What the River Owes: The Debt Repaid

The mud of the washed-out road clung to the wagon wheels like thick, wet mortar. Jost threw his shoulder against the timber. His boots slipped in the muck, and his chest heaved until the axle finally tore free with a wet, sucking lurch. Beside him, Volkmar let out a colorful string of curses that bled into a breathless, exhausted laugh.

They rolled on from the Strutting Cock with the wagon bed crowded by fish crates and the Handler family. Jost walked and rode by turns as their bargain demanded. His spear hand rested near his belt, and the ache in his back served as a dull reminder of the road's toll. In the back of the wagon, wedged tightly among the cargo, Gretchen slept against her mother’s shoulder. The girl was worn paper-thin by a week that had demanded too much of her. Janderke would wait for the repair to the boat, then take the boat on the swollen Stir to Gersdorf and meet them there. Jost knew it that trip would carried its own dangers for the young man, but sensed Janderke was up to the task. It would be a “race," adding an element of thrill to the task to be certain.

Distracted by the rhythm of the wheels, the flat gray sky, and Gretchen’s occasional sleep-mumbles, Jost kept his eyes trained forward. He never looked back at the tree line.

Half a mile behind them, a lone rider held a steady pace. The figure sat motionless in the saddle and watched the wagon crawl along the rutted track for the better part of an hour. Then, the rider turned their mount and vanished into the gloom. They departed unremarked and unexplained.

By the time Gersdorf’s silhouettes broke the horizon, the relief in the wagon was palpable. Janderke received the Jost and the wagon's cargo with smile from the door of the Green Calf, only steps from the Handler's home. Heidi's door opened to receive a family finally, fully whole, with mended clothing still strung beneath the eave. There was no purse of gold to offer in thanks, as the mended, careful household had nothing of the sort to spare. But when Emmerich grasped Jost and Janderke's hands, the grip was fierce and sincere.

“You'll both always have a bed here," the man said, his voice thick with emotion. “And bread, if the road ever brings you back this way."

That night, the Green Calf was thick with pipe smoke and tired bodies. Jost bought a round of cheap ale to draw out the locals, but his attempts earned him nothing but grunts and friendly, useless talk about the weather. Janderke was left with nothing to do but nurse his cup and listen, and he proved to have a sharper ear.

He leaned close to Jost over the scarred table. “They’re already talking about the Cock," the boy murmured. “Sounds like a tavern tale already, and half of it is exaggerated." Janderke took a slow sip, his eyes scanning the room. “But there’s something else beneath it. It is the same whisper we heard before. The Baron is cross with his liege, and they say the greenskins are stirring deeper in the Great Forest. There are more of them than usual for the season."

Morning brought a grim reality. Jost stood on the riverbank, reading the fresh mud line a half-foot above where the water had sat the night before. The Stir was an angry, swelling brown muscle. Current built steadily in the center, dragging heavy debris downstream.

Janderke stood beside him, his professional eye confirming the bad news. “Another day or two before she settles," the boy said. “Rowing home to Tauer against that is a fool's wager."

Better to leave the boat where trust already ran deep. The Handlers took her into their care without hesitation. They tied her up near Manann's modest shrine. The pile of river-stones and a rusted anchor made a fitting guardian for a vessel that owed the god of the sea at least that much gratitude.

There remained the matter of Janderke's mother and brother, waiting blindly for news. Neither Jost nor Janderke could write, and handing a stranger a coin to deliver a verbal message was a sure way to lose the coin. But Volkmar had sold his barrel and would be bound for Krugenheim that morning, and he had bled and sweated alongside them. He was no stranger anymore.

Jost pressed a few coins into the carter's calloused hand. He promised to cover Volkmar's tab for a night in the Black Anchorage's fine common room in exchange for a return ride.

Volkmar gruffly pushed back Jost's hand. “Your company is not to bad. But," looking at the younger Janderke and nodding, “he'll be your extra shoulder if we find another washout."

Before Volkmar’s wagon rolled out, Jost found a quiet bench near the docks and gestured for Janderke to sit. He stared out at the swollen river for a long time before speaking.

“I haven't seen my own mother in better than twenty winters," Jost said quietly. It was the most unguarded thing he had said all week. “She was a serf. I suspect she’s already dead, though I don’t know for certain." He looked at the boy, seeing the restless energy there. “Whatever adventure you think you're owed, it might not be owed yet. Sixteen's not old, Janderke. There's time enough for the Grey Mountains later. Wait until your mother doesn't need you standing this close to home."

The road to Krugenheim was a miserable, muddy slog. A second washout caught them by midday, forcing both men into muck up to their knees. They threw their full weight against a mired wheel until their muscles screamed.

By evening, the imposing, busy walls of Krugenheim rose ahead, dwarfing Gersdorf by a wide margin. They sought out the Black Anchorage. The establishment lived up to its mixed reputation: the cutlery was atrocious, the common room was genuinely fine, and the card games in the corner were far from honest. Jost discovered this fact the expensive way when he watched his hard-earned coins vanish into a smirking stranger's purse.

Janderke, meanwhile, discovered the potent bite of Ostermark mead. He embraced the revelation far too enthusiastically for a boy who would desperately need his wits the following dawn.

Morning arrived with brutal indifference. Jost's coin purse was terrifyingly light, and Janderke looked the color of old porridge, clutching his head at every sudden noise. They spent the better part of the morning scouring the docks and taverns. An innkeeper shrugged off Jost’s questions. A barmaid shook her head, oblivious to the news they needed. At the docks, passage home proved elusive. Jost cornered a wary wagon driver and nearly won the man over by dropping Volkmar’s name as a reference, but the driver’s suspicion ultimately won out.

Janderke’s efforts were worse. Slurring through a lingering headache, he approached a group of hardened boatmen. His pitch was so incoherent they simply laughed in his face and walked away.

By midday, the string of failures had made the decision for them. There was no ride to Tauer waiting in Krugenheim. There was only the road ahead, and two very tired men left to walk it.