by Randy Nargi
Moving quietly, I walked north to the first structure without a pen around it. The windows were shuttered tight, but I tried the front door and found it unlocked. Slowly I eased the door open and peeked inside, using my chunk of lightstone to illuminate the interior. This place looked like a woodworker’s shop. I didn’t see any food or water, but I did avail myself of a long steel chisel.
The next building was larger with a low gated courtyard dominated by a large slatted water tank, a fire pit and kettle, and stacks of barrels and hogsheads. Judging by the strong odor of malt and honey, I had located Fort Sindal's brewery. I eased the gate open and made my way to the building entrance. There was no lock on this door either. I went inside and was startled by the smallest dog I had ever seen. At first, I thought it was a rat. It had short, shaggy grey fur and it was no bigger than a rabbit. The creature didn't bark, but it panted and wheezed loudly as it ran around in tight circles in front of me. Maybe the animal had availed itself of some ale. It certainly behaved like it was intoxicated. The dog darted at my legs and then spun away—just out of reach. It didn't seem aggressive—just playful. But it was a noisy little scamp, huffing and sniffing as it twirled.
I had been so distracted by the little dog that I hardly noticed my surroundings, but now I held the lightstone up and looked around. The interior of the brewery was filled with bulging sacks, more barrels, and a row of metal vats. A long bench ran along one wall and it was covered with various types of glassware and tools. Sprigs of dried plants and herbs hung over the bench and filled the space with a pungent, but not displeasing smell. The room was warm and cozy and felt like a good place to sleep for a few hours.
The little dog raced around my legs, whuffling as he turned in circles. I noticed that there was a hallway beyond the rack of barrels and began to walk towards it. The dog scampered in front of me and raised himself up on his rear legs and balanced there like a small dancer. His behavior was so odd, that I should have suspected something. But I didn’t. And anyway it was too late.
A low growl sounded behind me. I slowly turned, the lightstone still raised. There, with fangs dripping, was a bear. It stood over four feet tall at the shoulders with a broad skull and small triangular ears and was covered with a thick coat of black fur. Its black eyes glinted in the shine of the lightstone and its mouth was pulled back in a snarl. I took a deep breath and raised the chisel, keeping it close to my body, and then I realized that this wasn't a bear at all. It was a dog. But I had never seen a dog this large. Even the Lincort mastiffs down south weren't this big. Spittle dripped from the creature's mouth and it growled again. Then I heard a male voice from behind me.
“You’d best drop your weapon. You might get the dog, but you won’t get both of us.”
I complied. I didn’t want to fight anyone right now. Especially not the bear-dog.
“Good,” the voice said. “Now turn around. Slowly. She’s a little unpredictable. You don’t want to startle her.”
I said, “I don’t want any trouble.” Then I turned. Standing ten feet away was a tall, wide man holding a poorly-maintained short sword in one hand. Even with the sparse illumination of the lightstone, I could tell that the blade was dull and marked with spots of rust. That gave me a small amount of comfort. The man himself was mostly bald, but with thick, curly sideburns and heavy brows. He was maybe 40 years old. His eyes were dark and he was scowling, but there was a hint of a smile behind the scowl—like he was a bit pleased with himself.
“Why don’t you just set yourself right down on the floor there—next to Raley.”
I gathered Raley was the big black dog who still intermittently growled at me, but was demonstrating remarkable obedience. “Is that agreeable to Raley?”
“As long as you sit quietly, you’ll be fine.”
As I sat down on the floor, the little grey dog darted over and grabbed the chisel in its mouth and trotted back towards the man. It dropped the tool at his feet and then hopped up on its back legs in a little victory dance.
I said, “I just was looking for some shelter from the cold—and those spiders.”
“They don’t cross the water,” he said. “You’re safe enough here.”
I noticed there was something odd about the man's right arm. It was hanging limply at his side. Maybe injured.
“So what should I do with you?” he asked.
“Perhaps you might offer me a tankard of that ale you’re brewing.”
He laughed at that, but remained still—and out-of-reach of my feet. It wasn’t my preferred move, but I had swept many an attacker’s feet out from under him while I was on the ground.
“You’re from the mill, aren’t you?”
I shook my head. “I’m a sellsword by trade. Late of the Melanchin Caravans.”
“Connaught said you were from the mill. Said you were spying on us. Gurran doesn’t believe the mine’s played out.”
“I don’t know any Gurran, but I suspect that the mine’s not played out. Saw a vein myself.”
“I’ve heard rumors about that. But it don’t make sense. The miners have been off the job for over a month. If there was ore left, someone would be pulling it out.”
I didn’t say anything, but a few possibilities were swirling around in my head.
“What happened to Toat Connaught?” he asked. “I heard he was the one that took you to the mine.”
I shrugged. “He wanted to throw me down a shaft. But it didn’t work out that way.”
He didn’t say anything, so I continued. “Do you know Hildur?”
“Yes.”
He was trying to keep emotion out of his voice, but I thought I detected a note of concern. “I saved her life.”
He reacted. Just barely.
I said, “She was in the river. Trying to keep away from the spiders. Almost froze to death.”
The big dog growled at me again. Maybe she could sense that her owner was getting upset. I wondered about this man. I wondered whose side he was on. If he was with the Connaughts, wouldn’t he be inside the stockade with everyone else?
I said, “I don’t think it’s right to put an old woman out.”
“It’s none of our business,” he said.
“You’re wrong. It’s my business now.”
If he was going to make a move, it should have been at that moment. I was on the ground. Weaponless. With a 200-pound monster dog hovering over me, ready to tear me apart. But he didn't make the move I feared. Instead, he reached out his one good hand and helped me up. Then he stood back a few steps and introduced himself.
“My name is Gambrin. I’m the brewer. Formerly one of the miners.”
“My name is Leocald Grannt. What happened to your arm?”
"Damn fool Kinvas hit me with a pick. Wasn't paying mind on his back swing. Nearly took the arm off. Hildur couldn't do anything for me but ease the pain. That was the end of my mining career. They put me in charge of the brewery when old man Pawthon left."
"I'm no apothecary, but I'm pretty sure you could have that taken care of in Lhawster."
“And are healers working for free now?”
“No. But wouldn’t your employer pay to have one of his men back at work?”
He shook his head. “You don’t know Wilmer Connaught. I’m lucky I wasn’t put out with the others. When the Connaughts don’t have a use for you, you’re banished. Or worse.”
“Save them the trouble. Why don’t you leave on your own?”
“Where would I go? No one needs a one-armed miner. Nor a one-armed brewer for that matter.”
The dog growled again. This time Gambrin said something to her in a hushed voice and she padded off into the darkness.
“Amazing animals,” I said.
He nodded. “Raley and Lomas. They came as a pair. Just showed up a year ago. Mostly starved. Lomas was just about dead. The men were going to drown him. But Raley wouldn’t let them. Even at death’s door herself, she’s a something to be reckoned with. I took them in. Nursed ’em back
to health. With Hildur’s help. But Wilmer Connaught doesn’t keep with animals inside the stockade, so we live out here.”
“Well, you couldn’t ask for better guard dogs.”
“Aye.” He noticed the blood on my tunic. “Was that from Toat Connaught?”
“Yes. It’s just a scratch,” I said. “May I have that beer now? I’m thirsty, and hungry, and tired.”
“I supposed I can spare one beer and some spent-grain bread.”
“I’d be much obliged.”
“And I might have something you can use to change that bandage.”
“Thank you.”
Gambrin led me down the hall into a narrow room with a stone hearth that took up one short side of the room. A long, heavy table took up most of the room’s length and extra casks were stacked up against the long side of the room. One side of the table was cluttered with a tapped cask, a few flagons, and some dirty plates. Gambrin filled a pair of flagons with ale and placed one in front of me. Then he went to the larder and brought out some bread and cheese and a dish of dried berries. I thanked him and began to eat.
After downing most of the flagon and devouring a quarter loaf of bread, I asked Gambrin if the rest of the stronghold would worry about Toat Connaught not returning.
“They might. Or might not. There’s a bunkhouse up near the old mine. A bit farther out. They probably think he’s holed up there for the night. But when he doesn’t return in the morning, they’ll go out looking for him.”
I nodded. That was good news, I thought. I tore into another hunk of bread and asked Gambrin what else he could tell me about the Connaughts.
"What else do you want to know? Old Wilmer Connaught has two sons. Had, I guess. You met Toat. But his younger brother is named Davan. Both big men. There are some wives and a few cousins too. Mostly older folk. They hail from Kreed's Keep originally and they own the Prichard mine down south. They bought the Sindal mine from Bal Nechtally a year or so ago. Although some of the old timers here said it wasn't exactly a friendly transaction."
“Yes, that’s what Hildur told me.”
“Well, in hindsight, looks like the Connaughts didn’t get such a good deal after all. First Prichard tapped out and now maybe Sindal. Bad investment, if you ask me.”
I thought for a few moments. Then I asked, “Who owns the mill? Is that this Gurran I keep hearing about?”
“Yes. Old time family. They’ve processed the ore for generations. But now with both the mines tapped out, I don’t know what will become of them. Or any of us—for that matter.”
I finished my ale and asked him what he thought of the idea of me borrowing a horse and bringing Hildur back.
“Borrowing?” Gambrin asked with the hint of a smile on his face.
“Call it what you will. I’m not leaving her out there another night.”
“They’ll come after you.”
I didn’t say anything.
He finished up his own ale then fetched a pitcher of water and some clean cloth for me to re-bind my wound. “Once they realize that Toat Connaught isn’t back, they’ll start looking for you,” he said. “They’ll find the horse missing and come after you.”
“Well, then I should get an early start.”
“Take the roan. He’s the fastest.” Then Gambrin told me where the saddles were kept and the best way to take the horse out of the village. He brought some blankets and cleared the table for me to sleep on.
“The Connaughts are bad folk,” he said before leaving me. “Bad and dangerous. Not a good combination.”
Chapter Six
I DIDN'T SLEEP WELL AND WOKE JUST BEFORE DAWN. The fire had gone out and it was cold. The little grey dog was nestled against me and Raley—the big black dog—snored under the table. I carefully carried the small dog off the table and onto the floor next to his friend. Raley woke up but she didn't pay any attention as I slipped out of the brewery. I didn't see Gambrin.
The air was damp and very cold—probably right around freezing. I made my way to the stables and found the roan. There were maybe a dozen horses there, including several giant draft horses—which were probably used to haul the mining wagons. I saddled the roan up and slowly rode him through the canal and away from Fort Sindal just as dawn broke. I half expected to be swarmed by bristlers, but there was no sign of them.
I rode for two hours and thought about the Connaughts. I had a feeling I knew what they were up to, but I wasn’t completely sure. Then I arrived at the campsite where I had left Hildur.
She was dead.
Her body was right there at the edge of the campsite—a good fifty feet from the cavern entrance. From the body’s position, it looked like she was trying to get back in. She was cold to the touch and there were dozens of spines stuck in her face and hands and the lower part of her legs. Her skin was black and blue and her neck was swollen. It looked like she had been poisoned. The bristlers probably surprised her. Maybe they were out early last night.
In the back of my mind, I was worried that this would happen. Hildur was a hardy old woman, that was clear. But someone her age wasn’t suited to be out in the wilderness like this. And now—because of the Connaughts—she was dead. I should not have left her.
I checked the area more carefully and saw that Hildur had killed at least one of the creatures. I found its body in a nearby bitterbrush, legs pulled tight pinned to the ground with the sharpened walking stick. The knife I had left her was nearby in the dirt, caked with black ichor. I wiped it down and then took a closer look at the spider. First I nudged it with the walking stick to make sure it was really dead—although I couldn’t imagine it surviving being impaled like that.
The spider’s body was about three feet long and covered with thick hairy spines—similar to short porcupine quills. I plucked one and took a good look at it. The bristle was light and sharp with a barbed end. I used the knife to turn the creature’s corpse over so I could get a better look at its underbelly. Two long hooked mandibles protruded from the mouth area. That’s probably where its venom came from. I’d find out soon enough.
I left the bristler for now and circled around the campsite again, but didn’t find anything else. There was no sign of my knapsack nor my cloak. I walked over to the cave and saw that the makeshift gate was still intact. It hung half open. I was about to reach in when I stopped myself. There were a few of the thick hairy spines on the floor of the cavern.
Slowly, I eased the gate shut. As I did, I heard a loud hiss from inside the cavern and less than a second later a live bristler threw itself at the gate. I held the gate firm—at the same time trying to avoid the creature’s clacking fangs. The bristler hissed again and then scurried back and hunched itself up—almost the way a cat arched its back. I knew what was coming, but there wasn’t much I could do other than close my mouth and my eyes and try to shift my body out of the line of fire.
The spider seemed to explode, throwing off a shower of spines. Some didn’t make it through the gate, but others embedded themselves in my arms and hands. There was no immediate sensation of pain—just a prickling feeling like when your leg falls asleep.
Moving quickly, I drew my knife and wedged it into a crack in the cliff—pinning the gate closed at the top. Then I jammed the walking stick at the bottom of the gate. Inside the cavern, the spider scuttled back into the darkness. I could barely make out more of them in there. They probably had sought refuge there for the day.
I left the cavern area, hoping that my temporary measures would keep the spiders penned in —at least long enough for me to secure the gate with some ura branches and pluck the spines from my hands. There was no way for me to know whether or not the spines themselves were poisonous, but I am a large man and usually it takes a lot of poison to take me down. My guess was that the real potent venom was contained in the spider’s fangs.
After gathering branches and snapping them off to the right size, I hammered several around the frame of the gate using a rock. Then I retrieved the walking stick and
knife and went to work on the corpse of the bristler.
LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, FIVE MEN ARRIVED ON HORSEBACK. I saw Wilmer Connaught riding in front. Alongside him was a giant man riding a draft horse. The giant was probably the younger brother, Davan Connaught. Behind the Connaughts rode three hefty miners who I didn’t immediately recognize, although one or two of them might have been in the tavern with Toat Connaught when I first arrived at the village. It was tough to get a good look because the sun hung low in the sky right in my eyes. But I was pretty sure that outside of the old man, I was the smallest one there.
I don't mind fighting large men. In fact, I prefer it. Most large men are confident. Overconfident, usually. Unless they are professional soldiers, they are used to brawling in taverns or docks or wherever a typical lout gets into trouble. And because of their strength and the intimidation factor, their actual fights don't last long. Which means these big brutes don't get much real practice in. Large, muscle-bound men are also often slow. The men I am more cautious about are the small wiry types. The ones that can strike like vipers and move like cats. They take a bit more work to kill.
Wilmer Connaught dismounted first and then his son, and then the miners—who fanned around in a semi-circle. They were all a good twenty-five feet away from me.
Twenty minutes previously I had laid Hildur’s body out on a bower of branches—right in the middle of the trail.
Wilmer Connaught glanced at her. “Old witch didn’t make it, I see.”
I didn’t reply.
His son Davan Connaught looked me up and down. He was close to seven feet tall and probably outweighed me by a hundred pounds. Maybe a hundred and fifty. His shoulders were a foot wider than mine and his arms were as thick as my legs. Plus he was a quarter century younger than me. His shorn head accentuated his massive skull. And he glared at me with small dark eyes under a heavy brow.