Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/darragh-metzger/page,12,25749-tales-from-opa-three-tales-of-tir-na-nog.html
6
The half-familiar creak-thump of the door woke him, and a guard entered in a beam of morning sunlight, bearing a tray. Jean sat up, feeling clear-headed at last.
A strange feeling pervaded his body, and it took him a moment to recognize it as the absence of pain.
It took him a moment more to realize that someone had taken his clothing from him; he supposed it was Keppler, but could not remember.
"Breakfast," said the guard, setting the tray on the table. "And then a bath. I will take you when you've eaten."
The timber of the guard's voice was all wrong. Jean pulled his attention from the tray of food to the guard's face, and a shock coursed through him.
The guard was a woman. Not a beardless boy, but a tall, slim, middle-aged woman. Her iron-grey hair was pulled back into a long braid dangling from under her helm. Level grey eyes studied him from either side of the nasal piece.
Jean opened his mouth, but found himself speechless. Even here, the spirit of the Maid haunts me.
She returned his open-mouthed stare with a frown of annoyance. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen an ogre."
He swallowed." You're a woman."
She snorted. "You noticed. I am Sergeant Klara Freimann, wife of the commander. My orders are to get you fed, clean, dressed, and on your way. You've been asleep for almost two days. You should be ready to get up."
"I…"
"Ah. Clothes. I see they have not yet been returned to you. Very well." She pulled her own cloak from her shoulders and tossed it on the bed. "We have little room for modesty here. A third of the garrison are women. I will find you some clothing. You may wear that long enough to eat." She turned and left the room, closing the door firmly.
"Merci, Madame," Jean murmured at the blank wood. He threw back the blanket to get out of bed but stopped as he saw his own bare legs. He leaned over to stare at them more closely, certain his eyes were still fogged with sleep.
But closer examination confirmed his first glance: there were no cuts, scars, bruises, or even dried blood to mark where he knew full well the flesh had been torn nearly to the bone. The skin was pale, smooth as a child's and almost as hairless. He wondered if that state were permanent. Perhaps hair did not grow back as quickly as skin.
But how had the skin grown so fast?
His memory of the previous day — no, it would have been the day before — was hazy. He remembered that Keppler was some sort of physician, that he had examined Jean, but nothing after that. But there had been something else, something odd. Something he should remember. What had happened? Had he been drugged?
He carefully lowered his feet to the floor and rose, testing his ankle. Not a twinge. He was thankful for that, at least. It was wonderful to be without pain. "Perhaps I should simply be grateful for Monsieur Keppler's skill, and save my questions until there is someone who can answer them," he said aloud.
In any case, the scent of the food was making a most insistent bid for his attention.
He bundled the cloak around him, hoping the woman would be some time in returning. Mother of God, what sort of place was this, where women dressed like men and wore swords…
…just like the Maid.
Shaking his head in bewilderment, Jean moved to the table and sat. Food first, questions later.
He examined the contents of the tray and his spirits lifted. There was half a loaf of fresh, dark bread, a chunk of cheese of a much higher quality than the stuff in his satchel, and a pear. Best of all, a heaping bowl of beef and mushroom stew gave off the delicious aroma that set his mouth watering. Balanced on the edge was a jack of what smelled like ale.
He took a sip, savoring its nutty richness, and sighed with satisfaction. "So, there is some good in this place. These soldiers eat well. Doubtless having women here has something to do with it."
He bowed his head and asked God to bless the food before him, adding an apology for the brevity of his prayer. That done, he dove into his first meal in what seemed an age.
He was wiping the last succulent juices from the bowl with his final bite of the bread when the door opened and the woman returned, this time with a stack of clothing. "You won't want to put these on until after your bath. Have you finished eating? Good." She dropped the clothing on the bed and gave him a brisk nod. "Come with me, then."
"Your pardon, Frau Freimann," he said, "but…I am to march through town in just a cloak?"
The firm mouth twitched in amusement. "I'm a married woman. Do you think you have anything I haven't seen before?" She seemed to take pity on him. "The baths aren't far. Few if any will see you. Most of the others are on the walls or with the other prisoners."
"The others…"
She held up a warning hand. "I was told you might ask after them. My orders are to tell you that they are no longer your concern." She lowered her hand and added, "I do not wish you to think it lack of courtesy that puts such haste on the need to get you on your way. But we are a military garrison here, and have no facilities to entertain guests. We have not the time or attention to spare you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."
Jean nodded, his frustration momentarily swallowed by a flash of cold terror at the thought of leaving this haven.
So, he must leave the safety of stone walls and once again find his own way in this strange place, forever ignorant of the fate of his former fellow travelers. So be it. He hoped that this formidable dame could at least be brought to answer some of the other questions that clamored inside him.
Willing himself to patience, he rose, carefully gathered the cloak around him, picked up the pile of clothing, and followed her out the door.
As she had told him, the baths were no more than a few yards from his room. A long building partly built into one of the walls contained a bath house somewhat less Spartan in design than the rest of Tisza would have led him to believe.
Frau Freimann informed him that a natural hot spring lay close to the surface here, so that a limitless supply of hot water could be pumped up at any time. The spring was one of the reasons this site had been selected for the fortress town.
While Jean luxuriated in a deep, wooden tub, Frau Freimann remained at attention nearby. She removed her helmet, but otherwise made no concession to her surroundings, ignoring the few other bathers and their attendants.
She was a handsome creature, Jean decided, who must have been something of a beauty in her youth. But he found himself far too intimidated by her bearing to pay her the courtly compliments he was accustomed to offering women of good station.
His simple courtesy did not go unnoticed, however, and she eventually thawed enough to answer a question she evidently deemed harmless.
"Tisza is the farthest outpost in Yasenovo," she told him. "We are here to watch the Gate you came through."
"Please explain." He kept his voice level, as if the answer was only of casual interest; he had the feeling that impassioned demands for information would only drive her to silence, or at best to her former cold courtesy. "What is it that you mean by 'the Gate?'"
"Travelers from the Outer lands can only enter through the Gates. I am told there are at least thirteen of them, but no one knows for certain but the Fey. We have no control over them. Sometimes people simply wander through."
"I still don't understand. How do what you call the Outer lands differ from here? What are these Gates, exactly? I was lost in the fog, and so were the men with me, and we found ourselves here. Yet we came from different parts of the world, and — somehow — different times."
Frau Freimann's brows drew together, and her voice sharpened. "The Gates are the Gates. I'm not privy to their workings. I told you, people wander through sometimes, that's all." She paused. "They say few survive the journey through the Mists. You have accomplished something of which you can be proud, Herr LeFleur."
Jean swallowed the urge to persist. It was clear that questioning the Sergeant further on
the matter would not clarify things, and would doubtless annoy her. "I thank you, but it is something I would have willingly forgone," he admitted with a sigh. "I do not even know how I found this 'Gate' in the first place." He could not recall seeing anything that looked like a gate when he had become lost, but then, he hadn't been able to see much of anything.
She shrugged. "I do not know either. Myself, I was born here in Yasenovo. My husband came through a Gate in Drachenfel, but all he remembers is chasing a deer through the woods and becoming lost in a fog. When the fog cleared, he found himself here. From what I hear, that is the way it happens for most people."
Jean considered his next question carefully. Now that she seemed willing to talk to him, he hardly knew which question to ask first. "But he is from the same land as I?"
"As far as I know. How many do you suppose there are?"
He hoped that she was making a joke. But perhaps she was not. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath. He did not even want to imagine that she was not. "Has he ever tried to go back?" He looked up at her again. "Your husband, I mean."
She snorted, her strong mouth quirking into a near-smile. "He was fortunate enough to survive the Mists once. He is not fool enough to try a second time. Other things live out there besides the trolkien."
Fear clenched a fist around Jean's throat, thinning his voice to a whisper. "Oh."
Well, at least she had not said there was no way back. Did he have the courage to try it himself?
But he must. There was no other choice.
He thought of his parents, anxiously awaiting some word of him, of his brothers and sisters, who surely missed him as badly as he did them. He thought of his master, the kindly Flemish merchant. He thought of the books he had not yet read, the places he had not yet seen but hoped to one day. He thought of his studies, all the things he had yet to learn, to accomplish. Of the name he meant to make for himself.
The thought of losing all that forever was unbearable. He had to get back to his own time and place. He cleared his throat. "The name of this country, then, is Yasenovo?"
"This region is part of the city-state of Yasenovo," she corrected him. "Although the main city of Yasenovo is some distance from here. It is only one of thirteen city-states, not counting Tir. The land itself is called Tir na n'Og."
"Teer-na-no…" The word was of no language he knew.
"If you ever make it to Killaloe, they can tell you what it means." She shrugged. "I'm told it's from one of their tongues. Do you speak English?"
The change of subject startled him. "Eh?"
"English. That's mostly what they speak in Killaloe, and it's the trade language in most of the city-states — that and Latin. If you don't speak it, you'd best learn if you're going to get along here."
"I…yes, I speak it," he replied in that tongue. "But I thought German—"
"No. I speak German because I've often traveled in Drachenfel. My husband was born a German. Kurt is from Drachenfel also. So was their Ranger, poor Ludwig."
"Ranger…" Frau Freimann used the word like a title, but left Jean ignorant of the meaning. Her mention of Kurt Keppler sparked another question, however. He cleared his throat. "Please excuse my ignorance, but Mr. Keppler, he is…" He paused, uncertain how to ask the next question. "When I was brought here, I had a number of injuries. Mr. Keppler treated me somehow…what is Mr. Keppler?" He gestured vaguely at himself, trying to find a way to explain that he had undergone what seemed to be a miracle.
"Kurt is a Mystic, the Mystic of my husband's Triad. The Grey Triad. But they were never Chosen again after Ludwig was killed." Her expression was sad for a moment, then cleared. Her voice became brisk again. "A Mystic is one trained in the arts of magic. Healing is part of that. Kurt is better than most, since he served in a Triad for so long."
She straightened and a look of fierce pride put fire in her eyes. "My husband was Cavalier of the Grey Triad. The Fey entrusted him with holding Tisza, and nothing shall bring down these walls while he lives."
Jean felt himself losing his battle with comprehension. "The Fey…"
She scowled, but more from uneasiness, it seemed, than anger. "And I am being a fool. You are ignorant of their ways, and speaking of them draws their attention. Perhaps I've said too much already."
She looked at the bathwater, then gave him a critical glance. "Surely by now you are clean, sir. On that shelf above you is a razor and soap; do you need someone to shave you?"
"I—"
"I'll get someone." She looked to one side and made an abrupt gesture of command to someone out of Jean's sight. A young man, little more than a boy, appeared with a brisk salute.
She pointed at Jean. "This man needs a shave, and whatever other trimming is required. Be quick about it; I need to get him on his way before my watch."
Having his face lathered in soap and a razor scraped over his throat and chin effectively stopped all conversation, along with what slight chance Jean might have had to gain a true grasp of his situation.
Though perhaps that chance was even smaller than he supposed, since every answer he obtained seemed only to raise more questions. He wondered if he would ever simply be told what was going on.
Seething with frustration, he lay still until the boy with the razor finished. Then he rinsed his face, accepted a towel, and rose.
He had scarcely patted the water from his skin before Frau Freimann marched him back to his room, where he found his armor, weapons, and both satchels, now well-filled with fresh supplies.
Once dressed, he was escorted directly to the front gate, where a familiar horse stood, the same red dun he'd ridden in on, rested, groomed, saddled, and waiting with a full water skin slung from the saddle bow. Jean was gratified to see that Commander Freimann, the formidable husband of the even more formidable Frau Freimann, waited there also, along with four guards.
The commander nodded greeting to his wife, which she returned with an informal salute. He spoke to her in what Jean assumed to be Hungarian, and listened gravely to her reply. Then he turned with a polite smile to Jean.
"So, Monsieur LeFleur," he said in English, "you are up and about. Kurt seems to have done his usual fine work. Good. My wife informs me you speak the common tongue. This is fortunate, and will greatly assist you. I wish you Godspeed and a safe journey."
"Please—" Jean was too desperate to care if he passed the bounds of courtesy or the restraint of his reluctant hosts. "Please, I do not know where to go from here — I do not even know where I am. Can you not explain to me—"
"I have no time, LeFleur, and neither have you." The commander's eyes, grey like his wife's, like the three marks on his forehead, were harder and more chill than the stone walls of his fortress. "My scouts report activity in the hills. It could be ogres, or goblins again — the damned hobs try a raid here every time our routines change — but after that encounter of yours, it could possibly mean approaching trolkien, and I have yet to order things here to my satisfaction. If you ride fast, you will be well out of danger by the time they reach here. Others will have time for your questions. I suggest you head either for Anagni or Tir. Anagni is where most of your countrymen have settled."
Anagni. Jean's heart skipped a beat. Could the Commander be speaking of the same city he knew? He had never actually been there, but it was a familiar name, at least. Despite his fear, he felt a flutter of hope.
He had no chance to ask. Freimann turned and pointed out the gate to where a trail wound away and disappeared into the forest in the opposite direction from which Jean and the Black Army had come. "Follow that path. It does not meet any road of significance until you reach the city. There you will encounter the caravan route, which will take you to either place. Ask for directions from there."
He gave Jean no more opportunity to speak. With a gesture from their commander, two strapping, hard-eyed guards stepped up and hoisted Jean into
the saddle without ceremony.
One of them took the reins and led him through the gate. "Ride fast," he said, releasing the reins. "And good luck to you. Fear not; by day you're safe enough. Most of the really foul things don't come out until dark. Well, except ogres, and a horse can outrun them. Don't give up your steel." He stepped back through the gate and the massive doors swung closed with a dull boom.
Jean looked at them, his throat tight with something like rage, or perhaps it was merely terror. He turned his reluctant gaze outward, scouting the more open hillsides warily for sign of the monsters that Commander Freimann had said were out there. He saw nothing, but it was not something he wished to put to the test. The way to the forest looked clear.
Very well, so be it.
He touched his mount on the neck. "Eh bien, it is just you and me, horse. Let us hope that there are friendlier folk somewhere ahead for us. And that God is with us."
He gazed skyward. "O Lord, protect me on this journey. You have seen fit to send me to this place, and that means there is something I must do here. Whatever the task, I will do my best. Amen."
Then he gathered up the reins and touched the horse's flanks. There were answers out there, somewhere. With God's help, he would find them.
And then he could go home.