Free Scriber by Ben S. Dobson Page A

face.
    I was pulling a change of clothes from my chest in the back of the wagon when Josia Kellen approached me. I did not notice her immediately, until she spoke my name in a thin, broken voice.
    “What is it, Josia?” I asked, annoyed at this latest interruption. “If you’re here to talk about the Commander, I had nothing to do with his recovery. I’m busy.”
    “You saw her do it, didn’t you?”
    “Saw what, Josia? I don’t—”
    “You saw her kill my Hareld.”
    I was taken aback by the dangerous edge in her voice. She did not sound like the kindly, overly talkative woman I knew. “Josia, he was trying to kill me. Bryndine stopped him.”
    Josia cocked her head, as though listening to something far away, and for a moment, I thought I heard the faint sound of whispering—but no, it was nothing, just wind in the trees.
    “He wouldn’t!” she insisted. “She murdered him!”
    She had lost her home and her husband in a single night; she deserved sympathy, more than any of the others did. But this was dangerous talk. Bryndine was the King’s niece, and while her reputation led to a good deal of insults and mockery, Josia sounded as though she was on the verge of attacking with more than just words.
    I climbed down from the wagon to speak with her. “Josia, I’m sorry. This must be… hard for you.” I tried to make my voice comforting, but it sounded unconvincing even to me. “But Hareld… he was—”
    “He wasn’t with them !” she shrieked, wrenching herself from my grasp. She backed away several steps, staring at me with tears in her eyes. “I thought you would understand. You saw it.”
    Again, I thought I heard a quiet whisper in my ear—it sounded like “ Vengeance ”. It isn’t real , I told myself. I’m imagining it. But I saw Josia’s eyes go wide as she turned away from me.
    “Josia, wait!” But she didn’t stop, and I couldn’t follow—it felt too much like giving in to the voices I was hearing, admitting they were real.
    I was certain that she couldn’t have actually heard the whispers—there were no whispers to hear. Whatever was happening to me, it was only in my head; it had to be. But still, I resolved to warn Bryndine when I spoke with her, for Josia’s sake. If she did try anything stupid, Bryndine could probably subdue her without harm.
    When I had changed my clothing, I went to find Bryndine. She and her company had built up their own fire on the outskirts of the main camp, though I did not know if they were avoiding the other soldiers or if the other soldiers were avoiding them. Several women loitered around the fire talking; others were busy seeing to the horses, sharpening weapons, and doing various menial tasks. I still had not gotten a clear count of their numbers, but my earlier estimate of about twenty seemed accurate.
    As I approached the fire, I recognized a few of the women around it. Sylla stared sullenly into the flames as she sharpened her longsword, and I wondered why she was not with Bryndine. Genna sat with two other women—a slim redheaded woman I recognized from the battle in Waymark, and a wildhaired blonde who was telling a story full of extremely foul language. The last woman I knew was Tenille, who stood with her back to the fire, speaking to two younger women who immediately moved to follow whatever order they had been given.
    Tenille saw me coming before the others. “Dennon,” she greeted me. “I’m glad to see you on your feet again.” The women around the fire turned towards me, save for Genna, who focused her eyes on the ground in front of her.
    “What happened to you anyway, Scriber?” asked the foulmouthed blond woman. “You were screamin’ like a cut-rate whore, I thought one of the village girls was havin’ a little fun watchin’ the fight. Some folk, the danger gets them goin’.” She grinned at me and I felt my cheeks redden.
    Genna’s face flushed redder still. “Orya!” she squeaked, horrified.
    Orya just