Growing Up Magic (Wine of the Gods Book 9)

by Pam Uphoff

  Mort grabbed them by the hair on the naps of their neck. "Lew. Get the scythe. Eddy. Get the other fork. Do either of you remember how to do this neatly?"

  They both scowled. Lew glared. "We're not idiots like you, you don't have to treat us like this."

  "Then go cut some hay, Lew. Eddy, spell him. After an hour you can start turning the hay over to dry the other side." He folded his arms. "Go."

  They stomped to the rack and Lew managed to miss Eddy with the scythe, so he allowed them to ride to the hay meadow in the cart. "Start there, and work back and forth, eh?"

  They glared and he ignored them thereafter. Two more loads topped off the first stack, and he carefully built up the base of the next stack and led Bessie back. Lew and Eddy appeared to be having a sword fight with their tools. Neither one had managed to kill the other. The fork and scythe looked undamaged, although the edge on the scythe had probably suffered. He gave a sharp whistle, and could feel the return glare. He loaded the wagon and led the way back to the barn. Noon. Bessie was unhitched and turned out. The other cows were more than willing to come in for a handful of grain, he sorted out Sassy and yoked her for the next trip. Lew came over while he was filling the wagon and whined about being thirsty.

  "There's a stream right down there. Get a drink when you've cut a row."

  "That's too far! I have things to do today."

  "Then I thank you for helping me today. If Eddy is also done, rack the tools and do not even think about messing with my hay stack."

  Five minutes later Eddy was whining about being done and why did he have to carry both tools back to the barn?

  On his next trip, Mort noticed that the scythe wasn't racked. It took a few minutes, turning and straightening the small amount of cut grass to find it.

  He swapped to his fourth cow two hours later, and had the second stack done by nightfall. Then milked the cows. Not as much milk as he'd get if they weren't working, but more than they'd need. No doubt one of the relatives would help them dispose of the extra.

  As usual, his mother seemed to be feeding a small army. There were days when he really wished his grandfather had not split his farm between his four children.

  Aunt Susto had the original farmhouse and complained constantly about how it was too small. She was currently hunting for her third husband, but hadn't yet found anyone brave enough to try and civilize her five children.

  Mortimer's father had inherited the most easterly quarter, and built this house with his own hands. Mortimer tended to discount the claims of assistance from Uncle Frank and Uncle Willi, who had somehow managed to get their own homes built first. Mother still talked about that first winter in a tent.

  Uncle Frank was in the parlor, telling Dad about how Mort really wanted a good mule. "Why, he could plow double the land, easy, with a good mule."

  Mort growled. "I'm not plowing your land." But he kept his voice down, and only his cousin Kathi heard.

  "You're selfish. Mortimer. I don't think I'll invite you to my wedding."

  "Oh, Mark finally pop the question?" He put on his best innocent expression.

  She sniffed and turned her back on him. "You smell."

  "Yeah, I've been working. What a surprise."

  He stomped up to his room and grabbed a clean shirt, and then walked back out to the pump for a quick wash.

  "A mule would be a good idea." His father was nodding away in the parlor. His fruit orchard was the best around. The last of the apples had been picked a week ago, and the money was relatively safe in the bank.

  "I suppose I could walk down to the auction tomorrow night." Mort said, keeping a mild expression on his face. "If the prices are good, I might pick something up."

  Uncle Frank scowled. "I'll check down Burne way, bring one back for you."

  "No thanks, Uncle Frank. I'd feel bad sticking you with a mule because I already had one."

  "No, it's no problem."

  "Uncle Frank. No."

  "Mortimer, you are such a blowhard." Melodi, Uncle Frank's youngest daughter walked by.

  "Yeah, and he's bossy too." Nabelle yelled from the dining room. Uncle Willi's youngest daughter.

  The locusts stayed for dinner, cleaning up a roast that should have made three meals and looked for more. And they took away the milk.

  Mortimer followed Aunt Norma—Willi's wife—home and helped her decant the milk into her containers.

  "That could have waited until tomorrow, Mortimer."

  "Sorry Aunt Norma, but if I scrub the pail tonight I can sleep in tomorrow morning."

  "Early to bed and early to rise! The wisdom of the ancients, Mortimer!"

  "Yes ma'am." He picked up the pail and walked home. Scrubbed it, rinsed it with boiling water and set it ready for the morning milking.

  "About two more days of haying and we'll be set, Dad. Unless Uncle Frank overcharges us for a mule and we have to feed it too."

  "Now son, he wouldn't do that."

  Mortimer sighed. "Goodnight, Dad."

  ***

  The auction outside of Grantown started a bit before sundown, and ran until everything was sold. Mortimer looked over the selection of animals. Most were being sold so they didn't have to be fed over the winter and Mortimer pretty much agreed with the owners assessments of them. The mules were particularly pathetic.

  "Dad will buy you a better one down in Burne." Rache told him. She had a constellation of young men eager to talk to her, preferably in private, behind the sales barn.

  "I don't want a mule, and before I bought one from your dad, I'd walk down to Burne and find out how much he paid. It's bad enough he mooches off us all the time, I'm not giving him my hard earned cash."

  "Old Gods, you are so suspicious." One of her swains slid an arm around her waist. "Let's lose your stupid cousin."

  The others followed. Mort kicked back and listened to the auctioneer's spiel as he rattled off imaginary bids and finally settled down to business. The first lot was some really old cows, then a bull old enough to be getting territorial, and not good looking enough to sell for above meat prices.

  A few sheep passed through, a spavined mule went cheap. Mort couldn't imagine the creature doing more work than a big milk cow and didn't give a thought to it. More old cows, some goats. Two horses. Some late calves went cheap. The buyer only wanted the four heifers, and Mort looked over the two bull calves, and bid low on the next round. He took them at a good price. One for meat whenever they needed it, the bulkier one could breed the cows for a couple of years, then they'd butcher him as well. They could fatten up on the extra milk the cows were producing right now.

  "So much for your mule, Stupid."

  "Hey, Erald, Lew. Is the whole family down here?"

  "Just us guys."

  "Ha! I'll bet all the girls are here too, hopefully all playing coy and not going all the way." He ignore Erald's glare.

  "You stop bad mouthing the whole family you over-sized moron." Lew tried to loom. He was two years older but two inches shorter, so it didn't work.

  Mort walked out and circled the sales barn.

  He jerked Rache out from behind the corner lean-to. Her swain was hastily adjusting his pants. He pulled Neille and two boys out from a wagon, then dragged a boy off of Melodi and punched him. Noticed it was Tyrone and whipped him good. Kathi and Nabelle were at least staying in the lantern light, so he left them with their swains.

  "Gee, Vonne and Marylu must be feeling ill, to have missed auction night." He commented, walking back toward the doors.

  "You forgot Ericka." Erald sneered.

  "Don't be silly, she's pregnant, and probably charging boys down at the creek. I'm not going to interrupt—she's going to need the money."

  "You liar!" Lew was actually stupid enough to take a swing at him.

  Mort blocked it, hooked his ankle and dumped him on his butt. "Not my fault. You go find her a husband, I wish you luck."

  "She is not . . . you . . . " He stomped off toward the creek. Erald followed, sen
ding glares back Mort's direction.

  He paid for his calves, and walked around to the pens, rope in hand. He ignored the minor riot going on down at the creek and pulled the bucking, reluctant calves home.

  The next day all the black eyes and bruises were his fault.

  "You're a bad influence, Mortimer." Uncle Willi was red faced and angry. "I want you to stay away from my children."

  Mort sighed. "No problem. Stop inviting yourself to dinner every other day."

  Willi stomped off, yelling at Mort's father, as he went. "Bad influence. And dumb as a post. You can't teach that boy anything."

  When Uncle Frank led a pathetic excuse of an equine into the yard, Mort shook his head. "That's either a hinny or a donkey. Worthless. I won't buy him."

  "You ungrateful lout! I told you I'd get you a good mule and this is the thanks I get?"

  "Yes. That creature is worthless. Make him into a pet for your children, if you're that crazy. But you'd better cut him."

  The girls rode the donkey around until he suddenly disappeared. No doubt it was a coincidence that he disappeared about the time Lord Dates started swearing to sue the owner of the jack donkey that bred his daughter's ponies while they were tied to the rail in front of the general store in Grantown.

  The weather held, and he cut more hay. Dry and brittle. He shifted his fence panels and let the cattle at that stack while some grazing still was to be found.

  Winter, early winter, was his favorite time of year. Nothing to do, really, but feed and milk the cows and feed the chickens. So he was free to take outside jobs, and bring in even more money.

  Chapter Two

  Winter Solstice1381

  Kingdom of the West

  The first job that presented itself was driving a wagon. Bandits had attacked a Piper Mining Company wagon train and been repulsed by the army escort, but two drivers were injured.

  Mortimer turned the care of the cows over to his parents, and cheerfully drove off to The City. It was only five hundred miles, and with the four horse hitches even the heavy wagons could make thirty miles a day. So with seventeen days worth of wages in his pocket, he found himself at large in the biggest city in the Kingdom. He caught a symphony from the cheap seats, and watched the changing of the guards at the Council Hall, a ceremonial parade with matched palominos and marching band, combined with what looked like an actually competent bunch of soldiers. Professional and crisp in their black uniforms. He sighed. He was unfortunately all too aware that he looked exactly like what he was, only dimmer. He might yearn for a military career, but he'd not be in one of these elite units. He'd be a grunt, marching, digging ditches and dying.

  He circled back to the merchant's district to check if his recent employer needed a driver yet, or best of all, for the first five hundred miles.

  "Oh, yes. Greg's arrow wound has gotten infected. They stuck him full of medicine in the hospital here, but he's not up to driving yet. We'll be setting out early tomorrow. Be here before dawn to harness and load." Mr. Holder was the wagon master, a full time employee of Piper Mining.

  Mort was there well ahead of time, helping with everything, glad to be around people who appreciated his work. It was a bigger group than had driven in. Fourteen wagons.

  "Safety in numbers." Gibber, driving the next wagon said. "Not that anyone should be wanting to raid us, we're mostly just carrying food back."

  Mostly. The two wagons that weren't, were obvious with a little observation. They were well built, and the teams very well kept. Two drovers for each wagon. Military.

  The other drovers joshed the drivers around the evening camp fires. "Payrole. Betcha." Gibber said. "We haul all that gold up to the City, and then they haul it back."

  Mort grinned. "Silver, I expect. Or have they started paying better than when my Dad was in the army?"

  That got a laugh, and a sharp glance from the bald fellow riding the front wagon. Officer.

  The third night out of the city the sky was clear and cold, and the comets could be seen as soon as the sky started darkening.

  "I hate seeing them." Farli from the third Piper company wagon. "Gives me the cold grues."

  Greg shrugged, winced as his wounded shoulder reminded him against such motion. "I think they're purty. And the old gods will keep them away, like they did four years ago."

  Farli snorted. "Thousands of people died, down south. That's not what I'd call keeping it away."

  One of the putatively military drivers looked over. "I heard it was big enough to kill everyone, and they did the best they could."

  "Huh. Wasn't good enough."

  Mort snickered. "You rich enough to mail order some newer, better gods?"

  That got some laughs, and they veered off into discussing the World's need for newer, better bosses, pay rates, lords . . . no one said anything about the king, and the subject died down and changed into a comparison of whorehouses in various cities.

  The Piper mining guards kept watches at night, and the two guards on the two military wagons traded off nights and one stayed awake until the drivers got up to feed the horses in the predawn.

  Mort slept uneasily. Greg was improving, but when Mort suggested that he was willing to go three more days and then walk home, Mr. Holder took him up on it. "You ever decide to leave that podunk farm, you come and see me. We can always use more drivers, and you're careful of your animals and equipment. We'll find a place for you, never fear."

  When the wagon train stopped at Grantown for the night, he walked the ten miles home. Tyrone, the oldest of the cousins, poked his brother Dare and laughed as he walked past the old place to his parents' tidy farm. The cows were making a mess of the hay stacks and he was up half the night refastening the panels to keep them out of the feed they'd need later.

  "Dad, you have to save the hay. You know that, and you also know damn well they didn't unfasten them themselves."

  "Well, son, Tyrone is mad at you, making passes at little Melodi. He'll just undo them tomorrow."

  "Tyrone was diddling Melodi. I don't make passes." Mort shook his head. "You better tell Uncle Frank to take a strap to him. I'm not going to be here forever for them to blame everything on. I'll be gone another week at least. Take care of Mom."

  But he detoured long enough to drag Tyrone out of bed and threaten to geld him if he got any of the cousins with child. "They are cousins. You can't marry them and your kids would look funny."

  "Oh, like you, Moron?"

  "Worse. Like you. Go find some other easy girls. Keep your hands off the cousins."

  Mort limped stiffly into camp at day break, much to the relief of Greg, who was sweating in pain, trying to harness the horses.

  "Tell you what. I'll do the hard part this morning. When we get to that long flat straight stretch, you can drive and I'll sleep. Then I'll do all the work this evening."

  "Damn I hate this."

  Mort nodded. "Yeah. But you're alive. Relax, and let me do the work right now. In three days it will all be yours again."

  The next day, the bandits hit.

  They were quite clever about it. The open carriage, with the gentleman and the lady in it were passing to one side. The lady looking worriedly over the side as they veered half off the road to get around the bigger wagons on the much rutted and poorly maintained road.

  "Oh, be careful! Be careful!" She dropped her parasol and clutched the sides of the rocking vehicle. They were all looking at her when the rest of the bandits suddenly stood up on the far side, crossbows already cocked and loaded.

  Mort ducked forward, cringed in anticipation. The feathers of the bolt slapped the back of his neck. He whipped up the horses, but they'd hit a horse somewhere up the line and the injured beast had panicked and tangled in the harness and slewed the wagon across the road. The old, poorly maintained ditches on either side of the road were shallow . . . He steered to the right and whipped the horses straight at the bandits. They were all cocking their bows for a second volley, and the lash of his whip hit th
e face of the man to his right while the man straight ahead dived out of the horses' way. He hauled the upset horses to the left, aiming as much down the line of the bowmen as possible. The horses bolted. The leading pair were still trying to not step on the bandits, but the wheel pair couldn't see what the first horses might have knocked down or tried to jump over. The wagon bucked and jumped over rough ground and other things.

  Greg grabbed the whip, popping bandits with the expertise of a master teamster. Freed to steer, Mort chased bandits, avoiding only those few who seemed prepared to attack the horses.

  Mounted men galloped into the melee, attacking the drivers of the other wagons, as they tried to follow Mort's example.

  They were at a dead run now, and even a horse across in front of them was insufficient to stop them. Mort steered just enough to hit the horse a glancing blow without hurting his own horse, not even slowing appreciatively. The wagon leaped from rough countryside to slightly less rough road, and Mort straightened the four out and let them run.

  He heard the bandits yelling "Get them! That's the pay wagon!" and then they were all thundering down the road after him.

  "Greg, can you take the reins?" He yelled. "I'll throw stuff."

  "What, sacks of flour?" Greg slid onto the bench and grabbed the reins.

  "Yep."

  The sacks weighed in at fifty pounds each. The first caught the lead rider 's shoulder and twisted him off his horse.

  Mort slashed the next sack and hit the closest horse's head. An explosion of white powder, and horse and rider were veering off the road. The next sack he tried holding onto, but couldn't raise enough of a flour cloud to discommode the horse or rider. There was a lump of flour left at each end of the sack, so he whirled it around his head and threw it at the horse's legs. They went down in a bone crunching tumble.

  The rest of the bandits were veering wide, to get ahead and stop the horses.

  Looking back he could see two men—the military men—in pursuit.