranny of her own country well enough, but raiding and conscription across house territories was almost unthinkable. The politics of Droevinka were different from other nations.

  Rather than being ruled by a hereditary king, Droevinka was a land of many princes, each one the head of a noble house with its own province containing multiple fiefdoms. But they all served a single Grand Prince, and a new one was elected every nine years by the gathered heads of the noble houses.

  At present, Prince Rodêk of the Äntes was in rule.

  The unlanded house of Väränj was a notable exception to the other houses. Descended of mercenary horsemen in service to the first invaders of this region, the Väränj served as the royal guard and city contingent for whoever held the throne. They protected the separate castle of the current Grand Prince located in Kéonsk. In turn, they were denied the opportunity to put their “prince” on the throne or establish a province of their own.

  The Väränj alone served as the law enforcers and the peacekeepers in Kéonsk—serving whatever prince currently held the throne. This gave them a kind of power awarded to no other noble house.

  So what could have possibly led to this bloody mess?

  “Did you hear anything?” Bieja pressed.

  “A little,” Julianna answered quietly. “A few moons back, Prince Rodêk had to leave the castle in Kéonsk and see to a matter in his family’s home of Enêmûsk. He left his prime counselor, a baron called Buscan, in charge of castle affairs. While the prince was away, his counselor was assassinated. Apparently, the baron was hated by many of the Äntes, but they still accused the Väränj of allowing him to be murdered. The Väränj accused the Äntes of having murdered the counselor themselves and trying to hide their crime by casting blame on the Väränj.” She fell silent for a few breaths. “I didn’t overhear how it happened, but fighting broke out between both sides in Kéonsk… and it has been spreading.”

  Bieja shook her head in disgust. This wasn’t about power but pride.

  “Fools,” she spat, looking at the devastation around her, and another thought struck her. “Did the Väränj go anywhere near the keep last night?”

  “No, thank the gods,” Julianna breathed. “They left the zupan and Nadja alone. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. At least we all have somewhere to go now.”

  “Will the zupan try to fortify the place?”

  “No. He says that’s impossible, as it’s too worn and broken. So we’re going to do what we can to make it look deserted. That’s why I had to sneak out. He didn’t want anyone seen this morning, but I couldn’t just… I had to come and look.”

  Bieja crossed her arms. Zupan Cadell was no fool. Making the keep appear deserted was the best choice left to him. She also couldn’t fault Julianna for coming down to look for other survivors.

  “There’s no one left,” Julianna said in despair, turning a full circle. “We may as well go back to the keep. Nadja will be glad to see you’re safe. The zupan says that if more soldiers come… if any enter the keep to search and raid, there are places we can all hide in the lower storage rooms where no one will find us. We should be safe for now.”

  Bieja looked around at the smoking remains of Chemestúk Village. She knew she couldn’t live up at the keep, skulking like a rat and waiting for soldiers to return, and hoping none bothered with a broken down old fortress. Her home here was gone.

  Julianna took a few steps back toward the center road and then stopped.

  “Bieja… are you coming?”

  With another sigh, Bieja shook her head. “No, my girl. I have family elsewhere who’ve invited me to join them.”

  Julianna’s blue eyes widened. “What are you talking about? Bieja, you can’t go walking down the roads here now. You’ll be killed… or worse! Please, come with me.”

  If Julianna had an inkling of just how far Bieja planned to trave
l, the argument would have continued. Bieja was going to have to travel straight west through an apparent civil war—past Enêmûsk, the stronghold of the Äntes—to try for the border into lower Belaski. If she managed to get that far with her skin intact, she would then need to reach the coast to find Miiska and the Sea Lion tavern.

  In all her life, she’d never been more than a few leagues outside of Chemestúk.

  “No, my girl,” she said, trying to sound kind. “You go on yourself. I’m going to gather what supplies I can find here and be on my way.”

  Leesil had made sure she was offered a safe home with her true family—should she ever need it. She had need of it now.

  · · · · ·

  No one had to bother telling Bieja that the roads weren’t safe.

  She might not be a world traveler, but any idiot knew to stay off the roads when trekking alone in the middle of a civil war. She stayed hidden among the trees to avoid being seen, trying to keep the road within her sight so she wouldn’t get lost. After two days of this, she was exhausted from crawling over and through the heavy brush.

  Droevinka was nearly always wet and muddy, and beneath the aroma of loam and wild foliage was an ever-present thin stench of decay. The thickened forest almost blocked the cloud-coated sky above her. Her skirt was wet from the damp leaves, and her face bore a few angry welts from snapping branches. She began wondering about traveling for even a short while along the roadside and listening carefully for hooves or feet from either direction.

  She quickly abandoned that notion. Although she was certainly no young beauty to tempt roaming soldiers, she was carrying something worth more to them—six silver sovereigns. More likely she would be robbed and murdered by deserters trying to get clear of the fighting.

  As she trudged, off to the right, she could hear the Vudrask River gurgling along, and she pondered trying to find a boat somewhere to simply float down the river. What a lovely thought. But again, she’d be easily spotted out there. So, she struggled on through the woods, not knowing how many days it would take to reach the border.