Read Online Down a Lost Road by J. Leigh Bralick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: J. Leigh Bralick
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feeling and the blood drained from my face.
He had gotten tortured. Really tortured. Not just the little
intimidation routine I’d been put through. The thought made me
sick. Before this, the concept had only existed for me in spy
movies and depressing news clips.
Yatol turned away abruptly. I wondered if
I’d offended him. For a long time I sat in silence, trying hard not
to stare at him. I couldn’t process the contradiction I saw in him.
The way he sat, the way he carried himself, body lean and muscled
but marred from so many wounds, even the hard impassive look in his
eyes – if that was all I could see of him I would have guessed him
to be much, much older. But his face was so young. I could hardly
imagine a way of life that would force someone that young to be so
strong. And I’d just made light of all the pain he’d suffered – for
me. To save my skin. Idiot.
“ I’m sorry,” I whispered. I
don’t know if he heard me. “Yatol, what are we doing? I saw the
others that night disappearing into the forest. Where are they
now?”
“ We flee the Ungulion when
we can,” he said, and his eyes flared, grim and bitter. “Yes, we
run away. We can’t fight them. Our army doesn’t possess any weapons
that can defeat them. We have only one defense before them besides
flight.”
“ What?”
He stared ahead, jaw tight, then he
murmured, “It is a death gift.”
I knotted my brow, and wanted to ask him to
explain, but the shadow in his eyes stopped me. Instead I said,
“Are we going to find them?”
He shook his head.
“ Why not?”
“ They might wait for us,
but it would be pointless for us to try to track them down. They
can’t help us now, not where we’re going. Master Syarat, whom we
spoke to the first night you were here, he told me where we must go
now.”
“ Where?”
He didn’t answer. I was getting used to his
silence and figured I could expect an answer to only half the
questions I asked – if I was lucky. He got abruptly to his feet,
hauling the cauldron off the fire and settling it in the sand to
cool off. The tiny fire had begun to dwindle. Just as I wondered if
he planned on letting it go out, he pulled a handful of dried brush
and twigs from a mound near the wall, and fed them carefully into
the embers. A fresh brightness filled the cave, with a warmth that
dispelled the night chill.
For the first time I noticed a few other
iron skillets and pots stacked by the far wall, next to a tall
stone urn and a few smaller clay jars. Yatol pulled out one of the
smaller pots, scouring it with sand and then filling it with water
from the urn. I wondered how long the water had been sitting there,
but decided it would probably be rude to ask.
With the pot set to heat over the low
flames, he dipped into a clay jar and scooped out a gourd full of
something that – from where I sat – seemed to resemble cornmeal. I
tried to guess what he was making. Grits? Corn pone? But he just
threw the stuff unceremoniously into the pot, swirling it around
with the ladle he had used to fish out my poultice. I grimaced.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t exactly the kitchen savvy kind of guy.
Still, I was so hungry that I didn’t really care what the stuff
tasted like.
I drifted back to sleep, then woke some
minutes later to find Yatol still crouched silently by the pot,
stabbing at it now and then with the ladle. I wondered if I should
offer to help, then decided watching him try to cook was more
amusing. Eventually he pulled two clay bowls from the stack of
cooking equipment, blew the dust out of them, and slopped in two
ladlefuls of…what was that, anyway? Gruel? He produced a couple of
spoon-shaped utensils from somewhere, wiped them off on his shirt,
and stuck one in each bowl.
He brought one over to me and deposited it
in my hands. I peered curiously at the contents. It looked kind of
like really lumpy, sticky grits. I tilted the bowl a little, but
the mass didn’t move. Suddenly I realized Yatol was still
He had gotten tortured. Really tortured. Not just the little
intimidation routine I’d been put through. The thought made me
sick. Before this, the concept had only existed for me in spy
movies and depressing news clips.
Yatol turned away abruptly. I wondered if
I’d offended him. For a long time I sat in silence, trying hard not
to stare at him. I couldn’t process the contradiction I saw in him.
The way he sat, the way he carried himself, body lean and muscled
but marred from so many wounds, even the hard impassive look in his
eyes – if that was all I could see of him I would have guessed him
to be much, much older. But his face was so young. I could hardly
imagine a way of life that would force someone that young to be so
strong. And I’d just made light of all the pain he’d suffered – for
me. To save my skin. Idiot.
“ I’m sorry,” I whispered. I
don’t know if he heard me. “Yatol, what are we doing? I saw the
others that night disappearing into the forest. Where are they
now?”
“ We flee the Ungulion when
we can,” he said, and his eyes flared, grim and bitter. “Yes, we
run away. We can’t fight them. Our army doesn’t possess any weapons
that can defeat them. We have only one defense before them besides
flight.”
“ What?”
He stared ahead, jaw tight, then he
murmured, “It is a death gift.”
I knotted my brow, and wanted to ask him to
explain, but the shadow in his eyes stopped me. Instead I said,
“Are we going to find them?”
He shook his head.
“ Why not?”
“ They might wait for us,
but it would be pointless for us to try to track them down. They
can’t help us now, not where we’re going. Master Syarat, whom we
spoke to the first night you were here, he told me where we must go
now.”
“ Where?”
He didn’t answer. I was getting used to his
silence and figured I could expect an answer to only half the
questions I asked – if I was lucky. He got abruptly to his feet,
hauling the cauldron off the fire and settling it in the sand to
cool off. The tiny fire had begun to dwindle. Just as I wondered if
he planned on letting it go out, he pulled a handful of dried brush
and twigs from a mound near the wall, and fed them carefully into
the embers. A fresh brightness filled the cave, with a warmth that
dispelled the night chill.
For the first time I noticed a few other
iron skillets and pots stacked by the far wall, next to a tall
stone urn and a few smaller clay jars. Yatol pulled out one of the
smaller pots, scouring it with sand and then filling it with water
from the urn. I wondered how long the water had been sitting there,
but decided it would probably be rude to ask.
With the pot set to heat over the low
flames, he dipped into a clay jar and scooped out a gourd full of
something that – from where I sat – seemed to resemble cornmeal. I
tried to guess what he was making. Grits? Corn pone? But he just
threw the stuff unceremoniously into the pot, swirling it around
with the ladle he had used to fish out my poultice. I grimaced.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t exactly the kitchen savvy kind of guy.
Still, I was so hungry that I didn’t really care what the stuff
tasted like.
I drifted back to sleep, then woke some
minutes later to find Yatol still crouched silently by the pot,
stabbing at it now and then with the ladle. I wondered if I should
offer to help, then decided watching him try to cook was more
amusing. Eventually he pulled two clay bowls from the stack of
cooking equipment, blew the dust out of them, and slopped in two
ladlefuls of…what was that, anyway? Gruel? He produced a couple of
spoon-shaped utensils from somewhere, wiped them off on his shirt,
and stuck one in each bowl.
He brought one over to me and deposited it
in my hands. I peered curiously at the contents. It looked kind of
like really lumpy, sticky grits. I tilted the bowl a little, but
the mass didn’t move. Suddenly I realized Yatol was still
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