A Land Far Away

"Damn fools."

The snow fell quietly in the hushed landscape. The peaks of the Dragon Tail rose high above, the ice forboding...only too well known was that the slightest of shifts could bring a fury down upon them...Tothar had died that way, buried until the early summer thaw.

The young boy looked to his uncle...old, strong, grizzled, a full grey beard hanging to his chest...the deep scar that ran above and below the eye that no longer had any use. The boy was surprised his uncle had left the eye in...up here, something with no use was discarded very quickly. His good eye, a pale gray...an eye that made up for the other in its' watchfullness, its' knowingness. Uncle Clamont spoke little...but what he said meant volumes when he chose to speak. No nonsense...no foolery.

"Travel quickly, carry only what you need. Don't tarry in one place, be always moving. Shift like the specks of snow in the wind. Never take another as your own. Be as cold as the winter itself when you must. Always fall on the right side of things. Never underestimate your enemy, and more importantly, never underestimate yourself."

The words rang in the boys ears as he watched his uncle a moment, then turned his eyes back down to the pass.

The Eye turned toward him, and his uncle asked....

"What do you see?"

The boy thought a moment, then answered.

"I see eight gaurds, two heavily armoured...five wagons, a driver each. The beds are sunk low..merchants. I can't make out their weapons...one carries a spear. They make slow progress.

I see three times their number awaiting them....Black Tooth tribe...Bloody Spear camp. They do not move, they wait. Light armour...can't make out their weapons...."

The hand of his Uncle rang hard on the back of his head, blinding the boy for a moment.

"If I wanted a damn visual, I'd have said so, damn it. What the fuck do you /see/?"

The boy winced at the quiet beratement, then focused.

"The merchants are dullards. They make too much noise...they are not led by someone who has spent any time here. The guards are arranged wrong, they have no one scouting. They are not paying any attention. This is a trip they have not made before, they do not know the dangers. They will be slaughtered to the last man before we could even get to them to warn them....They are dead, and their goods forfeit."

His Uncle grinned ever so slightly. "That's better. Follow."

They proceeded back up the hill. At the crest, the shouts rang out..the orcs had sprung their ambush. Neither the boy or Uncle so much as glanced back. Time was on their side...The orcs would slaughter, perhaps quickly, but would spend much time in plundering. The Bloody Spears called a hollow a days travel away their home...and they were small. All of their warriors were here.

The boy saw in his mind the triumphant return of the orcs to their camp, lumbering beasts under heavy burden of plunder, well gorged. THe howls of victory as they entered their camp, the victorius horn of their lead blowing....

To be met with the silent reply of their women and childrens heads on spears in the ground, staring back at them, and all of their previous possessions broken and burned.

True Justice. Not the trials and formality of Tyr or Helm...not the fanfare. No, True Justice was a cold bitch. As cold as the land the two walked.

The coals sent smoke into the air. Clamont had been loathe to start the fire, lest he upset Auril and bring her wrath upon their heads. Yet it was necessary...the ground was hard frozen, and the burial could not be performed without the use of the coals. Both the boy and Clamont beseeched Auril to have mercy on their act, for it was one of necessity.

Clamont brought out his device, a metal roded shovel, a folding contraption he had purchased from a gnome long ago. He tossed it to the lad.

"Dig."

The young boy started in, scraping away the coals and breaking the icy grip on the ground beneath. As he began the work on the hole, which kept him warm, Clamont brought out his hammer and began sealing the lid of the box. The farmer had been more than happy to supply the wood.

The boy kept his eyes...and ears...on the work ahead of him...at times like these, it was better not to think too much about the fate some make for themselves.

*****

Many hours later, the weary lad climbed out of the deep pit, Clamont long since finished with his task and now moving the box over round branches toward the pit. When he neared the hole, he grasped the rope wound around one end of the coffin, the boy mimicking the action on the opposite end. The lad kept his eyes to the sky, humming a bit loud as he lowered the box into the ground. A year ago he would not have been able to perform such a task, but his strength was coming to him.

The box touched bottom. The boy turned without Clamont having to even say a word, and began filling the hole back in. Try as he might, when the dirt began hitting the box below, his humming would not cover up the panicked cries or the beating that came from within...at times, it is more than best not to focus on the fate people make for themselves. He couldn't help but have the faintest of feeling for the man within, but quickly quelched it.

He had seen the barn...all of the blood...the rope around her neck, her black lips, blue face. Her husbands unconsolable greif. Oh, he had been more than willing to supply the wood. The lad did not want to even contemplate her life right before her death...the cuts...the blood around the joining of her legs..said enough. The boy emptied his stomach into the pit at the thought, then continued filling in the hole.

Clamont looked to him a moment. "So that he take the air from her, so we take the air from him. He will have some time to think on it, before it comes to the last." The boy nodded slightly, leaning on the shovel a moment. He reached into his belt pocket, and removed the heart shaped gold pendant they had found on the man...the pendant given to her on her wedding night. His finger ran over it slowly as he clenched his jaw.

Clamont watched, then spake quietly. "It is okay to greive for them...after. But never before. Sorrow is hesitation...and to hesitate with one such as this one would mean death."

The boy nodded as he fell in behind the already moving Clamont. He eyed the back of his Uncle as they moved, then asked... "How long?"

His Uncle stopped for a moment. "No more than a couple of hours at most, I would think." The boy nodded.

They reached the small house at dusk. The boy looked forward to returning the pendant to the man....but it would be placed on the inside handle of the door instead. There was one more to bury....a simple man that could not see life without his other.