These Old Bones

2-1

2

He remained cautious. Decades of fighting taught him that. He had suffered more than his fair share of traps, more than his fair share of ambushes. Desperate people would would stoop to the lowest depths for the chance of a little coin, or even the smallest bite to eat. Lives meant nothing when your own meant so little.

Brorzjav circled around, keeping as low as his pained knees would allow, following the sound of the moan. Notch still felt as comfortable in his hand as the first time he tore it from the hands of an enemy. The old blade showed its age, pitted, rusted, leather strapping on the grip worn with use, but the edge ... the edge could still cut a man to shreds. The magically enhanced blade had chipped, cracked, bent and broke in Brorzjav's time, yet always returned to its same, sharp shape.

The sound of the moaning came from a stack of rocks to his left, a half-decent distance from the wrecked cart, yet Brorzjav could see no tracks with his old eyes. The grass remained undisturbed. No bootprints in the soil. Whoever, whatever was making that sound must have flown here. Or lived there, in the rocks. A changeling, he considered. Or, perhaps, a striig that flew to the rocks after killing the horses and drivers.

He edged forward, breathing far more heavy than he would prefer, the effects of old age and tobacco on his lungs. As he prepared to launch himself, hoping to catch the creature in fright, he caught sight of a flash of yellow, poking from behind a rock. A yellow he thought he recognised. Another moan and, this close, he did recognise the sound, now. The sound of a child.

Lowering Notch, but keeping it ready, he turned around the rock. He was right. It was the girl with the intense eyes, curled into a ball, tucked tight within the gap between the rocks. He drove Notch into the ground. If the girl awoke and the first thing she saw was a dirty sword, it could panic the child.

Brorzjav stroked his beard. He had no experience with children. Not even during his three disastrous marriages, or the times with his many lovers. He never wanted children. Never wanted to be around them. Not that he had anything against them, he only preferred them at a distance. A long distance. If he was honest with himself, that long distance would not ever be far enough.

The girl moaned once more, as if caught in a nightmare in her sleep. As gentle as he could manage, he reached out and attempted to turn the girl over, by her shoulder. With a start, her eyes turned towards him, flashing wide, and Brorzjav flew backwards, battered by some unseen force. He landed in a heap, several feet away.

"No! No! Leave me alone!" The girl scrambled backward, trying to bury herself deeper within the gap between the rocks, her yellow cloak catching upon the jagged edges. "Leave me alone!"

Brorzjav groaned as he rolled onto his side. The girl had power. Of course. Whether that power were magic or a gift from the Patrons, he could not tell, but he had never felt, or seen, such a power in his long years. And he had seen many with power, before. Mages and adherents of the Patrons alike. He'd met more than a few sensitives in his time, too. Those people who could not perform real magic, but some tiny connection to the essences gave them little tricks. This was no mere trick.

"I'll not hurt you, lass." He pushed himself upright, arching his back. "Though I'd not as like leave you alone out here, miles from the nearest town."

The girl stared at him, big eyes not showing fear of him, but fear for him. That was a look Brorzjav had seen on only rare occasions when people looked at him. And that look seemed as intense as the first time he had seen the girl, back in the town. With effort, he managed to return to his feet and held out his hands to the sides, showing he meant no harm.

"Stay back. I don't want to hurt you too." The girl held up her hand, urging him to stay away.

"Then don't." Brorzjav stayed a fair distance from the girl, crouching down, resting his elbows on his knees. "What's your name, lass?"