The three in the cart stared hard at the dead Phoebus. Its neck was bent and the hafts of two arrows protruded from the huge head.
“Tom, I guess what you heard was right,” Rand said. “Good shooting, Bree. Real good.” He sat down quickly as sweat beaded on his forehead.
“Thank you for trusting me,” she said. “I told you lies in the past. I’m glad you believed me today.”
Sean stared at the bird then whooped. “A’right, can we eat this thing?”
They all laughed, including Tom, who answered, “Tough, would be my thinking. Settle for a few biscuits and more dried fish?”
Breanna pulled her arrows from the bird, wiped the dark blood off, and scrubbed the tips with some of the road sand. When she was content that all signs of the gigantic scavenger were gone, she returned them to the quiver. Little Kit was much happier when the pouch where he slept was clean. The fox had been quiet since the beginning of the journey, for his natural fear of large predators made him hide.
On the road, she found Rand staring at her, his face set in a question.
“What?” she asked, hoping the time had not yet come. She wasn’t ready to betray the secrets she was entrusted with by her mother’s friends.
“I was thinking maybe you should be the one to go hunting for us. But keep your birds no larger than a chicken.”
She laughed hard, her giggles suddenly burbling up, taking her breath away. Rand and Sean slapped each other on the back in uncontrolled mirth, both relieved the danger had passed. Tom grinned as he drove the oxen, glad to hear the young people’s laughter after so much tension. It was good to be alive.
The rest of the day was tiring. An acrid wind blew, burning their faces; every now and again they would see a Kruk off in the distance, but each time it was running away from them, its big bottom bouncing across the sand hills through tall weeds. The Qadra Sea boundaries came and went, streams flowed from the feet of mountains, and still they traveled, searching for Parth and the evil residing there. They had no plan, for after all, what chances did a tinker, a ship’s captain, a girl, and a boy have against mordants, spells, witches, and even the Spectre himself?
Three rivers flowed near Parth: the ice-chunked Iree from north of Ice Mountain, the Spohn, a saltwater river with its beginnings at the Qadra Sea, and the Smoke, the large, flowing body of black water that began at Ebon Falls and snaked across the eastern prairies toward the North Sea. Each of the rivers was large and remarkable, but when the three merged near the hamlet of Parth, they became a gigantic shipping lane called the Beltick Seaway.
“Any and every language is spoken in the harbor towns,” said Captain Rand, who had been a first mate on one of the large ships that regularly sailed forth and back from the Beltick Seaway to the Great North Sea. “We can go to Tick, the town I remember, and make a plan with some fellows I know.”
“Think we’ll get any help?” Tom asked with his eyes on the roadway. He was still amazed by the oxen’s speed, and their light touch on the sandy soil. The journey was enough to fill the rest of his lifetime with the best storytelling material ever heard, and it stirred his blood to be a part of it, even should he lose his life for the cause.
“Aye, there will be a few that help. They’re sailors, and love a rough and rowdy fight. Carry a barrel of ale, and they’ll follow to their doom. With spear and harpoon to aid them, my mates have won many a battle. Their hearts are not pure, but as close as they need be.”
“Then let’s go there, Rand,” Breanna said. “Maybe your friends know something about the witches and what they’ve planned for us and Elida.”
“Why aren’t we going to get Elida first?” Sean asked, his fists clenched in anger at those who took his sister. “We can do it without any help.”
“And what will you do with her once you have her, young Sean?” Tom asked. “Don’t you think them were powerful enough to take her first might take her back? Would you lose all them you know for lack of planning? Aye, ’tis a fine thing you wanting to rescue your sister. But be wise, lad. Them witches won’t be easy to beat.”
The boy looked sullen for minute then nodded reluctantly.
“I suppose you’re right, Tom. A plan is needed, and a few more souls wouldn’t hurt.”
The road wound here and there and the smell of salt had long disappeared, replaced by the odor of burning trash piles and tree limbs in the fields they passed. The land was farmed with corn and grain, the staples of most people in the country. Small huts graced the open lands, finding their base under skimpy trees where shade was available. The road was busy with travelers on their way to the city, and their wheels and horses stirred swirling dust clouds over the cobblestoned cart road. Every part of Breanna’s body was covered with road grit, and the thought of a wash was heavenly.
The hamlet of Parth went south; an obscure and inelegant hand-carved sign pointed the way, and Breanna felt a chill, a premonition that things had been bad but would soon going get a great deal worse. The cart continued east, toward Tick, and she gathered her courage again. Shivering, she sent a quiet message to Elida, one she hoped carried encouragement to the young girl.
We’re almost there. Stay true.
Tick, unlike the small tree bugs with the same name, was thriving and seemed prosperous, with a large three-floored building in the center of town where the officials sat in horsehair chairs and reviewed citizen cases before them. The town square was surrounded by a series of cross streets with names the travelers had difficulty pronouncing. Although Breanna could read the words and understand their meanings, she felt it unnecessary to mention it to any in the cart, for what they had already witnessed from her was more than enough to consider. Quietly she read the signs on the buildings and the street posts, her eyes and ears attuned to conversation from the sidewalks where the town’s residents gathered in twos and threes.
As many different phrases reached her ears, she was overcome by the noises and set about sorting their meanings into usable information. At one point she heard the word “witches,” and then all was quiet as someone shushed the speaker and rushed her off the street, into the shadows. In the rooms they passed, she could see people through open windows huddled together eating their evening meal. The women wearing starched caps and stained aprons spoke at length to silent, weary men in homespun work britches and shirts. It was surely a city of prosperity.
“Psst. Bree, see that? See the tavern on the corner? It’s called the Ale Barn, and all my mates once drank there.”
“Then, Rand, you should go and find them,” she replied quickly. The use of his given name still tickled the edges of her lips and brought about the tiniest of smiles. “This is a big village,” she exclaimed as they drove by three different inns.
“More than a village,” Rand said, “it’s the center of their government. Once there was a king who came and went from the great house upon the hill there. Do you see it, the one with the many carvings of warriors on their mounts?”
“Yes, I see it. The king! How exciting. Did you ever see him?” she asked, her cheeks reddened by the idea of a poor farm girl near the home of a king.
“Aye, one time I did. He was a big fellow, with all kinds of jewels and shiny buttons on his britches. An old man, the last king. Older than Tom. The new king, the son, is not so well thought of by his people.”
“Careful, now,” Tom said from the front seat of the cart. “Old Tom’s not so old when there’s fighting to be done.”
“You can be at my side anytime, friend,” Rand said. “I meant no harm about your age.”
“What about your sailor friends, Rand? Can we find them?” Sean asked eagerly.
“I don’t think there’s harm in it,” Rand replied, as he adjusted his shirt and britches and smoothed his hair. “Keep silent, though, until I give you the sign you can speak freely.”
“A’right, let’s go,” the boy urged, in a hurry to get out of the confining cart.
After they left, Tom found a quiet corner of the st
reet where the oxen could rest from their long trip. They weren’t terribly weary, for most of time the animals had skimmed over the road, but there was no need to push them and make them travel without reason. As an afterthought, Tom moved the cart further to the side to allow others to pass.
A surge of people in colorful clothing had been increasingly crowding the road into Tick, and their wide caps and brightly emblazed armor gave evidence of a festival nearby. The men walked fast, seeming impatient with those between them and their destination.
Tom lit his pipe, a luxury he allowed himself ever so often, and the smell of the tobacco reminded Breanna of the Vales’ cottage. She watched him smoke for a moment then reached out and touched his hand.
“You are so kind to us, Tom. I pray this goes well and you can get back to your life,” she said, smiling at him.
“Lass,” he replied through a smoke ring, “I’ve no life. From village to village I go, with none caring if I stay or leave. ’Tis only since being with you and the boy that my days have some meaning. Don’t thank me, girl; you have a terrible lot of trouble coming to you. Just pray old Tom can be a help to your cause. My ship never made it to harbor in my day, and the fortune I hoped to give to a lady sifted through my fingers one coin at a time, so I never had no young ’uns.”
He paused for a moment, drew on his pipe again, and stared at the oxen. “Them oxen now, they’re faithful and true as beasts are s’posed to be, but old Tom, well, he ain’t always been so true. The drink was waiting, a warm mistress when no other cared for me, but in the morn, when the light was bright again, all ’twas left was a pain in my head and empty pockets. That’s my life, lass. That’s my life.”
She patted his hand again, not denying anything he had said. “You’re my friend, Tom, and I treasure you,” she said.
Soon Rand and Sean returned to the cart, jumped in the back door, and sat, their faces glum.
“What happened?” Breanna asked.
“They’re all gone, to some meeting in a farmer’s field taken over by the king’s company, a tournament of the best archers and fighters of the countryside. My mates want to be part of the contests and they’re not interested in fighting witches,” Rand said disgustedly. “The champion will win silver, and a special prize from the king’s treasure chests. My own bow is on the ship, broken and no use to me, else I would enter the contests myself.”
“Rand,” Breanna said after a moment, “my bow is a not a special one, not shiny and new, nor made from lustrous wood, but it’s a good one and shoots true. You can use it if you want.”
He looked at her closely to see if she was serious, for the captain was accustomed to older girls who teased and then recalled what they’d said, playing word games with men. To offer him her weapon was to offer the only thing she owned of value. He was touched and ashamed of his own selfishness, for he wasn’t sure that if the situation were reversed, he’d be the one offering.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “You’d let me use your bow and forgo the contest yourself?”
“Yes, it’s yours to use,” she answered, and handed the bow over. “You’ll want a different quiver,” she said with a grin. “Sean made this for me, and it’s a bit girlish where I added shiny rocks.”
“Aye, you’re right,” Rand said, taking the bow. “I think I can borrow one from my mates at the field. Tom, we need to go,” the captain added hurriedly. “If we can find my mates, we’ll make it a contest to help us all. I’ll get their promise to go with us to Parth if I win.”
“Sounds good,” Tom replied, snapping the oxen’s leads. “Which way, captain?”
“Straight ahead; look for a farmer’s mill, with the king’s flags flying high.”
The road to the event was crowded with men on horseback, wagons the size of the one Tom drove, and small two-wheeled carts pulled by goats or ponies. Some men walked on the dung-covered road, careful with their steps, as they tried to avoid the squishy piles. They were all headed to the tournament, their bows, javelins, swords—long and short—battleaxes, and flails tied across horses, wagons, or goats. Alongside the beasts of burden, men wearing chain mail and chest plates hurried along, keeping eyes on their weapons. The sight of so many prepared for war made Breanna hopeful that some would follow to the witches’ cairn, where their weapons could be put to good use.
The four friends sat close together, watching the faces of the desperate men as Tom manipulated the oxen, not bothering to avoid the dung steaming on the road.
They reached the mill faster than most of those on the road, in time for Breanna to see the king’s three green flags with yellow tassels flying, and alongside them, his red and gold embroidered crest shining brightly in the afternoon sunlight. A crowd edged against the part of the field where seats built from barn lumber were filled by wealthy patrons and the king’s favorites. An unfortunate farmer who complained he had lost his hay and grain storage building to the tourney was escorted to the trees by one of the king’s guard. Pennies for seats were taken by soldiers in yellow and green waistcloths and red britches, and those without coin were pushed to the side to stand or sit as they might.
Sean stared at everything with the wonder of a lad who had never seen weapons more dangerous than a dagger and bow. Inside the tournament grounds, the fields of competition were marked off by different colored pennants flying, and long strands of cloth dividing the partitions for each type of joust. The boy was overcome with awe for the men in mail who sauntered forth and back with sweat pouring from their head coverings and animal dung clinging to their sandals. The smell was horrendous, but the farm boy wasn’t bothered by the odor. His senses were overcome by envy for the pomp and parade of the combatants.
Bess and Barley moved slowly on the mud road, and a group of the king’s men urged Tom to move the cart along, out of the way of his betters. One of the guards smirked and slammed him in the shoulder with a hard fist.
“Move on, old sod,” the soldier yelled, as five of them got behind the cart and pushed. The wheels were old and one gave to the pressure. Most of the spokes broke through, causing the wheel to turn inward, and the cart to become unsteady. The soldiers grew more impatient, and moved to the cart’s side. A few steady pushes and they tipped it over, dumping all the passengers onto the grass as the unwieldy wagon rolled. Bess bellowed as two of the men in green and yellow kicked her in the flanks, demanding the two oxen move faster, out of the roadway. The frightened beasts bellowed again and ran, pulling the cart on its side. The rest of the wheels came apart and the sideboards peeled the top layer of grass off the edge of the roadway.
The soldiers of the king’s guard guffawed at the sight of the ruined cart and the helpless oxen’s distress. Their hysterics encouraged a few bystanders to kick the defenseless animals for sport, and jump onto the cart as it lay wrecked and useless. Rand and Sean stayed down, staring with mouths agape at the unbearably cruel display before them.
Breanna watched from another place on the ground, not believing what she had just witnessed. The sad oxen bled from a multitude of injuries as people further abused them by poking their sides with sticks while the soldiers laughed. She felt an unfamiliar surge of anger at the inhumane behavior of the crowd, and toward the king’s men, who had begun the whole incident. Even the giant bird who’d carried her away as a ten-year-old hadn’t stirred the kind of wrath Breanna felt then.
Tom crawled from his position beneath the cart. His lower body was torn and broken where the framework had fallen on him as it overturned, but he ignored the pain as he made his way toward Bess and Barley.
When Breanna saw how badly Tom was hurt, she cried out, “Stop, Tom, they’ll kill you and rejoice in it.”
The soldiers saw the old man dragging his body toward them and laughed again, recognizing the greatest sport was still to come. Drawing his long sword, one of the soldiers approached Tom and dared him to continue his crawl. Tom ignored the danger, and spat on the man’s sandals. He refused to be deterred from his mission to stop th
e battering of the gentle work animals.
The soldier held the sword aloft as the crowd chanted, “Kill him, kill him.”
The sword went higher and higher and began a downward arc as Breanna called upon Willow to lower the White and cover her friend from sight. Under the White’s protection, Tom reached to touch the bleeding animals. His tears fell for poor Barley, lying unmoving, dead from the abuse.
“Get out of here, all of you, get out,” a frightened soldier screamed. “You people get along now—move, do you hear me?” The king’s man knew there was magic afoot when the old man went missing, and he was as frightened as poor Bess was after losing her mate.
The spectators moved as a single unit, fearful of the soldiers, but more afraid of the broken old man who had disappeared before their eyes. Some stared at the dead ox with shame and fear reddening their coarse faces as others ran quickly from the scene of their cruel acts.
The area cleared. The soldiers and onlookers quickly detoured, leaving the overturned wagon and bleeding oxen untended. Sean cried, not understanding what had just occurred. He demanded to know what had happened to Tom.
Breanna took a deep breath and let it out. “Tom has been under the White, Sean,” she said quietly in case some others were listening. “He needs healing. Rand, can you get him over to the cart? At least he will have some protection there. I need to look at his body and see if it is broken.”
The young captain nodded, stunned by all he had seen. He was disappointed in himself for doing nothing as the soldier raised the sword over their friend.
The Gantlet Page 19