Niko

The forest stretched out in all directions for as far as I could see. Which wasn’t very far, since there were trees in the way.

I sat beneath an oak tree, a crossbow in my lap. The part of the woods I’d settled for was rarely visited. Which meant the wildlife was naïve, more likely to blindly follow trails. I was certain of that when I picked the trail, and moderately less certain now that several hours had gone by with the trail remaining annoyingly untrodden.

Around me, twigs and leaves were cleared away so I could quietly shift positions whenever my legs fell asleep. I kept a loose grip on my clunky weapon as I watched and listened for something worth shooting.

The forest, very old and possibly senile, seemed to have forgotten about me, as birds, rodents, and insects resumed their foraging. There was no shortage of squirrels in the branches above, so I was starting to regret going out alone. Dragging back a deer is enough of a pain as it is. Don’t need appetizers to get in the way. I’ll wait until it gets closer to dark, and if I don’t see anything bigger, I’ll bring a few home.

Mom hadn’t wanted me to go hunting by myself, but she’d tried to hide her concern behind reason. “You know you’re small for your age,” she’d said. “I just wouldn’t want you to down enough meat for months and not be able to carry it all back.” I’d never heard her talk in that tone before. She might be worried now, but she won’t be after I’ve been doing this for months.

I passed the time by listening to the song of the birds, since I wasn’t about to tune it out with something better. Jays, finches, chickadees… or one very talented mockingbird, playing a trick on me. Melodies faded in and out, harmonies didn’t exist. Some chirps flew back and forth in conversation, others descended into screeching as fights broke out.

One more hour before I try a new spot. It was getting to be late afternoon, and what shadows weren’t scattered by the leaves were getting longer. Angled rays of light fought their way through the canopy, made visible by pollen, dust, and other specks I pretend I’m not constantly inhaling.

A rabbit foraged for shoots. I let it go. Yet another squirrel walk right past me as it looked for fallen nuts. I let it go. Bored, I watched an a bunch of ants tear apart a stick insect. How long has it been since I decided I’d move in an hour? Eh, doesn’t matter. I’ll just move the next time I consider moving. I saw a buzzard flying above the trees. It wasn’t circling around anything.

The ants finished disassembling their treat and scattered. I shifted my attention to the rest of the ground, looking for reptiles, particularly large insects, or anything else that would help pass the time. My thoughts drifted to a song. Through oak and elm and fir and birch, she marched to find the ax of lore. She vowed to carry on her search, forevermore, forevermo-

I pushed the thought out of my head. I couldn’t hear game if I tuned out the song of the woods, and it wasn’t like birdcalls were particularly unpleasant to listen to.

Just a few more minutes and I’ll follow the trail somewhere else. To the north was a watering hole. I was more likely to find prey there, but it was a further walk from home. To the southwest, the reverse was true. An extra mile or two won’t kill me. The pond it is…

Something brushed up against the leaves of a bush. Something taller than a squirrel. Finally. As the white-tailed doe got closer, I could hear her dainty little hooves knock on rocks and roots. Slowly, slowly, I aimed my crossbow at her neck. She paused to nibble at some berries. I glanced down to check that the bolt was positioned right.

The deer flicked her ears and bolted away. I threw the crossbow on the ground in frustration with immediate regret. Don’t be broken, don’t be broken… It wasn’t.

I got up and shook the feeling back into my legs. What had I done wrong? Nothing. Whatever she’d heard was coming from behind her, the way she turned her ears. I glanced in that direction. And since it’s apparently making a ton of noise, it’s clearly a worse hunter than me, I hoped.

There was no guarantee the deer was running from something dangerous. Might even be another hunter. I could give them some pointers, like how to not fumble through the woods like a halfwit.

Then I heard snarling and splintering wood. Not a person. So, fight or flight? I still had a loaded crossbow, but the predator could still tear me apart while it bled to death. Should I run or climb a tree? Getting high up should be good for anything except a bear, and it didn’t sound like a bear. Not a healthy one, at least.

A split second after I first heard the noise, I grabbed my pack and ran, looking for a tree with branches low enough for me to reach. I’d gone a dozen yards or so before I found one, and I glanced over my shoulder as I pulled myself up. I saw a grey shape moving through the trees before I had to look up again.

Climbing the tree was slower than I was comfortable with, one hand already sticky with sap and the other clutching the crossbow so I had to keep propping myself up with my elbow. My feet slipped more than once, and soon I was too out of breath to keep climbing. I put my weight on one of the thicker branches, and studied the ground below me. Looks like I’m twenty, twenty-five feet up. That should high enough to keep away from that… beast.

The grey wolf on the ground was huge, lean, and seemed to be upset about something. Is he rabid? He definitely wasn’t the most mentally sound animal I’d seen. The beast was sporadic, slashing and marking trees before wincing and scratching at the nape of his neck. Several times he nipped at his own tail. Just keep following the trail… you sure are taking your sweet time.

The wolf stopped in his tracks. I held my breath as he sniffed the air, twitched his head, and started walking to my tree. As he got closer, I got a better look at where he’d been scratching. A short, rectangular rod of metal was jutting from the back of the wolf’s neck, the wound still seeping pus. The sides of the rod were covered with runes. The rest of his back was caked with dried blood.

We made eye contact, and the wolf started growling. Panicking, I aimed my crossbow at his face and fired. The bolt stuck itself in his hind leg and he didn’t even yelp. He started circling the tree, growling and clawing at the bark. He’s not even barking. Do wolves bark? I swung my pack off my shoulders and hastily dug through it for the lever another bolt. When I found one, I worked my arms back through the straps on my pack and started pulling back the crossbow string. In my rush, I pulled back on the lever wrong, and as it slipped both lever and crossbow fell from my hands and tumbled to the ground. The wolf sniffed at them, growled, and jumped at the tree trying to get to me.

Frustrated, I threw down the bolt I’d been holding, and clung to the tree trunk as hard as I could, closing my eyes. I can stay up here longer than he can stay down there. I have jerky and water skins in my pack, and he seems pretty hungry already. How long would it take for a wolf to starve to death?

I stayed there for hours. Once it got dark, the wolf tuckered out and fell asleep at the base of the trunk, but I wasn’t about to risk sneaking past it. Through oak and elm and fir and birch, she marched to find the ax of lore… At some point, I started singing in a whisper. “She vowed to carry on her search, forevermore, forevermore.” At some point, I started crying, convinced I was never going to see my parents again. At some point, I nearly dozed off… but as my grip loosened I was terrified all over again, and hugged the branches even tighter.

The wolf wasn’t making a sound anymore, and the voices of the night swelled all around. Crickets cried out for mates. There was the almost inaudible cheeping of bats flittering in and out of perception. I gazed at what few stars made it through the canopy, until my vision blurred once again and I had to close my eyes. I could’ve wiped away the tears, but I was never letting go of that tree…

A voice. Mom. I wasn’t alone, I was safe, I was home. She called out again. “Niko!” No, stop yelling, stop making noise, he’ll hear you.

Carefully, I looked down the path toward her voice. She hurried along the path, a glowing piece of quartz in one hand and her crossbow pointed at the ground in the other. When she saw the sleeping wolf, she paused, checked her surroundings, and quietly approached him. “Don’t,” I tried to say, but my throat was too dry to let the word through. I hadn’t risked letting go of the branches to dig through my pack for water.

When Mom was around ten yards away from the wolf, she aimed her crossbow at him. “Go!” she bellowed. “Leave!” The wolf didn’t wake. She picked up a rock, moved closer, and gently tossed it. The rock struck the wolf’s ribcage with a hollow thumph, but he didn’t react. He’s dead. Mom carefully moved right next to the beast and pressed her foot against his neck as she felt for a heartbeat. He’s not dead, he’s going to wake up and you’ll get knocked to the ground because you’re standing on him. She opened one of his eyes and was shining the glowquartz in it when she saw my crossbow near the base of the tree. She picked it up, then looked straight up at me. “Niko! It’s okay, sweetie, you can come down now!” Her voice was hoarse. She wasn’t crying, she’s just been yelling a lot.

I swallowed a few times, trying to wet my throat. “Help,” I called out feebly.

“Niko, it’s okay, it’s okay! You can climb down now, I won’t let you fall!”

I unclenched my hands from the branches. My fingers were stiff and sore as I flexed them, as were pretty much all my joints as I slowly climbed down the tree. Left hand, right foot, right hand, left foot… When I was on the lowest branch, Mom picked me up for a hug. I buried my face in her coat that smelled of smoke and dirt and sweat. I wanted to apologize, but I knew she’d just say it’s not my fault, and now wasn’t the time for an argument. She started to carry me back home, but I shrugged out of her embrace.

“I can walk.”

“Of course you can, sweetie.”

I picked my crossbow out of the dirt and held her hand.

---

I took a swig from my water skin, then coughed most of it out. Randall stopped in his tracks and sniffed at my face as I tried to clear water from my air hole. I rubbed the side of his neck and comforted him between coughs. “It’s okay, boy. Kheh!”

Some valiant passerby decided to ask what was wrong. “You okay, kid?”

I’m nineteen. I nodded and held up the water skin. After clearing my throat, I said, “I’m fine, I’m fine. Just swallowed wrong, is all.”

“Oh.” The passerby politely tipped his hat and moved on with his life. Probably thinks it’s wine.

I told Randall to start moving again and we resumed the march to Market Square. My throat was still tingling as I looked through the cart to make sure nothing got stolen while I was distracted. Four bushels of corn, two bushels of peaches, thirteen baskets of eggs. All there.

Randall kept his slow pace down the cobblestone road. Despite the streets being crowded with vendors and pedestrians, the old mule didn’t get distracted. Once it was clear he knew where we were going, I climbed in the back of the cart and tried to make myself comfortable. The rumbling the wheels made on the cobblestone made it difficult.

It was around four-thirty, according to Emmett’s Clock, one of the five clock towers in Rosenwall. (Three in the Outer Ring, two in the Inner Ring, neither of which were shaped like rings.) Though primary classes would’ve ended an hour before, kids in school uniforms still lingered in the streets, some of which clustered around Randall to “pet the pony”. The whole time, I was prepared to scare them away for pulling on his mane.

I leaned back on a wooden rail and watched signs go by, signs for restaurants, for pubs, for inns, and for more questionable establishments. Clouds went by as well, cottony and bright. Ricard was always better at seeing shapes than me. All I could see was that there wouldn’t be rain any time soon.

When we were close to the gate, I got out of the cart to walk Randall through. The guards were talking about something, but shut up before I could understand what they were saying. As I gave a polite nod to acknowledge their presence, the one of the right motioned for me to stop. “You going to the market?” he asked.

I glanced back at my wares. “That’s the plan.” Where else would I be going?

“If you haven’t heard, tariffs go up next week. Fourteen percent.”

“Wow.” Fourteen plus twelve is… “Wait, by fourteen percent or to fourteen percent?”

“To fourteen,” said the guard on the left.

“Oh, okay. Thanks.” Feeling stupid, I continued through the gate. The guards wordlessly resumed their stare into the distance as I passed under the great stone structure that gave Rosenwall its name.

The Inner Ring, perplexingly shaped like a half-circle, was busier than the Outer Ring. Though the children’s classes were over, students around my age hurried between classes or enjoyed the time between them. The market was a few blocks away, closer to the port, so Randall and I had to slowly push through the crowd. On two separate occasions someone ran right into the cart because they were busy looking through notes. One of the miscreants was apologetic, the other glared like it was my fault.

Slowly, the crowd funneled into classrooms, and more than a few of the people left on the streets seemed to be merchants of one kind or the other. Up ahead, the sound of people getting ripped off carried down the block, the shouts of an auctioneer standing out from the rest. Randall stopped at the end of a line of vendors and merchants, potential customers walking past.

I counted eight people ahead of me in various states of boredom. The line shuffled forward. Seven. I mumbled a song under my breath.

Gather ‘round, children, parents, merchants, soldiers, priests,

Give me your attention, you won’t regret it in the least.

Look around, appreciate the glory-est of days

And make yourself comfy, ‘cause I have nothing to say.

During the sixth verse, the line ahead of me got down to three people, and I was interrupted by the person behind me. “What’re you sellin’?”

“Yellow fruit, fuzzy fruit, and bird fruit,” I muttered without turning around.

The merchant laughed, but I’m not sure if she heard me. “Well, I’m selling gems. Real ones.”

“Fascinating.” I still hadn’t even turned to face her. The line shuffled forward. Two.

“Real gems don’t break,” the merchant continued. “So I let all my customers hit them with a rock before they buy.”

“Hmmmm...” The line wasn’t moving fast enough. The tax collector was old, with clumsy fingers not fit for counting coppers.

“You know, there’s no tariff on trade.” She paused, waiting for a response, and continued. “And those peaches look mighty tasty. So, what do you say to… an amethyst for all those peaches?”

“Uh… I’ll pass. Sorry.” The line moved. One.

“You sure? It’s a real bargain.” She still had that irritating smile smeared on her face.

Ask a question that isn’t yes-or-no. “…What am I supposed to do with a shiny rock?”

The merchant smiled wider. “You could have someone put a spell on it and make it into jewelry. It makes a lovely gift." She saw I was still unconvinced." Or you could just sell it, more than those peaches are worth.”

“You know, that’s awfully nice of you…” The person in front of me finally moved on. “But I have to talk to this old guy now.” Without speaking, the tax collector counted the coins in my pouch, recorded the amount, and handed me a card labeled 79.

As I led Randall to the square, the merchant started to say something. “Sorry!” I interrupted. “I have to go now and la la mrm mrm mrm…” I trailed off into a mumble as I went to find an open spot with no adjacent open spots.

The clock towers had chimed five by the time I found one. I unstrapped Randall from the cart and, knowing the routine, the mule waited in a small stable near the entrance to the square.

Like the ring it was located in, the Market Square was shaped like a half-circle instead of a square, in the center of which was a small, ruined castle. All around, vendors, merchants, and customers shouted above the sound of everyone else’s shouting.

I set up my signs: Corn, Peaches, and Eggs, with crude drawings of each. After a few minutes of waiting, a potential customer asked what kind of corn I was selling, and I told them, “The best kind!” with fake enthusiasm and a fake smile.

Offer, counteroffer, countercounteroffer, deal. Offer, counteroffer, countercounterofffer, deal. Offer, counteroffer, deal. I tried not to let the price get so high the customer leaves, and at some point word got around and a line formed in front of my cart.

Really hope I’m turning a profit. But once I’d formed a pattern, no one would accept anything less. Soon, most of my peaches were gone, then most the corn, but more than half the egg baskets remained. The line dwindled, and I practically gave a few dozen eggs away. The eggs take the most work, you ungrateful plebs. I glanced at a clock tower that I can never remember the name of. Six-thirty. I’ll stay until seven, see if I can get a few more eggs out of the way.

I couldn’t. The bells chimed, and I whistled for Randall. After piling the signs back in the cart and harnessing said cart to the old mule, I sorted my coins to make things quicker for the tax collector. After leaving the market and paying my dues, I led Randall toward the library. Time to go see Nel.