The weight of his grief crushed the attempt to laugh it off. Tears blurred his vision. He had seen something of his mother in those defeated faces by the furka, perhaps not her features, but the shape of her suffering. Granyr’s plight after the Battle of Martyrsgrave had been worse. She had become separated from the other survivors. Lost and alone, she had sought sanctuary at the same furka now surrounded by Cliffringdeners. If only he could relive his childhood before madness seized her to have a chance to undo whatever part he had in it, so she might be saved and live to see her son become the politician of the village that had barely tolerated her. Dwelling on such impossible desires was absurd. The past could not be reshaped except in misty dreams that died with the morning.
What laughter failed to budge, pride now pushed aside. It was unseemly for the Politician of Pigsknuckle to bawl like a spoiled toddler. Imagine Widan’s ugly sneer on witnessing his rival succumb to such pitiable sentimentality.
As Garscap wiped the tears from his eyes, he promised they would be his last. He shoved his mother from his thoughts and turned his attention to more pressing issues.
He found the Pigsknucklers still mustering in the center of the village. When Maergan and others commented about the redness of his eyes, he blamed an infection, confident they would assume its nature to be physical rather than spiritual.
Garscap sat in his old hut, staring into the heart of the fire. He’d left the great hall to the refugees. The Pigsknucklers took some into their homes, bark huts were thrown up to house more, but the great hall was still packed. He had no desire to stay in such cramped conditions, with weeping women and children pressing in from all sides and the dreary thrum of their misery disturbing the night. Here, he was alone with the fire and his thoughts.
The Elfin army had not pursued the refugees beyond the Witchmilk, but that did not mean its invasion of Pigsknuckle’s territory was not imminent. It might come tomorrow or the following day, or in a month, or in a year. Garscap didn’t know what had reignited their long dormant belligerence, but the Orstretcherists’ pilgrimage to Pigsback was probably not coincidental. From the first moment they’d arrived in Pigsknuckle, they had an aura of trouble. If Elves attacked Pigsknuckle, the villagers would be no match for them. Cliffringden didn’t even have a chance to summon help from its neighbors before it was annihilated.
A chill draught heralded Evram’s entrance. “Saint Charlin will be here presently,” he said, blushing. “I apologize for my behavior earlier.”
“I sent you to Pigsback because I trust you,” Garscap said. “And I needed to sound out Grael. Those disaffected with my rule are likely to rally around him. I had to know if he would exploit the current crisis to attempt to overthrow me. Fortunately, he won’t. He’s too idealistic. So for the moment, my only concern is Widan.”
Evram sneered. “What about him? Widan had his chance. He gave away the thorny crown. Why would anybody give it back? And you are his son-in-law. He should be satisfied that one of his grandchildren will become the politician in time.”
“He has no grandchildren yet. Do you think the other Melkaths will suffer to be ruled by my offspring in perpetuity? Widan would rather be seen as their natural leader than let that role slip to another. Perhaps, he may remarry. A male child from such a union would usurp any affection he held for Harath. Her children would be tainted with my blood. If my popularity wanes a little more, Widan may forget his promises in Horgal’s Field.”
Saint Charlin blessed the hut as he entered. The saint could not hide his discomfort at the politician’s extravagant welcome. Garscap’s dismissal of Evram was gentle but firm. Evram, still contrite for his earlier transgression, withdrew without complaint.
“Sit down, Worthy Saint,” Garscap said, indicating a place by the fire.
“I can’t stay,” Charlin said, waving his hand. “Pressing matters elsewhere in the village demand my attention.”
“Sit down and rest yourself a few moments,” Garscap said. “You visited the Cliffringdeners. You must give me an account of what you found.”
“I should be with them now,” the saint said as he sat down. “They mourn for dead fathers and sons, husbands and brothers, even well-regarded neighbors. Their bereavement is so immense they can scarcely comprehend it. For the present, the absence of tangible proof of their loss tempers their sorrow a little, but in the coming days, that lack will turn grief into anger. You will face heated demands for an expedition to Cliffringden to reclaim the bodies of beloved dead. For now, the survivors most keenly feel the loss of their village. Everything they have ever known is gone, and with it, in some instances, their faith. Those cases demand intense religious counsel.”
“And their physical needs?” Garscap asked.
“My primary concern is their spiritual welfare,” Saint Charlin said, blushing. “The flesh passes, but the soul is everlasting. However, from what I have seen, Pigsknuckle has provided amply for their material wants.”
It was annoying the saint gave him so little credit. But for Garscap, the refugees might be still starving at Leaftea Lake. With no advantage to be gained by antagonizing his guest, he chose not to draw the saint’s attention to this fact. He broadened his smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course, your leadership deserves great praise in this matter,” the saint said hoarsely as if choking on his words.
Garscap sniffed opportunity in Charlin’s awkward commendation. The scent was intoxicating. “I am gratified you think so, Saint. I fear others who covet my position might not be so charitable to these widows and orphans. Some of my rivals whisper against my magnanimity. They claim it overburdens Pigsknuckle’s resources and puts the well-being of its people at risk. They say I should have offered the refugees a meal and then sent the majority of them on their way, permitting only the few who might be of long-term benefit to the village to remain. The old and the infirm can find shelter elsewhere.”
“No true Stretcher would condone such sinful cruelty,” Charlin said.
“My detractors cast their arguments less bluntly than I put them to you,” Garscap said. “These are hard times. First, the Year of Bleeding Snow brought famine to the mountains. Now, as the world recovers, the Fair Folk destroy Cliffringden. People are frightened, and the fearful are susceptible to hate and cruelty. Actions dismissed as barbarous in happier times garner a creeping reasonableness in more desperate circumstances. I am afraid very soon I will be deposed and my good deeds will be undone.”
Charlin scowled. “Saints do not dabble in politics.” It might have been Sebryn speaking.
“Of course,” Garscap said, feigning innocent shock.
Thankfully, the saint’s intervention had prevented him from overreaching. Patience and delicacy were required. “The thought never occurred to me that you might meddle in affairs properly my remit. You’ve always acted with such fastidious impartiality and propriety. I’d never be so bold to ask you to favor me over my rivals. However, the future welfare of the refugees is our common concern. If you spoke to the village on the merits of charity and the damning sinfulness of forsaking fellow Stretchers at their time of greatest need, I’m sure your sermon would put the kindness shown to the Cliffringdeners beyond debate.”
Charlin’s eyes narrowed. “It would also undermine your enemies.”
“You may be right,” Garscap admitted. “But that is a political matter and therefore not your concern. If it eases your conscience, I am sure my foes will find fault with me on other issues. The most important and most lasting legacy of your discourse would be the protection of the refugees.”
“I will contemplate on what you have said,” Charlin promised too smoothly to mean it. He started to rise.
“There is something else that you must consider,” Garscap said.
Charlin sighed as he sat back down. “What is it?”
“The men of Cliffringden died to defend their furkas. Before them, the men of Martyrsgrave did the same. What are you going to do to prevent the same happening in
Pigsknuckle?”
Charlin blushed. “If the village is attacked, I will deconsecrate the furkas.”
“I’m sure the saint in Cliffringden might have deconsecrated its furkas if he had been there instead of away at his monastery,” Garscap said as he stoked the fire. “You, too, are not always in Pigsknuckle.”
Charlin shrugged and opened his hands. “Well, that can change immediately. We can maintain a saint here at all times, if not me, then someone else from St. Odran’s.”
“There are seven furkas scattered around Pigsknuckle,” Garscap said. “Can you really deconsecrate them all in time for us to escape?”
Charlin frowned. “If I get enough notice.”
I’ll tell the Elves to give us fair warning of their attack then, Garscap thought.
“I understand that you have lookouts posted now…” Charlin offered.
Garscap nodded. “Everyone gets their turn to guard the village. But that’s no guarantee that you would get sufficient time to deconsecrate seven furkas. It’s no guarantee that you would get any warning at all. The Elves could kill the guards like that.” He snapped his fingers. “So quick that they would be dead before they realized that they under attack. Remember these Elves are the Gilt Spider’s kin.
“And I’ll tell you something else,” Garscap said, pointing a finger at Charlin. “Now that Cliffringden’s fallen, there’s no other village between us and the Elves. An attack is not a matter of if but of when.”
Charlin’s mouth hung open for a moment. “So what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that all of Pigsknuckle’s furkas should be deconsecrated and knocked down. Now.”
Charlin nodded. He continued to nod as he stood. “I will meditate on your advice.” His voice shivered with unease.
“That’s all I can ask,” Garscap said. For now.
14
For countless years a village thrived,
In a day, it became a grave,
But the tragic tale has survived
Of its heroes, pious and brave.
FROM THE MARTYRDOM OF CONEYRIDDLE.
The footbridge across the Witchmilk was gone. No trace of legionaries was present in the area, either. Hopefully, the Pigsknucklers had demolished the bridge as a precaution against sudden invasion.
AscendantSun detoured upstream to another crossing point. A series of broad boulders peeping through the brink of a squat waterfall served as a natural bridge for one who was nimble enough to bound over the white water sluicing through the gaps. He crossed it without incident and made his way to Leaftea Lake.
The furka that had stood near its reposing water was shattered. The fractured trunk lay on the ground, surrounded by fragments of the arms. He searched the rubble for clues about its destruction. The sharpness of the breaks, the lack of peeling of the painted surfaces, and the absence of lichen and moss suggested that its demolition was recent. Only Ors could have committed such a sacrilege.
He was too late. He kicked at the grass with frustration. Again, he had failed.
The Pigsknucklers would have never brooked such violent sacrilege, but the area gave no indication of battle. No telltale fragments of bone or weapon lay strewn in the vicinity of the broken stone. The Ors must have passed here before the Pigsknucklers became aware of their approach. Perhaps the invaders had even entered the village before the alarm was raised.
The prospect of what might await him in the ruined village was sickening. The gruesomeness of massacre and its various phases of decomposition were already too familiar. His acquaintance with Pigsknuckle and its inhabitants, even if it largely came second-hand from the saints of St. Odran’s or from his own distant observation, added an aching poignancy to his horror.
And what was the monastery’s fate? Was it also destroyed? What about his friends who had sought refuge there? Were they dead, too?
A pebble clattered down the scree to his left. He was being observed, and the watcher wanted him to know. It must be a Stretcher. Legionaries would not be so circumspect.
AscendantSun eased his batonaxes from their rack and laid them on the ground. He discarded his knife in the same fashion. He stretched his arms in the air and pressed his head against his shoulder.
From behind the rocks, two awkward figures emerged with taut bows. They wore the white and blue halos of Pigsknuckle. It took a few moments to adjust to their large noses, woolly eyebrows, strange eyes, lopsided faces, and odd proportions. The taller one had a tanned complexion and dark wiry hair. He was young and quite handsome by the standards of his race. Sparse white frizz hugged only the sides of his companion’s head, forcing him to secure his halo by means of a chinstrap. His face had the quality of weathered stone. His jaw was fringed with gray hair. Both men had the same gray eyes. Perhaps they were father and son.
“Peace, friends,” AscendantSun said. “I honor the Forelight, like you. I am on a pilgrimage to St. Odran’s monastery.”
The Stretchers glanced at each other uneasily. The furka that might have guaranteed AscendantSun’s safety lay broken at his feet. Perhaps the other Orstretcherists were dead. Perhaps, they came here and were murdered.
“If you’re telling the truth, you have nothing to fear from us,” the younger Stretcher assured him.
“If you can prove it,” the older Stretcher added.
“The saints of Pigsback will vouch for me,” AscendantSun promised.
“If you fail to do exactly what we say, they won’t get the chance,” the older Stretcher said as he gathered AscendantSun’s weapons. “Put your hands behind your back. Grael, tie them together. Do not even twitch, Elf. Make sure the knot is tight. Our lives may depend on it.”
Grael. That name was familiar. The younger Stretcher was possibly the same boy whom AscendantSun had rescued from the Jinglemen, though a year had elapsed since their last meeting, and it was easy to mistake one Stretcher for another. It was tempting to ask, but neither Stretcher would welcome the revelation that the Gilt Spider now stood before them.
“I thought the people of Pigsknuckle were cordial hosts,” AscendantSun said as the rope burned into his wrists.
“So were the people of Cliffringden,” the old Stretcher said.
AscendantSun made other attempts to converse with his captors, but his tentative queries were either ignored or elicited the curtest of replies. He tired of his guards’ terseness and decided to take a risk.
“We have not exchanged introductions,” he said.
“We know,” the old Stretcher said.
“I am Auctor always, AscendantSun for this lifetime.”
The youth’s eyes widened with recognition. “This is the Elf who rescued me. The Orstretcherists have been expecting him.”
The old Stretcher halted the Or with his spear. He stared hard into AscendantSun’s eyes. “What do you think we should do, Grael?”
“He saved my life and nearly paid for it with his own,” the young man said.
The old Stretcher introduced himself as Lahan Erol, Grael’s father. As he interrogated AscendantSun on the details of his son’s rescue, Grael confirmed that the Or’s answers were correct.
“If you promise to honor our trust, we will free your hands,” Lahan said, sternly wagging his finger. “But you must swear it by two gods: the Forelight, on the assumption that you’ve told us the truth, and the Golden Light, in case you are a liar.”
AscendantSun complied, and Lahan cut his bonds.
“Are there any of my people in the village?” AscendantSun asked, rubbing his wrists.
“Your friends stay in Pigsback,” Lahan said. “Many refugees from Cliffringden are sheltering in Pigsknuckle. There’s not much welcome for your kind here.”
“But we are Stretchers like you,” AscendantSun protested.
“You may be Stretchers but you are not like us,” Lahan said. “Understand, my family bears you no grudge. We are beholden to you because of your kindness to my son. I am telling you like it is. You’ll find no trouble in Pigskn
uckle unless you make it. We’ll make sure of it. But a lot of people will be none too happy to see an Elf wandering about.”
So much for the hospitality of Stretchers! The hostility was understandable given what had happened to Cliffringden, but now was the time for Stretcher and Orstretcherist to come together against their common enemy.
The entire village stared at him as he entered. Chiding mothers dragged their children from his apparently hypnotic presence. Men and women forgot their chores and regarded him in stony silence. On some faces was wonder, on others fear, but on most, loathing. Hands drifted toward weapons as he passed. Without his batonaxes, his two escorts were his only protection. Their warning glances to the other villagers were all that prevented their simmering hatred from boiling over into violence. AscendantSun’s apprehension increased when Lahan disappeared inside a small hut, leaving him alone with Grael.
A child with curly brown hair and brown eyes wandered by. It was hard to tell if it was male or female. It stood no taller than AscendantSun’s knee. He could not help returning its surprised stare. Mixy children were so peculiarly incomplete.
“Go home to your mother,” Grael commanded. “Be a good girl and leave us alone before you get us into trouble.”
Urgent arms snatched the child up. Her mother put a good distance between her and AscendantSun before pausing to check her daughter. Then, with a final menacing glance at him, she swept up her child again and continued her flight.
“Keep away from children,” Grael cautioned. “People believe Fair Folk steal them.”
A chill raced down AscendantSun’s spine. “Why would we want them?” he asked.
Grael shrugged. “People believe it. From when I was no older than that child, I was warned not to wander the forest in case the Gilt Spider caught me.”
A Bright Power Rising Page 19