Chapter Four

From a completed epic fantasy novel told across two time periods.

The Old Man

The world was frozen. The green and brown that broke through the white was muted, covered in frost. The only motion was his own steps. The old man marched on.

His journey was due north. He strode confidently, when in truth, he was surviving on nothing but the slightest bit of hope. He was a man who was easily consumed by duty, a flaw he was well aware of. One of his many. None of which he shied away from at this point in his life, if he ever had before.

He knew no one was following him. Years of experience told him that, but he did not need experience to be certain. Tracks would be glaringly obvious in the snow and there was no cover for miles. The entire continent was empty save for a handful of villages. And the rumor of a healer.

If he had been followed, the people in his wake would have been in for a shock when he turned around and they saw the creases that defined his face, and his white beard. The grace and strength with which he walked would have been unexpected on a man who had lived nearly seven decades. But the old man was full of surprises.

Covered head to toe in furs, his coat the grey of a beast unique to this part of the world, he was the only entity in motion now that the snowfall had ceased. On his back, an enormous brown canvas pack, once near to bursting with supplies, but now mostly empty. The journey had been lengthy, and his progress was diminished by wet snowfall which made it feel as though he was walking through thick mud. The snow boots he wore had not endured his travels well. They were held together now by knots of animal tendon he had spent hours carefully wrapping to prevent the seepage of snow and bitter cold. His first order of business upon reaching a village would be to replace them with a newer pair.

Besides his outerwear and pack, his only other visible possession was a two-handed sword, sheathed and laying tight across his back. Looking at him head on, the sword would be barely visible. Which would be a deadly oversight.

The map in his possession placed him less than twenty miles from a lake that supposedly housed a settlement. The man who had sold him the map admitted it was not up to date, but had assured him there were people living there. His destination was even further north, to a location not on the map. That was where a miraculous healer was purported to live. An herbalist with the skill to cure a deadly condition. Yet the old man was not ill. Despite the scars that lined his body, he was incredibly hale. His search was not for himself.

I have time. The phrase repeated as a prayer. And, as all prayers, a thought that he needed to be true.

He had travelled for months, completely alone. But even before this journey, he had been alone for a quite some time. He had lived without friends or family for so many years that he was disgusted by how comfortable he felt without another human presence. Though it had taken years, he had eventually developed the awareness that isolation was unhealthy. Yet it was a refuge for him. A safe haven away from the potential for loss.

The façade of emotional safety had been broken recently, and the old man was again faced with fear. He had the strength to name it fairly, and that was what it was. Fear. An all-encompassing fear of loss. A fear born from tragic experience.

I cannot let her down. She is my last link.

He paused upon the first sound to break the silence in hours, unsheathing his sword in a single motion. The blade glimmered. A figure rushing in from his peripheral vision. The old man swung, blade cutting through a swiping paw. A side step and another cut. The beast was dead. Blood gushed from its neck. The old man cleaned his sword on its grey fur. He knew not what to call this animal, the species who had attacked him multiple times on his journey. This continent had wildlife all its own, creatures he had never seen nor heard of. That the beast attacked without hesitation spoke to the scarcity of humanity in the region. It had paid for its ignorance with its life. It was not the first being to underestimate him, and he knew it would not be the last.

As good a place as any to make camp for the night, he thought. Scarred hands deftly crafted a fire pit, the concentration needed for the task a relief from the monotony of walking which left him trapped in his own mind. The skill he had demonstrated with a blade was not his only talent. Years of experience had honed his mind in cruel ways, and when the fire was ready, and the meat was roasting, he made an elaborate effort of checking every last article of supplies in his pack, any excuse to keep his mind away from his usual thread of thought. Therefore, rope was taughtened yet again, his meager possessions checked over, his blade oiled and sharpened, perishable goods resealed. A sole item remained at the bottom of the pack, but it would make an appearance before the night was over. It always did, much to his dismay.

After the meal, when he could think of no other tasks with which to occupy his mind, the old man reached into the bottom of the canvas bag. The light of the fire did not reach the darkness where he pushed his hand, but he did not need it. The object he grasped was precisely where he knew it would be. He pulled the circular silver charm out and took a deep breath. A click and a painting the size of a large coin was revealed. A portrait of a woman. The first of the old man’s many losses. He closed the charm and held it tightly as he slept, alone in the tundra.

He awoke before dawn. The morning air made him feel devastatingly ancient. But the old man could manage physical pain. The challenge was graciously accepted as he rose to meet the day. It promised to be a noteworthy one. He believed he would arrive at the last village the map vendor had spoken of, leading to his first interaction with other humans in months. Whether he wanted to or not, he would mull on that as he walked the final miles. His isolation would be ending. The thought should have been comforting. It was not.

His sleep had been fitful, as it often was. Now, in the creeping light of the early morning, he began the ritual that gave him his true rest. Withdrawing his sword from its scabbard, the old man’s expression shifted. A look of calm determination conquered the grimace which had covered his face. He closed his eyes and went through the motions that he knew by heart. Every step, every swing a note to a song he had written when he was a young man. It was a song he played through rainstorms and droughts, blizzards and sandstorms. The song was the part of the old man that he still loved, and he played every note to perfection. It was his way of managing the world, both the exterior world and the interior.

Time passed unmeasured and without concern. When he finished, he simply slid his blade back into its home. Then, the old man continued on his way, his steps lighter than should have been possible for one his age. In his subconscious, located deep, but within reach, a familiar sensation was blossoming, born from the knowledge that with human interaction came distinct possibilities for one such as he. And, the possibility he knew he wished for, though he did not give it life by stating it, was that he may have cause to use his skill. The old man lived to use the skill he possessed- his prowess with a blade.