The Forever Knight: A Novel of the Bronze Knight (Books of the Bronze Knight) by John Marco

her. “What’s that mean?”
    “It means she can’t remember,” I said. “She’s forgotten everything. What do you think can make someone forget everything they know, Marilius?”
    “Damned if I know,” said Marilius.
    “Damned sounds about right to me,” I said, and kept on riding.
    *   *   *
    The rest of that day we met not a single traveler on the road. We stopped as needed but made steady progress through the afternoon, all of us keeping our questions to ourselves. Malator continued to ignore my efforts to rouse him. I didn’t know if Akari ever got sick, but now I was worried. It wasn’t just a foul mood keeping him quiet this time. This time, he’d pushed himself too far. Both Cricket and Marilius rode in a sort of bored trance. I fixed my mind on Malator.
    I can feel you
,
Malator
, I said, imagining myself deep inside the sword.
Just tell me you’re all right, and I’ll let you sleep.
    For a long moment there was nothing. Then, at last, he stirred.
    Sleep . . .
    I chuckled to myself. “Good!”
    Cricket perked up. “What’s good?”
    “Malator. He’s . . .” I stopped myself. Marilius stared at me, puzzled. “Nothing.”
    “Talking to your ghost friend, Lukien?” he asked.
    “Keep riding, Norvan,” I replied. Then, quietly in my head, I said to Malator,
Just sleep now. We’ll talk soon
.
    He slipped away like a drowsy child. The sun disappeared behind incoming clouds. I peered at the darkening horizon, surprised to see another group traveling toward us.
    “Look,” said Cricket. “People!”
    Next to me, Marilius stiffened. His gaze narrowed as they came into view.
    “Soldiers?” I ventured.
    “No,” said Marilius. He dropped his guard with a sigh. “Refugees.”
    Next to me, Cricket went white. A single ox-drawn wagon shambled toward us, piled high with furniture, bundles of clothing, dilapidated crates—all manner of belongings. A dozen people trudged alongside it, thick with the dust of the road. Atop the wagon, teetering at the pinnacle of their possessions, sat a single, lonely child.
    “Where are they from?” asked Cricket. She looked at Marilius. “Do you know?”
    Marilius shrugged. “Could be anywhere. Maybe Drin. Or Kasse.”
    “Maybe Akyre?”
    “Sure, maybe.”
    “No sense in wondering,” I said and rode forward.
    The refugees stopped as we approached, bringing their pair of oxen to a halt. Three men gathered to greet me, shielding the others. I counted thirteen in all, at least four of them women. The boy—I could tell now he was a boy—was the only child among them. His blank eyes studied me behind a mask of grime. I raised a hand in greeting.
    “Heading west?”
    The group looked me over. A single man in a torn brown hat stepped forward, his grizzled face flaked with sunburn. He had farmer’s hands, hammy with great big knuckles.
    “You coming from that way?” he asked.
    “That’s right,” I replied. No matter where they come from, refugees only want to know one thing. “No troubles on the road. Should be safe for you.”
    His forehead crinkled. “You from Norvor? You sound like a Norvan.”
    “I’ve spent some time there,” I answered. “We’re bound for Zura. You?”
    The man wilted at the question. “Anywhere safe that’ll take us. It’s good you’re heading east. Stay clear of the north. Diriel’s soldiers crossed the border. Took over both our farms, took our livestock ’cept for these two.” The man’s face twitched, on the verge of tears. “Torched the house.”
    Now I could see these were two different families. Neighbors, probably, who’d taken everything they could with them.
    “Are you from Akyre?” asked Cricket. She didn’t address the men, though. Instead she spoke directly to the boy. The man with the hat answered for him.
    “We’re from Kasse.”
    “Southeast of Akyre,” Marilius explained. “On the border. They’ve been warring with King Diriel for a year.”
    “No more,” said the man.