Assassin's Apprentice

"We'll go back there," he said reasonably. The morning breeze swirled his dark cloak around him, in a way so ordinary that I felt my heart would break. How could there be folk like those in that village, and a simple morning breeze in the same world? And Chade, speaking in so calm and ordinary a voice? "Those folk are just ordinary folk, boy, but they've gone through a very bad time, and so they're acting oddly. I knew a girl who saw her father killed by a bear. She was like that, just staring and grunting, hardly even moving to care for herself, for more than a month. Those folk will recover when they go back to their ordinary lives."

"Someone's ahead!" I warned him. I had heard nothing, seen nothing, felt only that tug at the cobweb of sense I'd discovered. But as we looked ahead down the road we saw that we were approaching the tail end of a ragtag procession of people. Some led laden beasts, others pushed or dragged carts of bedraggled possessions. They looked over their shoulders at us on our horses as if we were demons risen from the earth to pursue them.

"The Pocked Man!" cried a man close to the end of the line, and he lifted a hand to point at us. His face was drawn with weariness and white with fear. His voice cracked on the words. "It's the legends come to life," he warned the others, who halted fearfully to stare back at us. "Heartless ghosts walk embodied through our village ruins, and the black-cloaked Pocked Man brings his disease upon us: We have lived too soft, and the old gods punish us. Our fat lives will be the death of us all."

"Oh, damn it all. I didn't mean to be seen like this," Chade breathed. I watched his pale hands gather his reins turning his bay. "Follow me, boy." He did not look toward the man who still pointed a quivering finger at us. He moved slowly, almost languorously, as he guided his horse off the road and up a tussocky hillside. It was the same unchallenging way of moving that Burrich had when confronting a wary horse or dog. His tired horse left the smooth trail reluctantly. Chade was headed up into a stand of birches on the hilltop. I stared at him uncomprehendingly. "Follow me, boy," he directed me over his shoulder when I hesitated. "Do you want to be stoned in the road? It's not a pleasant experience."

I moved carefully, swinging Sooty aside from the road as if I were totally unaware of the panicky folk ahead of us. They hovered there, between anger and fear. The feel of it was a black-red smear on the day's freshness. I saw a woman stoop, saw a man turn aside from his barrow.

"They're coming!" I warned Chade, even as they raced toward us. Some gripped stones and others green staffs freshly taken from the forest. All had the bedraggled look of townsfolk forced to living in the open. Here were the rest of Forge's villagers, those not taken hostage by the Raiders. All of that I realized in the instant between digging in my heels and Sooty's weary plunge forward. Our horses were spent; their efforts at speed were grudging, despite the hail of rocks that thudded to the earth in our wake. Had the townsfolk been rested, or less fearful, they would have easily caught us. But I think they were relieved to see us flee. Their minds were more fixed on what walked the streets of their village than in fleeing strangers, no matter how ominous.

They stood in the road and shouted and waved their sticks until we were among the trees. Chade had taken the lead and I didn't question him as he took us on a parallel path that would keep us out of the sight of the folk leaving Forge. The horses had settled back into a grudging plod. I was grateful for the rolling hills and scattered trees that hid us from any pursuit. When I saw a stream glinting, I gestured to it without a word. Silently we watered the horses and shook out for them some grain from Chade's supplies. I loosened harness and wiped their draggled coats with handfuls of grass. For ourselves, there was cold stream water and coarse travel bread. I saw to the horses as best as I could. Chade seemed full of his own thoughts, and for a long time I respected their intensity. But finally I could contain my curiosity no longer and I asked the question.

"Are you really the Pocked Man?"

Chade started, and then stared at me. There were equal parts amazement and ruefulness in that look. "The Pocked Man? The legendary harbinger of disease and disaster? Oh, come, boy, you're not simple. That legend is hundreds of years old. Surely you can't believe I'm that ancient."

I shrugged. I wanted to say, "You are scarred, and you bring death," but I did not utter it. Chade did seem very old to me sometimes, and other times so full of energy that he seemed but a very young man in an old man's body.