The Hope Of Eternal Springs Page 5

  Chapter Five - The Accidental Huntress

  When Joan awoke, it was with a start, as the dream of the wedding day’s events was still playing on her mind. It was a bitter morning, in spite of the fact that clouds had rolled in and blocked the sun. It may have been a bit cooler, but it was still unbearable to Joan as her throat was parched and they had little water. She had gotten up, and started a fire for breakfast, only to realize that there was not much left by way of food, either. Still, she knew of the hunger to which those that still slept under the spell of the misery’s sorrow would be waking. She had experienced it herself. That is why and how she knew that food would take down the edge of the drug quite a bit. It may even help to snap them out of the next day’s stupor that usually accompanies those that have been exposed. She decided that they would need their strength now, in order to face the dangers that lie ahead. She thought of the dish that Alban had made when he . . . well, kind of, awoke, and was set to oversee the cooking.

  She was about to descend deeply into her sorrows when she heard the rumble of horses’ hooves. She climbed a nearby dune just high enough to barely peer over its ridge and get a better look at whatever was approaching her. All that she could see was a cloud of dust that rose from the desert floor like smoke from a brushfire. She did not know if she should call out to them or hide and hope that they just passed by the camp without noticing them. Whatever happened, she knew that she could never defend herself against a group so large, since no one had woken from their toxin-induced slumber.

  She decided to hide as best she could. She ran to the fire that she had just made and kicked sand onto it in hopes that the riders would blow past her hiding spot in their cloud of dust. She ran back to the top of the dune to see if it had worked, but the cloud of dust was now heading toward her. She thought about hiding among those who were either recovering or dead by now but felt that it would be useless. Were they the real thieves of the Verdis GranSecas, they would definitely check each body to see what could be found on it. Suddenly, the wind picked up and shifted direction. The cloud blew back to reveal the riders that were rumbling towards her. She realized that the rider in the lead was familiar. Though he rode a different horse, which was the thing that had made recognition more difficult, it looked to be Ryan that galloped toward her with a large company of riders, chariots, and wagons. Joan stayed hidden for a while until she was sure that it was definitely Ryan. She slowly emerged along the top of the ridge.

  Ryan was trying to tell her something. He yelled, but Joan could hear nothing over the roar of the thundering hooves. When she put her hand to her ear to signal as much, Ryan pointed toward a dune to her left side, but as she looked, she saw nothing. He frantically made two horns with one hand behind his head, and with the other, one on his nose.

  In a flash, Joan realized what Ryan meant and was gone to try and revive the fire. She was successful in doing so and was soon searching for a tarp or blanket to burn. She found a tent instead, and, though she hated to ruin such a nice one, she brought it with her to the top of the dune. She stuck the poles in the sand to keep the tent in a vertical position. She remembered the torch on the side of Ryan’s wagon. She lit it and ran back to the tent and lit it on fire. She could hear the massive animals approaching, but had not looked to see where they were in order to concentrate on her tasks at hand.

  Now she looked and was astonished to see them rumbling up the side of the huge dune on which she stood. She ran back down the dune to the camp and thought to get under the wagon, just in case the herd should continue plowing through the flames and trample on through, but she heard the animals turn and head around them to her right. She stood and waited for the last of the beasts to finish distressing the camp. As the sound of hooves began to taper off, she heard the last few approaching. Two rumbled up and saw the fire at the last second, veering off to their left of the camp. A third was not so lucky. He flew right into the burning tent, which wrapped itself around its horns. The beast let out a deafening bellow as it charged right through the camp. Joan barely had time to dive out of its way, as it blasted by her, tripped on some rocks, and knocked the side of its head on a huge boulder. It came to a sliding stop just to the side of Ryan’s wagon. Had Joan not moved the wagon the night before, it would have been smashed by the monstrous beast.

  Realizing the opportunity, she quickly grabbed a sword from a man under a nearby tarp. She ran to the beast and placed the tip on the neck. With a rock, she hammered on the hilt until it began to pierce the thick, hairy, grey hide, though it only went in far enough to keep the sword upright on its own. When she could not get the sword to penetrate far enough to hit any vital arteries, she decided to use a hammer instead. She ran to the wagon and quickly retrieved one from the toolbox that Ryan had installed on the roof and soon found herself pounding on the hilt of the sword. At length, she was able to pierce the thick hide of the great beast and blood began to ooze out of the gash that had been made. She pushed down on the hilt as though it were a lever to maximize blood flow from the wound. As she did, the massive mammal let out a loud bellow. Joan grabbed the hilt and tried to pull the sword out. Just as she did, the beast opened its eyes, looked at Joan, and began to gather itself to rise up. Joan hung on for dear life as it rose and lifted her about ten feet off the ground. The roaring grew louder from the brute as it flailed Joan back and forth in the air. At length, the sword flew free, sending Joan with it. Luckily she fell into the soft sand below. The bellows of the great beast turned into gurgled choking noises as thundering steps turned into stumbling thuds and then another loud crash as it fell lifeless on the sands below.

  Just then, some of the riders from Ryan’s party came running over the ridge of the dune that had separated them. They took one look at the beast lying there on the ground and then at Joan, lying in a great pool of blood and feared the worst.

  “Lady Joan!” cried one of the men.

  “Go get someone to help her!” said the other.

  “But there ain’t no one. That is why we was sent to fetch her.” the former reminded his companion.

  “I am fine!” Joan moaned. “I am just a bit shaken up.”

  “Are you sure, ma’am? You look like you have lost a ton of blood.” said the first.

  “Well . . . I think that I am alright. Let me try standing.”

  “No, my lady! You mustn’t stand!” the two exclaimed at the same time.

  “No. I really am fine. This is not my blood. It is from the beast that I . . . have kill . . .” began Joan. Then, having thought it through, she exclaimed in a loud roar, extending the still blood-stained sword in her hand high above her head, “It is from the great beast that I have slain with the sword!”

  Joan felt a swelling feeling of accomplishment grow within her chest. She had single-handedly slain one of the famed trigore which usually took whole tribes of nomads to take down. It was usually done only in times of great famine due to the fact that it was rare that they could kill such a beast without the loss of at least one man, if not quite a few. It took great planning and a whole lot of luck to ever get away without loss of life or limb.

  The two messengers looked at each other in amazed amusement.

  “Surely, my lady, you don’t suggest . . .” began the second of the two, but upon looking about and finding no one even around, his voice trailed off into the dry desert air.

  “WOW!” said the other.

  The two walked toward her, looking around at the sign that had been left on the ground after the battle. Because that the night wind had erased all trail sign the night before, there were no other footprints in the sand. They began to marvel at Joan and the great feat that she had managed to pull off. Still in amazement, they looked around again to see if their eyes had deceived them due to some desert mirage. When it was again apparent that her explanation was the only viable truth, the first messenger began to speak.

  “I am Rutherford, my
lady. We have met before at Badgerden’s Holde some years back. I do not know if you remember me. This is Plainsteak. We are ever at your service.”

  “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, I am sure!” reverenced Joan, even pausing to curtsy, as she grabbed the pleats of her blood-soaked dress. “I am sorry, Rutherford, is it?” she asked and got a nod. “But I do not remember my visit there.”

  “But, my lady, it was only about two years ago! Surely you remember at least having been there,” said Rutherford as he placed his hand on his sword.

  “My memory has been . . . fuzzy these last few months. It could easily be that you are correct. I apologize for not remembering.” said Joan, hiding her distrust at the suggestion of the stranger.

  “Oh, right. Well, that is quite alright, my lady. I did not mean to pressure you. At any rate, we have been sent to see if you could attend to the wounded that the trigore have left in their wake. Ryan is among them and he wishes for you to come and look at the rest of the men as well if it would be alright.”

  “That will be fine. I just need you to stay here with these people here. They have had a run in with the misery’s sorrow and are asleep or possibly dead. They should be waking soon, and will have a voracious appetite.” Joan insisted.

  The two men looked at each other quickly at the mention of the misery’s sorrow. In fact, the glance was done too quickly for Joan’s taste; it stood the hairs on the back of her neck on end. However, she continued without batting an eye. “The beast will need to be butchered, as well. I will have someone sent to help you with that.”

  “No, my lady, please let us escort you to the men, first. We insist!” said Plainsteak.

  “That,” said Joan “is a most excellent idea!”

  Rutherford looked fairly perturbed at the offer that came from his companion, but being the customary thing to do in such a situation, they were obligated to the expected duty. With a pained look on his face, Rutherford offered his arm to Joan. She said that she really felt better walking on her own, as the effects of the flower were still causing a bit of fog in her head. The exercise would help to clear her head. This drew a look of curiosity from the two men who then let her lead the way.

  When they arrived at the area where the wounded were resting, Joan went running up to Ryan, who was now resting on the ground and leaning on his saddle with his bloodied left side toward the sky.

  “Ah! Joan! What happened? Are you all right?” asked Ryan. “You men, help this lady!”

  “I am just fine. Well, I am a little groggy from the misery’s sorrow,” she stated.

  “Then where did . . .”

  “The blood came from the trigore that she slew with the sword!” said Plainsteak.

  “It is true, Ryan!” acknowledged Rutherford. “You are looking at the person that may be the only one ever to slay a trigore with no help whatsoever!”

  Ryan stared back at Joan in sheer amazement and gasped, such that a fly even entered his slack-jawed mouth, causing him to cough, sputter, and spit for a moment.

  “Joan, you never cease to amaze me!” Ryan exclaimed in amazement. “Alban told me that . . .”

  “Alban? Who is that, sir?”

  “You know, Alban. He is the one that has been the object of your affection for these last . . . oh, I don’t know how long . . . well, for the last little while anyway.”

  “These people, with whom she has traveled, have somehow fallen into misery’s sorrow.” coaxed Rutherford. “Her memory seems to be damaged, though she does not seem to be as deeply affected by the venom, at least not as far as the profound, comatose slumber that seems to come upon all the rest.”

  A sly expression flashed fleetingly across Ryan’s face upon hearing that Joan’s memory had been damaged.

  “You do not even remember Alban? Not at all?” he asked.

  “Should I remember?” asked Joan.

  “Lady Joan!” said a voice rife with disappointment.

  Joan turned to look behind her in the direction of the voice. It was Garrve back from the dead!

  “Oh . . . Garrve . . . You have awakened!”

  “Lady Joan (or I should I say, Princess Joan?) You have promised Alban that you would let this man down easily, and here you go leading him on! Plus, there is the grammar. You may have had your fun disguised as a commoner, but now you are bound by blood and, maybe more importantly, by your own oath to return to your homeland and your future king! I’ll not have you dismissing such urgencies for your whims of fancy!”

  “I liked you better when you had no memory!” laughed Joan.

  “Princess!” returned Garrve, bothered at the fact that she should think to dismiss him so flippantly. “You must make ready to return to your homeland at once!”

  “Look! I will remind you that you have been appointed as some sort of acting king!”

  “May I point out to you that you were merely born to your station, whereas I actually earned that right?!” Garrve then softened his tone, “My lady . . . My lady, you know that we have a long journey ahead of us and men’s lives to save. We had best be making those preparations. You know that it must be done according to the plans . . .”

  “The plans made by men for me, however well intended they be. Why do you men get to do all of the planning? Why is it that I cannot do as I please and command all others to obey?”

  “Princess Joan, you know full and well that we are bound by our duties as well. There is nothing that Alban . . . or whatever his name is . . . there is nothing more that he could have wanted than to flee with you to some faraway land and be free from all cares and worries, but he was wise enough to see the impossibility of it all. You heard and, I dare say, felt that what he said was true as you said your goodbyes just yesterday. Do not make things any harder on yourself than that which must be.

  “Look, Princess, I do not like that which was placed upon me, either. I have, much to the disagreement of . . . something deep inside of me that I cannot explain, been placed in a leadership responsibility. I do not know if I can do it, to tell you the truth.”

  “Garrve, Alban would never have placed you in this position if it were not necessary, and if he did not know that you could do that which is required of you.”

  “With all due respect, Lady Joan, how could he possibly know if I am ready to do all of this?”

  “He just does. He prays about things and seems to know what to do, sometimes before they even happen.”

  “He’s not God that he should know everything!”

  “No. Not at all. But he is a man of God. He does what is right, he serves others, helps all who need it, regardless of their caste; he is a man of God.”

  “He is not helping me!”

  “Are you sure about that?” asked Joan.

  Garrve sat down in the sand and pondered. Ryan seemed content to see what should play out before him. The sun had not been out long, but it began to start the sand to burning.

  “I suppose that you are going to tell me that I earned this position somehow, that it is my right to rule over my fellow men?” Garrve spoke at last.

  “If it is not that you are to act as a temporary king, then you shall be taken out of your place sooner, rather than later. Look, I know what you are trying to do, and I guess that I have let you turn the tables on me, but my situation is different from yours.” Joan stated.

  “Yes. I do not have blood on my hands. You are now covered in it.” Garrve returned.

  Joan looked down at her hands. She was actually covered in blood from head to foot.

  “That’s from the beast that . . . she slew. She probably had to do it. Those fiends are known to take out whole villages. She had the opportunity, and the responsibility in my view, to kill it before it killed her and all the men that are with her . . . including you . . . Garrve, is it?” Ryan offered a bit sheepishly.

  “I speak of the blood of her countrymen and those of my adopted country, and she kn
ows it!” Garrve asserted among sputtering and hissing, as he stood.

  Ryan stood, as well, and rebutted, right into Garrve’s face, “That was not her fault either! She was taken from her caravan as she traveled to meet her new husband! She had no intention to stay out here wandering around in the desert. You cannot blame her.”

  “That is right!” Joan finally pushed back. “I cannot help it if my caravan was taken and I was forced to travel with these slavers! Decebal threatened me at every turn that if I should reveal who I am that I should be drawn and quartered and that your people be blamed for it! I tried to escape . . . how many times, Ryan?”

  “I remember . . . probably three.”

  “Oh, right. You were gone for quite a while . . . where did you go?”

  “I . . . I was . . . on business for Decebal.” he said.

  “Oh, sure you were!” Joan sarcasted a whole pouch’s worth (which is an old saying from her homeland which simply means that she poured the sarcasm on quite thickly).

  “I was.” Ryan returned, genuinely miffed at the insolence that Joan was showing him. “Anyway, I don’t have to prove it to the likes of you!”

  “If I may be of assistance to you in this matter, sir, I do happen to know that this young lady is indeed of royal birth and is betrothed to a prince. Now that that is settled, maybe you could lower the tone of your voice . . .” Garrve began.

  “The matter is not settled!” Ryan hissed his interruption. “Who told you that you are royalty?”

  “Alban . . . before he left . . .”

  “Really? How did he . . . You take the word of a slave over that of . . .”

  “Of the word given to me by the man that wants me for his own? Do you think that I do not know of your plan to ride off with me into the sunset?”

  Ryan sat back down in the sand, stunned by the verbal routing and the fact that Joan knew of his affection for her. He had dearly tried to hide it and at the same time had wished that she could only understand what she meant to him.

  “Princess, you were told to let him down easily!” Garrve reminded. “Besides, you did not know of his feelings until the man whom you called Alban, until recently, told you. You told him as much.”

  “Look! I do appreciate the fact that you do not remember any of the intricacies of ruling, partly because of the memory loss, partly because you have never ruled. However, when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it!” Joan snapped back.

  “First of all, by a woman of your stature, it is said, ‘I will ask for it’. Secondly, who said that my memory . . .”

  “Look! You do not understand!” Joan insisted. “May I have a word with you in private about Ryan?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Joan led him a few paces out of earshot of the others and gave him an earful. All that the others could hear were bits and pieces of, “You should think before you speak!”, “There are things at play that you do not understand!”, and the like. The main substance of the conversation, however, was not divulged. Perhaps (well, there was no perhaps about it), Joan was cunning enough to let them hear the parts of the dialogue that did not matter and lull them into thinking that all would be understood. Then, she would whisper a line or two just below hearing levels and erupt again when the others began to look curious. There was also the fact that the men were glad not to be the object of her vetting that kept them at bay for a while.

  Garrve, on the other hand, took the berating with boldness. He admitted to Joan that he may be new on the job, but that he was going to do that job as best he could. He was somewhat familiar with all of the espionage and subterfuge that usually went with such authority; he decided that perhaps that was why Alban had appointed him in the first place. He acknowledged the fact that Joan had experience, and he thanked her for her guidance. It was, however, his job to do. He was not as subtle as was Joan in his explanations. He let things roll out in front of everyone. As far as he knew, he had nothing to hide.

  The whole display back and forth between the Joan and Garrve gave Rutherford and Plainsteak ideas.

  Rutherford walked towards them and said, “My lord and lady! We do most desperately need to be going to help the poor souls of those affected by that noxious weed!”

  “I do believe that you have already been ordered to tend to that matter yourselves!”

  That statement set them aback a bit due partly to the fact that the statement came from Garrve and then they were shocked that he should know that they were indeed told by Joan to stay behind and help. There was also the fact that they were being ordered around by an apprentice king that may or may not have royal blood running through his veins. It could be considered a great offense to usurp a throne in such a way, appointment aside. Anyone found to have followed a usurper to any throne might be found to have committed treason to their own crown.

  Garrve helped them to decide their next move by adding, “Do you have ears?”

  “Yes, my lord.” replied Plainsteak.

  “Did you not hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what sir, if I may ask?” Rutherford chimed in.

  “Go and get the job done!” Garrve growled under his breath; it was a refined growl, though, not your everyday ruffian-type growl.

  The two men ran off, tails between their legs.

  “Wow!” Joan gasped. “Alban knows how to pick them! You have that growl down to perfection. I was ready to run off myself and start things going. How is it that you have such a knack for giving orders to obtuse people?”

  “First of all, those are not obtuse people; watch them closely! Second of all . . . I suppose . . . I have quite some experience in the delegation and ordering of men. It was quite a while ago, but I have done such things.”

  “Tell us about it.” Ryan requested.

  “I will . . . as we work. There is much to be done and a short time in which to do it. Every minute that we delay could mean the lives of many men, both good and bad I suppose, but I should rather like not to have the blood of either on my hands.”