You are a different animal now, he reasoned. But you are not alone. Your god will always be with you.
“Damned inner reason,” he muttered.
Swallowing his anger, he put on the best pleasant face he could muster and dove into the crowds. He searched from one family camp to the next, asking questions as he kept an eye out for Nessa’s bright red shock of hair. None he spoke to admitted to having seen her, and many gaped at him as if he were some idiot for even asking. “Why would your sister be here?” one of them asked, hands up in confusion. “She has a room in the manse. Only a simpleton would think she’d sleep anywhere else.”
It took every last ounce of his restraint to clench his fists and turn away.
Afternoon passed into early evening, and still his search was fruitless. He went from the new arrivals to the longtime residents, knocking on cabin doors and peeling aside yurt flaps. Still, there was no sign of her. He was feeling hopeless when an innocent voice called out his name, and he heard the patter of bare feet running up behind him.
“Nessa?” he said excitedly, spinning around.
A small form collided with him, arms wrapping around his neck. The head pulled back, revealing a nest of sandy blond hair and a slender, pretty face devoid of freckles. Patrick’s heart dropped. The girl kissed his cheek and released his neck, stepping back. The demure smile she wore fell away when he simply stared at her in response.
“You…don’t remember me?”
Patrick cocked his head, then closed his eyes. He saw the girl writhing atop him while her pelvis ground into his.
“Of course. Bethany. How could I have forgotten?”
“Brittany.”
“Right. Sorry.”
The girl bit her lip. “You don’t seem happy to see me,” she said.
“Why should I be? The last time we were together, you said you were only with me in the hopes of having a child, and then you left.”
His words brought back memories of Rachida. He wondered where the splendid woman was now, if she were safe, and if the child he had planted in her had been born without complications…
“That was before,” Brittany said, breaking him free of his recollection. “It’s said you’re a hero now, that you battled Karak and beat him back.”
“Don’t believe every story you hear,” he said with a grumble.
She stepped forward and threw her arms around him once more. It aroused him a bit, but only a bit, to realize that she did not seem to mind the grime and dried blood that covered him. However, when he looked in her eyes and saw his reflection, he cringed and pushed her away.
“Not now,” he said. “Not ever again.”
As he walked away from her, that familiar feeling of loneliness swept over him. You should have just gone with her, his inner self chastised. She was willing and eager, and you haven’t been with a woman for months. You need it.
There were tears in his eyes when he said, to nobody in particular, “But that’s not what matters now. Karak’s Army is what matters. Helping Ashhur is what matters. Finding Nessa”-he choked up, which drew odd looks from passersby-“is what matters.”
Deciding he’d had enough of crowds, he maneuvered toward the outskirts, staying as far away from the many groups of people as he could. He made sure to keep space between himself and Manse DuTaureau, fearing that at any moment his mother might emerge from inside, spot him, and flag him down. But she didn’t. Although a great many individuals strolled in and out of the sprawling building his family called home, he saw none of his relatives.
His unrest grew the longer he walked. He saw folks laughing and chatting, tending to the meager garden plots in front of their tents, caring for children, or simply lazing about, eyes to the sky as if they had not a care in the world. The lines heading down the side street to the granaries were long, and the people who emerged from them were carrying huge baskets filled with goods. He saw no evidence of rationing, as had been done in Haven when Karak’s Army was approaching, and no one was being schooled on how to defend themselves. In short, the people acted as if nothing were wrong in the slightest, as if the gargantuan walls that surrounded them were novelties and nothing more. He made a fist, digging his fingernails into his palms. For a moment he was tempted to head for the manse so that he could chastise his mother and the new king for their ineptitude.
Alas, he did not. Instead he kept walking, circling the great hill until the crowds thinned. At the edge of the column of old birch trees where he used to play run-and-chase with his sisters as a boy, he spotted a new collection of ramshackle tents. There were perhaps a thousand, sprawling from one end of the miniature forest to the other, but those who had gathered around the cookfires here had the air of those who had experienced hardship. Chatter was sparse, and he actually spied sparks flying as a few folks ran stones over steel blades. These were his people. Most of them had journeyed through the lands east of the Wooden Bridge with Ashhur, though where they’d found actual weapons was beyond on him. He thought perhaps their god had forged them.
Eyes lifted as he approached. Expressions brightened and bodies rose from the ground, approaching slowly, moving like people who had endured a long and arduous journey-which of course they had.
Recognizing face after face, he called out to those whose names he remembered and offered warm hugs to those he didn’t. An endless stream of gratitude was offered to him, spoken in hushed and weary tones.
“We never thought you would return.”
“We thought you had died.…Thank Ashhur, you haven’t.”
“You were missed, my friend.”
“Good to have you back.”
“Thank the gods you were returned to us safely.”
On and on it went, the greetings stretching on for nearly an hour, until finally Patrick was approached by a teen boy with a somber face. The boy said nothing, simply wrapped his arms around Patrick’s thick shoulders and held him tightly.
“Missed you too, Barclay,” he said.
The boy squeezed him tighter, so tight that the ridge of his breastplate began to dig into his side.
“Whoa there, boy. That actually hurts.”
“Sorry.”
When Barclay pulled back, tears were dribbling down his dirty cheeks.
“It was not the same when you left,” the boy said, wiping snot from his nose with the back of his hand.
“I apologize for that, but there was something that needed doing.”
“Will you leave again?”
“Not until it’s all over.”
The boy smiled a little at that. “After we kick Karak in the nuts, right?”
“Right,” Patrick replied with a chuckle. “A swipe here, a lunge there, and we’ll have him.”
Barclay’s face lit up suddenly. “Oh, I need to show you something,” he said with excitement. He grabbed Patrick’s hand and yanked him through the crowd. Patrick was amazed at how strong the boy’s grip was.
Moments later, they emerged in front of a hastily constructed shanty made from a few felled tree limbs and topped with a bed of leaves. Barclay’s father, Noonan, sat in front of a clay pot filled with boiling liquid atop a fire, surrounded by his wife and many children. The man offered Patrick an appreciative nod but did not stand to greet him. It was understandable, given that his children kept pestering him about how much their tummies hurt.
Barclay stopped on the other side of the firepit, where a dull gray sword rested against the rocks. The boy grabbed the handle and lifted it. The blade was a decent size, two and a half feet long, and Barclay needed both hands to keep it steady. He turned to Patrick, doing his best to mimic the stance his hero had demonstrated to the many visitors who had decided to remain in their homes even after Ashhur warned them of what was coming.