Page 10 of The Chef

Char stifled any disappointment, refusing to allow such strange and unwarranted feelings to surface. Fendle would change his mind soon enough after all.

Ralph and Laura arrived before Char inadvertently let any of his swirling emotions or worries escape, both apparently on kitchen duty today as they each dropped a load of cut wood onto the pile. They were quickly followed by everyone else, and Char was glad to let assuaging rumbling stomachs distract him from the confusion that was Fendle.

Emptied bowls were just being stacked into a pile for washing when a commotion from farther up the beach had everyone turning to look. A group of about ten people on horses had ridden into the sprawling camp.

“Looks like we finally get to learn why we’re here,” someone muttered.

“Right,” Fendle called. “I’m going to head over and see what’s up. You all know what to do.” He glanced around until he found Jensen, his second in command, who nodded. Then Fendle’s eyes drifted over to Char. He smiled again, reigniting those butterflies Char had just banished, and then turned and strode off down the path.

Ralph and Laura gathered the dirty dishes and headed to the water. The rest of the group drifted off, although none of them went too far away. Char left them to it. His role was to cook, and he had potatoes to worry about.

He grabbed one potato per person, purposefully picking the ones with the green stems growing from multiple spots, as those needed to be eaten first. Char headed down to the water too, a few feet away from the splashing from the dishwashing, and used a small brush to scrub the skin of the potatoes clean. Gentle pressure from the pad of his thumb snapped off the stems, leaving behind only spots that would soften while cooking and be perfectly edible.

When he returned to the fire, Char dug out a protective mitt for his hands. Normally, he wouldn’t need the mitt, but they might be under surveillance, and Fendle had asked him not to reveal his abilities. He stuffed each potato deep into the ashes, under the rosy coals, where they would slowly bake over the next few hours. Char would have liked to wrap the potatoes first to keep the skin edible, but he was happy to make do with what they had on hand—which was lots and lots of potatoes. Closer to lunch he would do something with oil, meat, and mushrooms to give the illusion of a loaded potato, but for now he sat next to the fire and relaxed in its warmth.

Laura and Ralph returned and put away the cleaned dishes before drifting off to hover around the campsite with everyone else. They all carried tension in their shoulders as if expecting someone to sneak up behind them as they went about regular camp activities. Resetting tent stakes, airing out bedrolls, grooming horses, and other mundane, easy tasks were completed all while they kept looking over their shoulders, down toward the embankment, where Fendle had disappeared into a large tent along with the new arrivals and other group leaders.

Char sighed and sat up. He ought to wander down to the onion patch. Sautéed onions and mushrooms would be a good topping for his potatoes for both lunch and dinner. And now that he was thinking about onions, it wouldn’t be too difficult to knock together an onion soup for dinner. If he ground up some of the dried pasta and used oil, he could make an approximation of a roux. The soup wouldn’t be as flavorful as he would have liked without wine or nutmeg, but he did have rosemary which wasn’t traditional but was an acceptable substitute since it would punch up the flavor. Cutting all the onions would take almost as long as actually cooking, but it would provide a different texture and experience to dinner than just mashed potatoes.

Decided, Char stood and dusted off his pants, ready to go harvest lots of onions. A shout from the direction of the command tent echoed through the valley, the actual words muffled. A second shout was followed by people erupting from the tent, group leaders dashing in the direction of their camps.

“Gather up!” Jensen called, striding into the cleared central area of their camp. Everyone joined him except for Jeorgi and Clarise, who ran to the horses to start removing their hobbles. Char hung back, staying by the fire, but he was close enough to join them in watching the path.

Fendle didn’t appear. The other leaders all made it to their camps and their yelling galvanized their people to start moving, but there was no sign of Fendle having left the command tent. And Char suddenly knew what was about to happen wouldn’t be good.

Chapter Six

CHAR SWALLOWED HARD, craning his neck to see whether Fendle might have gone to another camp momentarily, but a glance over at Jensen saw him frowning. Clarise started leading the horses over to their owners, and still Fendle didn’t appear.

“Traitors! Liars!” Tarken yelled as he strode into view on the path. His fighters ranged behind him, quickly joined by the other groups.

“Mount up,” Jensen called, even as Char moved farther back, almost to the second fire near the tents.

The sharp sliding sound of metal rang out as swords were unsheathed, but Char could practically feel the nerves of his group. There were only a dozen of them—less since two were on sentry duty and Fendle was missing—against all the other companies. This wasn’t a fight they could win, but they didn’t have a choice but to try, and Char would have to watch.

Jensen always had a horn hanging from his hip; Char hadn’t wondered why before now, but he brought it to his lips and blew three short blasts followed by a pause and three more.

The horn appeared to enrage Tarken since he roared. The mercenaries roared back and started to run, and the battle was on.

Char couldn’t do anything to help. He was a chef, not a soldier. His skill with blades was exclusive to the kitchen. He didn’t know the first thing about fighting, and if he tried, he knew he would only get in the way. Yet standing around and waiting wasn’t really an option either. He might not be able to aid Jensen, Char decided firmly, but perhaps he could do something for Fendle.

He dashed into the woods where the trees and brush provided cover from the advancing fighters. The way was densely packed, Char fighting through tangling vines and spiked thorns. He tried to stay parallel to the lake so he didn’t lose his direction. He also attempted to be quiet, but it was impossible when he was thrusting past branches and stepping on invisible sticks beneath the bed of crunchy leaves underfoot. Luckily, Jensen blew the horn again—three blasts followed by a break and then three more blasts—and that sound combined with the starting clangs of steel against steel as the two forces met helped conceal his noise.

The command tent where Fendle had gone was close to the entrance of the clearing around the lake. Char didn’t know how much time had passed before he saw the tents of Tarken’s camp through the trees. His heart was beating in his throat as he turned and crept closer. He carefully lowered a branch, peeking through the abundant leaves.

Four people were milling about in the middle of the camp. Three were wearing red-dyed and fitted leather and looked important. They carried swords at their hips, but Char was used to seeing his group of fighters every day; despite the swords, these three didn’t stand like people who knew their way around a blade. The fourth was wearing the sky-blue and black patch of the Cannibals—Tarken’s group—and appeared to be waiting on the other three. A glance at the tent revealed two more people,likely guards since both were wearing leather armor topped with metal vambrace and greaves, standing on either side of the entrance.

Char would not be getting in that way. However, he didn’t see anyone else nearby. He slid out between the trees, crouching low and scuttling to the back of the tent. He fumbled his belt knife when he pulled it free, got a better grip, and thrust it into the canvas. Even though it was only an eating knife, Char kept all of his blades in peak slicing condition just in case. The heavy canvas split easily.

Another horn sounded: four blasts, a break, then another four blasts. And then a massive roar erupted, as if hundreds of people were answering the call of that horn. The forest was suddenly full of people a second later, all of them dashing into the camp. Char hurriedly dragged his knife down the rest of the way and slid through the gap, stepping into the darkened interior of the tent.

At first, he didn’t see anyone inside and for a horrible moment Char worried Fendle had been moved elsewhere and all his efforts were a waste. Then he saw the body lying on the ground. His heart stopped and Char let out a sharp gasp, but his eyes were adjusting to the dim space, and he realized the body’s chest was rising and falling. Both of the body’s hands and feet were bound with rope. Char was still shaking as he crept closer, immediately recognizing Fendle’s blond hair. His hazel eyes were open and furious, but they widened in surprise when he saw Char step into view.

“I really am glad I decided not to kill you,” he whispered as Char carefully slid his knife into the ropes, sawing until Fendle’s wrists were freed.

Before Char could reply “Me too,” light flashed as the tent flaps opened. Char squeaked and accidentally dropped the knife.

“Looks like your lucky streak just ended,” someone said as he stepped inside, his tone smarmy with just the wrong amount of slime. He cut off with a sharp swear, and Char looked up in time to see him draw his sword.

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