PEER

“I don’t mean to talk overmuch, Peer. I’m saying that there are some people who would think it odd that you wanted to go poking around the forest after sundown.”

Peer looked back at Abram Porte and wondered if his complaints stemmed more from his immense size than from his worries for Peer’s reputation. The gut beneath Abram’s woolspun shirt wobbled tiresomely with each step.

“You can go back if you like. I didn’t mean to put you out,” Peer said.

“Oh, damn you boy, you’re not putting me out,” Abram huffed. “Your father told me to look out for you and that’s what I’m doing.”

Peer turned toward the tree line to mask the flash in his eye at the mention of Benjamin Viljem. When he turned back to Abram he had a genial smile was on his face. “I appreciate it.”

Abram nodded briskly and tromped through the tall grass past where Peer stood.

“The torches were further in the trees,” Peer said. He followed the edge of the Esgradane with his eyes, tracking the arm of trees that went miles off north to where the heart of the forest lay. “We’re going to have to go a ways inside, I think.”

“First Brother! You’re a grown man Peer. Grown men sit inside and drink Bursinian Stouts when they are feeling adventurous. I don’t think I’ve gone hiking in…”

Abram thought on that for a moment and then smiled and slapped his belly. “Well in a good long time, if that isn’t obvious.”

“I’m just curious.”

“Now, I’ve heard that little devil of a boy that Baerun is raising say you’re curious as well,” Abram puffed.

Tension pulled Peer’s lips together. Discourtesy from all sides lately. A sudden tap on Peer’s shoulder caused him to turn around. Abram’s lolling auburn beard masked his mouth and chest, but Peer did not need to see the full of Abram’s expression to know that they were now going to be ‘talking straight’. A quick turn was all he could manage to avoid it.

“Peer,” Abram said. “I’m not meaning to-

“To talk overmuch?” Peer asked. Abram grimaced.

“I just want to make sure you know the kind of people you’re dealing with. The people in town aren’t immigrant folk. They don’t know, and they don’t care to know, what it’s like to move about.”

“We’re all immigrants, Abram.”

“They aren’t immigrants in heart, boy. They came to the coastal lands for the stability of life out here. Now, look at the kind of work they put in for – farming, fishing, service and lodging. They’re all steady reliable vocations. They didn’t travel halfway across the world for a handful of coin.”

“My father travelled out here to support his brother. You know Uncle Patrick needed a fresh start - somewhere far from home. It’s not Benjamin’s fault that my uncle went over on the journey.”

“Second brother bless him.”

Peer brushed a branch out of his path and ducked beneath a crooked tree. “Besides, the governor was granting far more than a handful of dane to any families willing to move out to the settlements. I’m not so sure I wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Well, that’s fair enough.”

There was a pause in the talking that made clear the huff of breath coming from Abram. He stopped and put an arm on a trunk. “Mind stopping a minute, boy.”

Peer sent a genial smile over his shoulder again.

“It’s alright. If you want to head back, it’s truly no worry. I’m getting tired anyway.”

Abram nodded. Bleariness fogged his eyes. “I wouldn’t mind getting some sleep. I have to get to the stables tomorrow morning.”

“You should really let those horses rest past the crack of dawn one of these days.”

“I think you have the facts on ‘who’s waking who’ a bit round-about, Peer,” Abram brushed a hand through the thick auburn tangle at his jaw. “If I didn’t get over there first thing, the neighbors would complain about my steeds playing at horseshoes and breaking into the wine stocks.” He gave Peer an inclined look. “I tell them to behave, but they just comport themselves like animals.”

Peer laughed - less at Abram’s joke than at the chuckle that followed. The large man had a silent huffing kind of laugh that hid behind his beard.

“Thanks for coming out with me tonight,” Peer said.

“Now, now.” Abram removed a hand from his belly to wave away Peer words. “You promise you’re heading in soon?”

“Of course.”

With a grunt, Abram turned and began to waddle off through the forest. He gave one small look back at Peer before he disappeared through the last line of the thicket.

At some point the night had grown truly dark. A warm dark. Not soft like velvet, but more aggressive and constant. The feeling, Peer decided, was not unlike wearing a thick wool cloak with the hood drawn up. He pushed through another line of trees, searching in vain for any sign of life larger than a rabbit. The sound of civilization ceased from the northeast. Oakhurst had gone to sleep. Peer’s pulse began to rise. Just as he was seriously considering a quick return through the brush, he saw the flicker of a crackling fire.

It was somewhere beyond between leaves.

With all the self-preservation of a stag wandering up to a poacher for food, he wandered toward the spark with blank thoughtless eyes.

The fire was flickering through the twisting wood fervently now, casting light in each direction like a nervously produced lantern. Despite the trunks, Peer could see figures huddled around the fireside. Two were kneeling nearby a prone figure – a lying man. Or could he call him such?

For these were not western men.

Peer had not seen a native of Mae’sin before. Not until a flash of light caught the faces of the party in its warmth. These were men of the arid plains, from the southern nation of Bursin. Most had hair as if from head to toe – thick long beards and wild uncut hair. Each way he looked he saw manes pulled back into buns the size of a fist and arm hair that covered fore-arms thick as fur.

The two that stood beside the lying man were of a more unique countenance. The largest figure could easily have grabbed Peer’s eye on account of his size, but it was actually the stark white of his hair that demanded attention. He had thick sideburns that ran down to his jaw and some kind of tied hair-do which was disguised by the shadow. Beside him stood a smaller man.

Peer took a breath, shrinking back as though he had just seen a ghost. Instead of long and frizzing, the beard was a block of hair as if cut from black stone and glued to the man’s face. The hair on his head was wiry and cut short, as though to diminish its importance and force the eye toward the more impressive hair on the jaw. He was well built and severe. The dark irises around his pupils caught the light with sheen like flax and oak. But no, it was not Benjamin Viljem. Ben had left years ago and he’d made it clear that he didn’t mean to come back.

There was a sudden branch snap behind him. Peer whirled, but it was too late and he found himself shoved out of the trees and into the campfire clearing. He hit the dirt hard, but couldn’t feel the pain through the hammering of his heart.

“I’ve caught a western spy. What’s that worth, twenty dane-pieces?”

“Stop doing that,” said the man with the blocky beard. He walked over from the fire to examine Peer as a few of the men from the party chuckled amongst themselves. “What’s your name?”

“P-Peer.”

“You are from the town then,” he said. He looked off in the direction of Oakhurst. “You own that farm on the ridge.”

“Who are you people?” Peer stammered.

“I am Shal Thraeson, son of the Peace-Maker Andur and nobility of the Thraeson House. These fine men are soldiers of the Jawrie.”

Armies of Bursin? Up here? Peer looked about the men, shrinking back from their piercing eyes. He must have died and ended up in Meamon’s Cage, because only a cruel god would think it funny to shove him in front of soldiers, and nobility, and Shal the son of Andur.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what most of that means,” Peer said.

Shal’s eyes narrowed. The disks around the black pupils were deep brown cut with a hint of yellow, like two shards of a splintered oak. “Surely you know of Bursin.”

Peer nodded meekly.

“Is the bad man scaring you,” a voice behind him asked. A hand suddenly grasped his shoulder, causing Peer to spin and lash out and strike skin with the back of his fist. He did not know what he was doing.

“Father’s marr,” the man said, rubbing his reddened cheek and looking up at Shal. “Surely that smack was worth a dane or three?”

“Go get firewood, Gel,” Shal commanded.

“Me? I’m not the one he’s afraid of.”

“Go,” said the enormous white-haired soldier from nearby.

Gel shrugged and vanished into the woods. Peer thought he heard him say something about ‘gold for each log’.

After a moment of silence and murmurs, Shal motioned toward the lying man.

“Have you seen this before? We came over Vignar’s Cradle and tried to get into the Esgradane’s arms as quickly as possible to avoid attention. I believe he brushed up against some poison weed.”

“It must be, it must be black nettle,” Peer breathed.

“Is it bad stuff? Will he live?”

Peer shook his head slowly. A moment passed. “Not without a physiker.”

“Or perhaps someone who knows a bit about herbs? I think you know of a cure.”

“I – I know nothing.”

The white-haired giant smiled at that. “You are far too honest to pull off that lie, child. We are only travelers. If you can help us, it will only help us pass through faster.”

Peer looked back toward Shal as the noble knelt down and pointed toward the poisoned man. “Peer. You tell me what you know. Help this man.”

Peer stared at the stern face in front of him – the cut beard, the splinter eyes, the matted wiry hair. Such a long face, like father’s was. He nodded, nervously.

“Thank you,” Shal said.

“There are herbs that you can get in town. Try the Holly House.”

Shal shook his head. “There is war in the south. In this war, western men are killing my people. You are from the Squall, perhaps?”

Peer nodded. “We crossed the ocean and set up home here when I was young.”

“Well, the men killing my brothers on the other side of Vignar’s Cradle are from Westgleam and Cord. Both of those nations share borders with your homeland. If I’m not wrong, I believe the Squall has knelt to Westgleam at one point or another. Perhaps you are breaking some edict by not reporting us immediately. Either way, Westgleam eyes are everywhere and they grant many favors to those who act on what they see.” Shal took a long breath. “No, we won’t be going into town. Perhaps you are in need of some dane-pieces though? Surkin, could you grab my pack?”

Peer shook his head. “I – I don’t need money. It would be better if I was not paid, I think.” He stood as he stammered out the last of his words. The pressure of all the camp’s eyes was upon him and he struggled to keep his gape from connecting with anyone else’s.

“Thank you, Peer. Will he be alright through the morning? I do not want you to wake this Holly in the dead of night. Men may come looking for a reason.”

“It depends on how exposed he was to the nettle.”

Shal considered that for a moment and then turned to the white-haired soldier who returned the look blankly.

“Well.” Shal turned back. “That will have to do. Be back soon after she opens her doors for business.”

Peer nodded quickly and made to depart. As he reached the first cluster of trees, he ran into the sudden form of Gel carrying a bundle of wood.

“Oh, we’re letting him go then? That’s a nice turn.” Gel called to the campsite. “I would have put my money on the boys deciding to bury him along with his secrets.”

Peer swallowed his pulse and bolted through the trees. The rush of his feet brought him into the brisk night air, up the steep hill to his property, around the stonework walls, and through the door to his home.