The Way of the Black Beast - Book 1 of The Malja Chronicles

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tommy clutched the saddle’s pommel as they headed west through the forest. His tense heartbeat pattered against Malja’s skin. She had tried letting him ride in back of her, wrapping his arms tight around her waist, but he near-wet himself. His anxiety subsided only slightly when seated in front, protected by her arms. How anyone could grow up not knowing how to ride a horse — never mind absolute terror of the experience — baffled her. Then again, a slave on a thief’s boat had little call for horsemanship.

The chestnut quarter horse Ms. Nolan had supplied (Orla was its name, but Malja tried not to put names to horses — they never lasted long around her) did not react to Tommy’s fear, although Malja swore the animal took care to provide a smoother ride than usual. She just hoped they wouldn’t need to gallop. Tommy would have a heart attack.

The morning air smelled crisp as the sun poked through the trees. Already the heat rose, and Malja wondered how long the horse could endure. Later the air would be stifling. The horse better hold out. Ms. Nolan gave the impression that time mattered in this case.

Fawbry, she had said, was a minor nuisance in Terrgar. All the surrounding towns belonged to Ms. Nolan (according to her), but Terrgar remained a dark hole on her map. It caused problems getting supplies to the far-end towns, caused problems with communications, and caused problems forming a solid front to her greater enemies in the western countries. Allowing Fawbry to continue to disrupt her holdings or escalate his activities invited an attack.

“Fawbry knows who you need to see. Bring him to me, and I’ll get the information you want,” Ms. Nolan had said.

The politics didn’t matter to Malja. Warlords, politicians, businessmen, magicians — all the same. They sought to rule over others using the laws of people as tools for their personal advancement. They hid beneath lofty ideals and utopian promises they never intended to keep. Or they simply bullied their way from behind a sword. Malja had no use for it. Anarchy worked just fine.

They camped in the shade of a fractured bridge. Half the bridge spanned the far side of a dry bed. The other half was a mere skeleton. Its concrete pillars rose to hold up nothing like musicians standing on stage without their instruments — awkward and wrong.

Malja let the heat of their campfire soothe her weariness. Tommy nestled by her leg, wrapping his arms around her calf and resting his head on her knee. With a tentative touch, she stroked his hair, recalling the first time he had hugged her knee — the night she rescued him. It was such a simple act of affection, the very act that had won her over, yet she found it difficult to reciprocate more than her gentle touch on his hair.

Like horses, people didn’t stay with her long. If she managed to keep Tommy alive long enough to become an adult, she expected him to go off for a life of his own. She couldn’t expect him to stay. And she refused to force him to be what she wanted — that was Jarik and Callib’s way.

Before she could spiral down into blistering memories, Malja cleared her thoughts with several deep breaths. She watched Tommy’s hair trickle through her fingers. She listened to his slumber. She fought off all other concerns until an hour later, she fell asleep.

After another day traveling, Tommy had relaxed a little around the horse. By the time they reached Noograff, he could act like he had been born riding. But it was an act. He put on a brave face for the townspeople, yet Malja felt his tensed muscles clinging to the saddle.

The town of Noograff looked like many towns Malja had seen. An amalgam of single-story buildings cobbled together with materials from the nearest ruins. Rock, wood, and concrete chunks formed the foundation of materials. Old pavement, metal bars and pipes, and sharp bits of glass were more typical for extravagant homes. Noograff appeared to be more foundation and less extravagant.