The Broken Jar (2 page)

“They dip all their blades in poison. Needed to counteract it or he would have surely died.”

The lord glanced up the street. A few people had come from their homes and stood watching but none dared near, especially not when soldiers were involved. Most shrunk back into their homes at his attention. “You’re not the apothecary?”

“No.”

“Soldier then,” he said, watching my face with hard eyes. “Medic.” He said the word with a hint of derision.

“Of a sort,” I answered. I did not bother to tell him that without this
medic
,
his soldier would surely have died. Baldon would have been useless.

He turned away from me in a clear dismissal. “Gather Nerim,” he commanded the remaining soldiers. “We’ll stay here for the night. We ride for Tellis in the morning.”

I considered telling him that the man needed more than just one night of rest but knew it would not matter. Not to a lord like this. I had seen his kind before, always pressing the attack, never thinking about the implications. Arrogance and indifference made him blind, thinking only of the wealth to be gained overtaking Pells. Men like this – and me – had been the reason so many had died.

“Be sure he drinks. Water, not ale or wine,” I told the soldier still holding pressure on the wound. “Needs to flush the poison.”

The man nodded and soon the other soldiers lifted the man and rested him across his saddle. They rode off without another word, never offering thanks.

Only then did I notice that they had ridden over my satchel. I glanced inside but everything was damaged or otherwise completely destroyed. Only my mortar and pestle, Pells made and sturdy, remained unbroken. Even if I could reach Tellis, I had nothing of value.
 

The walk home took longer than expected. The road out of Nys opened onto wide grassland, tall stretches of simple field grass mixed with noley and rye. Occasional clumps of trees, olive and ash, dotted the countryside. I stopped at each, ignoring the growing heat of the day and not minding the missing tunic, as I carefully searched for value.

Ana had the better eye. Always had. Though that had nearly as much to do with her Pells training than anything else. I knew I should simply go home first, but wanted to gather as much as I could near Nys before I did.
 

I knew she would not be disappointed. Not that she would tell me, at least. Ever since I saw her within her village, the children running and playing, women cooking and sewing, the men watching over it all, I had loved her. Perhaps the carefree smile. Perhaps the graceful way she stepped. Perhaps her laugh. All of it swept away rational thought.

They had welcomed me. An outsider sent to scout, to survey and learn the land. To kill. In spite of the war, they had welcomed me.

I never learned why.

When the troops swept down on her village, it was all I could do to ferry her away. They were not my troops. Not my men. My men would never have attacked as those soldiers did. My men would not have turned a quiet full moon night into a slaughter of innocents.

Those are the lies I tell even to myself.

I will never forget the screams of the women, the helpless crying of the children, or the chilling way both were silenced. Ashon soldiers, all of them. One wearing a plumed helm so much like the lord in Nys leading the charge.

Ana and I escaped. We never learned what happened to the rest of her people, though neither of us were naïve enough to look for survivors.

I took care of the soldiers.

Afterward, I promised never to use
that
knowledge again.

Since then, we have tried to start our lives anew. Shaking the memories of the war proved difficult, nearly impossible. At least while we still lived here.

Eventually I reached the small stone house. Set far off the road in a copse of ash and alder, we had found it abandoned. Whether because it was too close to the border or because of rumors of Pells raiders, we did not care. We made it our home.

The privacy of the trees provided protection as well. More than once early on we had hurried deeper into the woods when we thought we heard soldiers advancing nearby. Nearly two months had passed since that had been necessary. We began to believe that the war really was over.

Today even the birds were quiet. A sense of stillness hung over the clearing. Smoke drifted from the chimney, hanging in a fog over the clearing. I smelled something burning as I approached. There was something more, something I could not quite place. Only later would I fully understand what it was that I sensed.

I walked past the stretched hides and the small screen Ana set out for her papermaking. With the heat of the day, I was surprised Ana was not outside working, waiting for me. I dreaded telling her of my failure, the herbs destroyed, but at least I had a few more coins to add to our jar.

I circled around to the door and walked inside. Burnt bread roasted in the fire and the small table I had made was overturned. Herbs Ana collected that morning scattered across the floor, a collection I instantly realized was more valuable than what I had managed on my walk back home. The clay jar where we stored our coins, watching it grow until we were convinced we could afford transport, lay shattered on the ground.
 

I remembered the care Ana put into crafting it, carefully painting the jar with pictures of our imagined future. Now all the coins were gone. Our future was gone.

I looked quickly through the small house but still did not find Ana. A growing sense of worry knotted my stomach and mixed with the burning bread to make bile rise in my throat.

“Ana!” I yelled.

Somehow I already knew I would not get a response.

As I walked from the house, I first wondered where she had gone. I stood at her filters, looking at the pages of drying paper, thinking of what might have made her run off. One thing came to mind.
 

Soldiers.

I turned slowly, looking around the clearing. Only then did I see the end of a slippered foot lying near the trees.
 

Ana lay bent, face down on the ground, the golden linen dress she had made torn, exposing her thighs and buttocks. I kneeled in front of her, rolling her so that I could see her face.
 

“Ana?”
 

I repeated the question but need not have.
 

I did not need to check to see if her heart still beat.

I barely heard the sounds I made. A soft moan followed my cry.
 

Crystal blue eyes stared blankly at me. Her dark hair was matted but I stroked it anyway, pushing it from her face one last time. Blood soaked the front of her dress between her legs and I wailed again.
 

A short handled knife dropped from her grip. Blood stained the blade. A Pells’ blade.

I fell to the ground in agony.

Dusk fell by the time I finished burying my Ana. I marked the grave with the remnants of the clay jar, the painted dreams mocking me.
 

A small fire crackled, more for light than for heat. I sat staring into the night. Dark thoughts filled my head, angry and unyielding.

In spite of all that I had done, I still had not managed to save her.
 

I glanced at the broken jar sitting atop the mound of dirt, our dreams gone with it, stolen from us as Ana was stolen from me.
 

And all for what? For a war now over? It had changed nothing, other than our lives.

She deserved better than this.
 

I do not remember collecting the herbs from the floor of the house and refilling my satchel. I do not remember the walk back to town or my preparations along the water.

All I remember is the rage I felt knowing Ana would never smile at me again.

The woods west of Nys swallowed the road. Large branches swung overhead, threatening to block out the sun. A few birds chirped weakly, but I knew that soon even they would fall silent. Their sacrifice could not be helped.

I walked slowly along the road, knowing I would not miss them. They would be near the water, the small pond perfect for drinking. The poison spilled into the water last night unseen and untasted. Not far from where the hard packed road curved and bent around the water’s edge, I smelled them.

A mixture of shit and vomit coated the air. The stench barely registered.

Two were already dead when I reached them, crushed by horses that still twitched and kicked as they drew their last breaths. One was the soldier I had tried to heal, the poison spread throughout his body. The other was the man who had helped me, handing me the water and holding pressure on the wound.

I did not mourn their deaths.

I stalked past, ignoring the dying twitches of the horses, feeling a moment of remorse.

The lord lay motionless on the road, muscles paralyzed. His eyes still moved, though, and he saw me approach. Part of me wondered what he thought.
 

A pile of chunky vomit lay near his head, his tanned face resting half in it. The dark plume stained with filth as it rested upon the ground.
 

I tilted his head so that he didn’t drown.
 

I ignored him for a moment and reached into his saddlebags, searching for a moment before I found what I was looking for. There, a small pouch clinked as I removed it. I found another, nearly as heavy. Both went into my satchel.

The two other soldiers lay near the lord. Apparently unharmed and lucky; their horses had thrown them first. I slashed Ana’s knife across their throats.

Blood spurted out, taking their life silently, the poison from the pond stealing their capacity to fight.

Returning to the lord, I removed his helm and chest plate. He watched me, eyes flickering with each movement. I said nothing until he was completely undressed. Then I crouched in front of him, putting my face in view of his eyes.

“I was never a medic,” I said. “A scout. An assassin.” I spat the last. “But the war was over.
It was over
. And you did this.” I shook my head, rage taking hold of my words. “It would have been better had you hid her body. Instead, I had to see how you ravaged her first.”
 

The lord blinked. The poison was wearing off. That was good.

“H-how?” he croaked.

His voice came out weak but I heard the question anyway.

I sat him up so he could see and pointed to the pond. “The water. Always the water. All men need to drink.”
 

It was the same way I’d killed those responsible for Ana’s village. The poison worked quickly and needed such a small amount to work, poisoning the nerves but letting a man still breathe. The body tried to reject it causing the vomiting and diarrhea, but never fast enough.
 

I saw his fingers begin to twitch as he flexed them. His back suddenly tensed against me so I let him go. His head slapped into his own vomit.

“We just wanted to get away. That’s all. Away from the brutality.”
 

Now I would have to start anew without Ana. With the coins weighing heavy in my satchel, now more than I would have needed for us to leave Ashon, somehow I would have to make it right, stop the killing. Make right by Ana.

“Bar—“ the man started to say.

I leaned forward.

“Barbarian,” he finished.

I thought of Ana’s exquisite face, her wide smile, and her grace. All gone, taken from me.

Then I nodded. “Yes. I am.”

I took Ana’s knife and sliced deeply across his belly.
 

About the author:

D.K. Holmberg currently lives in rural Minnesota where the winter cold and the summer mosquitoes keep him inside and writing. He has a beautiful wife and two wonderful children, all three being much more than he deserves.