punch, Stavro had just finished getting Thorvin into the wheelbarrow. When Stavro turned and saw Shirley unconscious on the ground, he said, “Aw, come on!” He was already sick of this day.
As Relan ran north, he thought he might have just learned some kind of lesson. The confusion, the pain in his heart, the feeling of being totally inadequate to the moment–yes, that’s what it always felt like when he’d learned a lesson before. But it wouldn’t be until years later that he would be sure.
17
After Relan left the city, he followed wolf tracks north for the better part of the day. He ran to the point of exhaustion, trying to put the shame of hitting Sabriella, Shirley–whatever such a woman should be called–behind him. At the time, he had been certain that she was going to stab him. But now, he had doubts. Maybe she had just been scared. Relan knew he was scared, deep down, in that part of him that wasn’t fit to be a Hero. But even if she had tried to kill him, a real Hero would have found a way to deal with it without hitting her.
All in all, Adventure wasn’t turning out like he had expected, that was for sure. It wasn’t excitement or Glory. More than anything, it was sore feet. The fine new boots that had looked so good in Boltac’s store had started to gnaw at him as soon as he made it into the woods.
• • •
As the day wore on, Relan’s self-criticism grew sharper, and his pace grew slower. Now he was spending more time resting than limping. Finally, he gave up on the boots, pulled them off, and tossed them in the heavy sack he alternately carried and dragged behind him. Even with feet blistered raw, it hurt less to walk barefoot.
And why not? He had gone barefoot in warm weather ever since he was a boy. The only boots he had ever known were animal hides wrapped around his legs with leather strips to protect him from the deep mountain snow. And today was good weather. A fine day, except for the memory of the sack of Robrecht haunting him. It was bad enough to see the burned-out husks and buildings, the common folk nursing their wounded and wrapping their dead in shrouds. But the memory of how that thing had felt dying on the other end of his sword was worse.
He had wanted a sword so badly. But now that he had one, it hung heavy on his hip, pulling him around to the left. After the day’s walking, he could feel a pain in his left knee and hip. Every time his hand brushed the cold steel of the hilt he shuddered.
But he had saved a man’s life! And the thing he had killed hadn’t even been human. Then why did he still feel awful when he remembered how the Orc’s rattling last breath had felt transmitted through the hilt of the sword? Didn’t saving Boltac make him a Hero? Is this the way that Heroes were supposed to feel?
Relan wanted to give up. He had made little or no progress, other than punching a woman. But he kept going. If there was one thing he thought he knew about this business of Heroism, it was that Heroes didn’t give up. Even when things got hard. No, Heroes pressed on. Saw it through to the bitter end. And sometimes, yes, even died Heroic deaths. But, was he a Hero? Or was he the other kind of man? The ones they didn’t write songs about. The ones who took their boots off.
Relan hung his head and concentrated on putting one bare, calloused foot in front of the other. He didn’t raise his head for a long time. Not even when he heard the rattle of a carriage and the heavy footfalls of draft horses on the road behind him. He just set his jaw and walked on, prepared to walk off the edge of the earth if that’s what it took.
“Climb on, idiot,” said a familiar voice.
Relan turned to see the Merchant, fat and happy, holding the reins of the Duke’s Carriage.
“What? How?”
“Not only am I smart enough not to pick a shitty pair of boots. I’m also smart enough not to walk when I can ride.”
“Unlike you, I am not running away.”
“Sweetheart, you are
As Relan ran north, he thought he might have just learned some kind of lesson. The confusion, the pain in his heart, the feeling of being totally inadequate to the moment–yes, that’s what it always felt like when he’d learned a lesson before. But it wouldn’t be until years later that he would be sure.
17
After Relan left the city, he followed wolf tracks north for the better part of the day. He ran to the point of exhaustion, trying to put the shame of hitting Sabriella, Shirley–whatever such a woman should be called–behind him. At the time, he had been certain that she was going to stab him. But now, he had doubts. Maybe she had just been scared. Relan knew he was scared, deep down, in that part of him that wasn’t fit to be a Hero. But even if she had tried to kill him, a real Hero would have found a way to deal with it without hitting her.
All in all, Adventure wasn’t turning out like he had expected, that was for sure. It wasn’t excitement or Glory. More than anything, it was sore feet. The fine new boots that had looked so good in Boltac’s store had started to gnaw at him as soon as he made it into the woods.
• • •
As the day wore on, Relan’s self-criticism grew sharper, and his pace grew slower. Now he was spending more time resting than limping. Finally, he gave up on the boots, pulled them off, and tossed them in the heavy sack he alternately carried and dragged behind him. Even with feet blistered raw, it hurt less to walk barefoot.
And why not? He had gone barefoot in warm weather ever since he was a boy. The only boots he had ever known were animal hides wrapped around his legs with leather strips to protect him from the deep mountain snow. And today was good weather. A fine day, except for the memory of the sack of Robrecht haunting him. It was bad enough to see the burned-out husks and buildings, the common folk nursing their wounded and wrapping their dead in shrouds. But the memory of how that thing had felt dying on the other end of his sword was worse.
He had wanted a sword so badly. But now that he had one, it hung heavy on his hip, pulling him around to the left. After the day’s walking, he could feel a pain in his left knee and hip. Every time his hand brushed the cold steel of the hilt he shuddered.
But he had saved a man’s life! And the thing he had killed hadn’t even been human. Then why did he still feel awful when he remembered how the Orc’s rattling last breath had felt transmitted through the hilt of the sword? Didn’t saving Boltac make him a Hero? Is this the way that Heroes were supposed to feel?
Relan wanted to give up. He had made little or no progress, other than punching a woman. But he kept going. If there was one thing he thought he knew about this business of Heroism, it was that Heroes didn’t give up. Even when things got hard. No, Heroes pressed on. Saw it through to the bitter end. And sometimes, yes, even died Heroic deaths. But, was he a Hero? Or was he the other kind of man? The ones they didn’t write songs about. The ones who took their boots off.
Relan hung his head and concentrated on putting one bare, calloused foot in front of the other. He didn’t raise his head for a long time. Not even when he heard the rattle of a carriage and the heavy footfalls of draft horses on the road behind him. He just set his jaw and walked on, prepared to walk off the edge of the earth if that’s what it took.
“Climb on, idiot,” said a familiar voice.
Relan turned to see the Merchant, fat and happy, holding the reins of the Duke’s Carriage.
“What? How?”
“Not only am I smart enough not to pick a shitty pair of boots. I’m also smart enough not to walk when I can ride.”
“Unlike you, I am not running away.”
“Sweetheart, you are
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