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Chapter 22: The Coming of Spring
🕑 Added 2022-03-24 18:41:23 +0000 UTCBut while the winter months passed timely, with all their joys and difficulties, Jerry still had the occasional guests over. Or rather, guest.
“Shit, man—” Derek slammed his cup against the table—“it’s freezing here!”
“The cold never bothered me anyway.” Jerry shrugged. “The fire should be roaring soon; give it a moment.”
“I will, if my teeth stop clattering.”
It wasn’t the first time Derek visited. He dropped by once every few weeks for a drink, a chat, and to bring Jerry supplies from the village. The forest could provide many things, but tanned leather and alcohol were beyond Jerry’s means.
Ashman hadn’t visited. He said he was busy, and Jerry believed him. Maybe he really was busy, or he would have come, right?
“So how’s the village?” asked the necromancer after the fire had matured. “It’s been a while since I visited.”
“It’s okay.”
Derek huddled in a pack of blankets, shivering. The ice glints in his beard were only just melting; it still impressed Jerry how prone to cold the man was—as well as everyone in the village. Perhaps being a necromancer also strengthened the body?
“I mean, it’s winter. Not much is happening. Everyone’s staying inside with their families, hoping to last till spring. But it’s going well. How are things here?”
“Pretty amazing.” said Jerry, smiling. “We took our time, played in the snow a bit.”
“Yes, I noticed the snowman that almost matched your tower in height. How did you even do that?”
“It was a tough week.” Jerry shrugged. This time, he shivered as well. Boney’s slave-driving enthusiasm was only matched by his fervor, and the master had soon become the servant. It had been a tough week.
“The wooden statue is also nice,” said Derek, “but you’re weird, you know? If I were you, I’d spend more time worrying about my impending doom and less time capturing my likeness in wood.”
“Jericho, you mean? I’m doing what I can.”
“Like what?”
“Well, I’ve built a bunch of new skeletons, ready to fight for our home. I’ve also had the undead practice with weapons; the dead bandits had plenty of swords, and I’ve put the two bows you brought me to good use. As for myself, I feel my powers growing by the day. I can support more than seven undead if I want to now, it just feels a bit extraneous. We might become too many to properly hang out.”
Derek barked a laugh.
“That’s a worry alright…” he muttered, gaze lost in the fireplace. The flames danced and swirled, rising above the cracking wood and reflecting in Derek’s thoughtful irises.
Jerry noticed.
“Is everything alright?” he asked. “You seem off.”
“Well, I…” The hunter seemed to hesitate for a moment, his blankets going up and down with his breath. “I’m just a bit worried, I guess… I’ve been spending a lot of time with Holly, since we’ve been staying inside all winter, and I… well, she’s off.”
Jerry raised a brow. “Off?”
“Off. It’s like her mind is elsewhere. She doesn’t ask me when we’re moving to Milaris anymore, but she still takes care of her dresses. I’ve caught her smiling when looking at them, but it doesn’t make sense; the dresses remind her of the city, where I forbid her to go. Something is wrong.”
“Maybe it’s just your impression; it doesn’t sound like you have anything solid to worry about.”
“I know my daughter, Jerry.” Derek frowned. “Something is wrong, I can feel it. Maybe it’s that boy she’s been meeting, that’s the only thing I can think of, but I don’t want to—I mean, it’s difficult.”
Jerry nodded politely and Derek kept going.
“My wife ran away from home because her parents wanted to control her choices. I don’t want the same thing to happen to me. I trust Holly, and I’ve raised her to be a responsible girl, and I don’t want to interfere, but…”
“But you can’t help worrying,” completed Jerry, and the hunter nodded, almost whimpering.
“Yes…” he finally admitted, pain in his voice. “I can feel that something is wrong, and I really want to dive in there and solve whatever problem she’s facing, but I don’t want to be that parent. I want to trust her. Even if there is some problem, she will solve it herself, right?”
He looked up at Jerry, eyes filled with concern. “Right?” he repeated.
“Mhm.”
The necromancer nodded, reclining in his heavenly soft chair and drinking from his cup; it was wheat wine, a staple of the traveling merchants. Quite bitter, but it would do. Alcohol was one of the few things allowed to be bitter.
“As I was telling Boney some time ago,” began Jerry, “everyone has the right to be wrong. There are gray areas here, of course, but the point in this case is that we should let children make their own decisions, even if they risk messing up something important. You see, we need to make mistakes in order to grow. Risking and failing are necessities. Even if you know better, if you do not allow her to mess up and clean after herself, then you are depriving her of the right to grow. That is not right.”
“It is not right…” muttered Derek. “But what if she gets in trouble? Like, real trouble? What if the boy she’s meeting, be it John or George or Blake, is secretly an asshole? I can’t let her mess up that bad!”
“It’s a risk you may have to take.”
“He might break her heart!”
“That will be educational.”
“She will be scarred!” Derek banged his fist on the table, his tension getting the better of him. “Sorry,” he apologized, “but I can’t let bad things happen to my daughter! She is a child, and the world is a cruel place! She is not ready to walk alone!”
“And when will she be?”
“Well, that’s—” Derek stammered. “When she learns herbalism and grows up a bit. When she has some experience.”
“But how will she get that experience if you don’t let her scrape her knees?” asked Jerry. “Right now, she is in a small, controlled environment, messing with teenage love affairs. What better time than to try walking alone? Would you rather leave her alone in Milaris to experiment with work and money, where the silver tongues will devour her whole and spit out the bones?”
Derek grumbled, thinking about it. “I guess not,” he finally relented.
“Then give her some space now. Let her learn how to be independent and make her own decisions—even if they suck. In the worst case, her heart will crack a bit, but she’s only sixteen; she will have plenty of time to mend it in Milaris. If she messes up later, it might not be fixable.”
Derek grunted, resembling Axehand. “I guess you’re right,” he said.
“I said the same things you started with.” The necromancer smiled. “You already trust her and give her space; I merely helped with the doubts.”
“You can be surprisingly witty when you want to.” Derek sighed, shedding most of his blankets and only keeping one; the windows were shut and the fire strong. “I honestly thought you were off in the head when I met you.”
“I am off in the head.” Jerry laughed. “Just in a weird way. I once spent fifteen years semi-conscious, as you know; I suppose something in there got fried, or atrophied, or both.”
“Your life sounds like a dream.”
“It’s alright. Especially now, now it’s great.”
Derek shed his last blanket, revealing the tunic and leather vest that hid underneath. “You’re a good man, Jerry… I hope you survive that Jericho bastard.”
“Eh.” He shrugged. “If things go south, can I count on you?”
Derek sobered up real quick. He deliberated his next words heavily before speaking.
“You’re my friend, Jerry, and I will help as I can, but… I will not leave my daughter orphaned for a lost cause.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. It’s okay. Maybe he’ll just let me off—and if I die, I die. It’s no big deal.”
“There it is again.” Derek smirked. “You being off. That’s exactly it, you treat everything as unimportant. I mean, who can speak of death so casually?”
“A necromancer.”
“Hah, makes sense.”
“Good then.” Jerry smiled. “Let’s drink, my friend. To Pilpen, that will certainly accept me.”
“To Pilpen, that might never do.”
Their cups smashed against each other, sending some liquor to the floor, and they downed the rest.
“And Jerry?” said Derek, wiping his mouth. “Thank you. For everything.”
Jerry smiled brightly. “No problem.”
***
“Sir!” A burly man stood at attention. He was hunched and rough, holding his sword in the distinct way one holds a bonking shovel. A bunch of teeth were missing from his mouth, while, on top of everything else, a look of permanent incomprehension was plastered on his face.
“At ease, soldier.” Captain Reymonds waved a hand, letting the hillbilly breathe again. Tiredness hid behind the captain’s serious face. “Report.”
“Aye, sir. Tha rivers are beginning ta flow again, sir.”
“The snow is melting, then…”
Captain Reymond placed his helmet under his arm, opening the window to take a look outside. From the guard tower they currently occupied, he could see far, far away.
The snow glistened on the mountainsides and stacked on the trees, but it was already lower than it had been all winter. The temperature was rising, and dry patches of land would soon appear. A fox zoomed through the woods as he looked, darting from one branch to the other. Behind everything, the sun shone through the mountain’s crystal-clear air.
It would have been a beautiful sight if not for the charred remains of a village below them. Leramis, it had been called, and it had been under their protection. Home to a hundred men, women, and children. And a scant two days ago, it had been burned to the ground. They had been unable to help.
Exhaustion crept on the captain’s face again, accompanied by smoldering fury. Only the falling snow had stopped his revenge; and now, it was gone. Captain Reymond could stop himself no longer.
“Men,” he roared, sending seven more Billies hurtling off their beds and rushing to report. One tripped on the stairs, rolling down their entire length, while two more failed to properly tie their shoelaces—the Guard had a proper shoemaker, of course—and had to stop to retry.
When all eight of them were finally arrayed in front of him, standing proudly at attention, his heart bled.
What a sorry lot…
These people had no business being soldiers—and yet, they could not be excused of their duties. They had enlisted of their own volition, and now they would either rise to the task or die. Fortunately for them, Captain Reymond had the skills to keep them alive, if only they listened carefully.
Hiding his sigh, Reymond raised his hands and put on his helmet, staring at his troops through the eye slit.
“Prepare everything,” he said, “and rest well. I will be the one to keep watch tonight. We leave at dawn.”
“Whare to, sir?” asked one of them, and Reymond stared straight at him; the man flinched.
“To get revenge for the people we failed,” he declared loudly. “To fulfill our duties as protectors of the land. To become heroes or die trying. The Wall isn’t the only place we protect, gentlemen; we fight for the entire Kingdom!”
The eight soldiers cheered, each more excited than the last. The possibility of death went over their head in the same way an overshot arrow would. Reymond turned around, once again hiding his sigh. At least, he was experienced in guerilla warfare; these farmers might have a chance at actually becoming soldiers.
He looked out of the window, his gaze lost in the heart of the mountain forest.
“Prepare yourselves,” he declared proudly, framed by the cheers of his men. “For in a few days, Jericho the Green… will fall to our blades.”
