by John Brown
Barg looked at his daughter. She grew brighter each day. He was actually trying to win this game and failing.
He turned to his oldest son. “You’re going to have to take my place,” he said.
“Why should you go?” asked his wife. “Nobody else will be there. Nobody would dare.” She sat at the table braiding the youngest boy’s hair for bed.
“They will,” he said. “They’re counting on me. But I’ll be back soon enough. And I think I know a way to take this whole bloody mess off of your mind. We’ll go fishing tomorrow.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “Fishing?”
He leaned in close, then whispered in her ear so the children couldn’t hear. “Happy plans will put the children at ease.”
She looked down and said nothing.
Barg kissed her gently on the cheek. Then he considered his girl and two boys. The firelight sparkled in their dark eyes. To think they had played with that woman’s hatchlings.
“I’ll be back soon enough,” he assured them. “We’re taking quarter watches is all.” Then he belted on his sword and picked up his spear. Foss, their hunting dog, rose to go with him, and Barg opened the door.
The smoke in the room curled out into the night. Barg pointed at the children. “You do your chores and get to bed and when you wake up in the morning, we’ll be off.”
“To the river or the beach?” asked his oldest.
They loved the beach. It would be a long day, but it would give them something to think about.
“The beach,” he said. “We’ll roast crabs.”
Then he shut the door behind him. He took a long drink of water from the bucket at the well then set off down the path that led to the smith’s ruin, Foss padding along at his side.
He could see the last flames of Sparrow’s house burning at the other end of the field. The fires burned low, but they still cast enough light to silhouette the remains of Sparrow’s barn and outbuildings. The smoke of the fires hung heavily in the air.
Barg glanced back at his house a few times as he walked. The shutters were latched and snug. His wife had barred the door. They would be fine.
As Barg got closer to the flames he could see that something was amiss-nobody was there. There were supposed to be ten men on each watch.
Perhaps they were all bunched up behind the barn.
He rounded the corner of the barn and looked across Sparrow’s yard.
Nothing. His wife had been right. None of the others were here.
The house and smithy had burned down to coals and ashes. Here and there a few fires still burned, but they were small. Much smaller than it appeared from his house. Still, he could feel the heat of the coals. The whole mess still produced a blistering heat.
A small flame rose at the edge of a blackened log close to him only to disappear moments later.
All was silent except for the crackling and popping of the fire. The circle of light did not extend far into the swallowing darkness.
Cowards.
He’d roust them out of bed, every one.
Then he saw someone standing in the shadows at the edge of where the house had stood. The man moved aside a log, kicking up sparks. He reached into the hot coals and pulled something out.
“Ha,” Barg called to him. “It’s good to see there’s more than one stout heart among us.”
Foss stopped and began to growl.
Then the man straightened up and turned, and Barg got a look at him in the firelight.
He was taller than anyone Barg had ever seen, but his arms and legs were thicker than they should be. And his face-it was all wrong. He had a mouth that was dark, ragged, and huge. A mouth that seemed to crack his head in two.
This was no man.
A tuft of hair on the creature’s arm caught fire. The flame sputtered, flashed, and receded into red and yellow sparks that fell to the ground. Then Barg realized it wasn’t hair. It was grass. Patches all along its arm had burned, some of them still full of dull red sparks. A clump of smoldering grass fell from the creature’s arm to the ground.
Barg saw what the creature held. It was Sparrow’s scorched leg, reduced to bone.
The creature flung Sparrow’s leg aside and began to walk toward Barg. The ashes and coals of the smithy stood between them, but the creature did not walk around them. It walked straight into the blistering coals, over a tangle of charcoal logs, and through one of the remaining fires. The long ragged grass about its legs began to burn and smoke, but the creature did not waver or cry out.
Gods, Barg thought. Keep your calm. Keep your calm.
The thing’s mouth gaped like a cavern. Its eyes. Lords, where were its eyes? And then he saw them-two pits all askew.
Filthy rot. Filthy, twisted rot. Regret himself had sent this thing.
Barg set himself for a throw. Then he took two steps, yelled, and, with all his might, hurled the spear.
The creature did not flinch or step aside, and the spear buried itself in the creature’s chest.
“To arms!” Barg shouted and unsheathed his sword. “We’re attacked! To arms! To arms!”
There would be others here shortly. And together they would dispatch this monster. All Barg had to do was keep his courage. Keep it like he’d done this morning and not run away.
The creature strode on as if nothing had happened. It plucked the spear out of its chest like a man plucking staw from his tunic and flung it into the ashes.
Foss surged forward to the edge of the coals, but Barg took a step backward, turned, and fled.
Foss snarled and barked. Then he yelped.
Barg heard the dog’s footfalls behind him. He turned and saw Foss, neck stretched out, galloping for his life. Foss caught Barg up and sped past.
And behind, the creature loped after them, a thin line of fire burning up one of its sides.
Barg realized he was running the wrong way, away from the the other houses and help. But to go back to the houses meant he would run back toward the beast.
Then he saw the door to his house open, the firelight behind, and his wife standing silhouetted in the door.
“No,” he yelled. “Go back!” But it was too late and he knew it. The creature would have seen her. Even if he were to change his direction now, the monster might not follow him.
“Get the children!” he yelled as he ran into the yard.
“Barg?” his wife said in alarm. Then her face twisted in horror and she backed into the house.
Barg heard the creature chuff behind him.
He turned around, holding his sword at the ready.
It stood not ten paces away. The fire had risen and burned the creature’s shoulder and head.
Courage. All he needed was a bit of courage.
He saw movement in the village. He heard men shouting. But they were running the wrong way, running to the smith’s.
“To me!” he cried. “To me!”
The creature opened its mouth wide and drew in a hoarse breath. It turned its head toward the door of the house.
“No, you won’t,” said Barg. “You filthy abomination, you’ll feel my steel first.” He let out a yell and, for the second time today, charged, his blade held high.
The creature took a step toward him.
Barg brought his blade down in a cut that would have cleaved a man from collarbone to belly.
But the creature simply grabbed the blade in midswing, reached out with its free, rough hand, and took Barg by the face.
Barg struggled in its stony grasp. And then he was slipping, twisting, falling into another place entirely.
Miles away, Sugar crouched in the moon shadows at the edge of the forest and looked across a river at the farmstead of Hogan the Koramite. The man she knew as Horse.
“Is the water deep?” whispered Legs.
“I don’t know,” said Sugar.
“Do you think he will help?”
“This is where Mother sent us,” said Sugar. But in her heart she knew the chances of hi
m helping them were slim. If Horse harbored them, he put his whole family at risk. But if he delivered them to the hunt, he, even as a Koramite, would earn a fortune.
“I think I’m wicked,” said Legs.
“You’re not wicked,” said Sugar.
“I should have listened to the wisterwife.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sometimes, when I held the charm, she would call to me like I was lost.”
Sugar looked at her brother. She’d never heard of such a thing. “She called to you?”
“In my mind. I could see her. She was beautiful. And sometimes I could see something else with her. Something made of earth, dark and wild and…”
Sugar waited while Legs found the words.
“Something in her voice,” he said, “it was horrible and wonderful. Every time I heard her, fear stabbed me because I didn’t want someone to think I was like old Chance. I didn’t want to be mad and taken to the altars for hearing voices in my head. And so I never answered. She said that the fullness of time had come. She promised to make me whole. Promised all sorts of things. Lunatic promises. But I was too scared. I think she wanted to help.”
Sugar thought about the wisterwife charm. All this time they’d thought it was a blessing, a gift. It was an annual ritual for most people to fashion a Creator’s wreath and hang it above their door to draw the blessings of the wisterwives. It was fashioned with rock and leaf, feathers and bones. Many set out a gift of food or cast it upon the waters. But Regret had his servants as well. So who knew what this charm really was? She thought of Mother and her horrible speed, her terrible secrets. That charm could be anything. “You think it was real?”
“I don’t know what to think.” No sound escaped him, but his eyes began to brim with tears, and he ducked his head the way he always did when he was in pain.
Sugar wanted to cry with him, wanted to feel overwhelming grief. But she was empty, as desolate as rock. And that pained her as much as anything else. What kind of daughter was it that had no tears for the butchering of her parents? What kind of daughter was it that ran? She had a knife. She knew how to use it.
“Da always said you were an uncanny judge of character,” said Sugar. “If your heart tells you to be afraid, then let’s trust it. Da always did.”
Legs leaned into her, and she took him into an embrace, putting his face in her neck and stroking his hair.
Things to act and things to be acted upon. She had a knife. Lords, she’d had at least six, for there were a number in the kitchen. She could have done something. She could have sent Legs to the pheasant house, gone around back herself, and surprised that line of bowmen. She could have distracted a whole group of men. She might have tipped the battle.
Why? Why had she run?
And if she hadn’t run, if, beyond hope, she’d tipped the battle, what then? She’d seen Mother. Seen her horrible power.
Legs gently pulled away. “Will we talk to Horse?”
They had no tools to survive in the wild. Besides, an army of hunters would be combing the outer woods, expecting them to run there. If Horse helped them, and that was a desperate if, then maybe they might be able to survive until all but the most patient hunters gave up dreams of a bounty and went back to their normal labors. If she and Legs survived that long, that’s when they would escape.
“I don’t know,” said Sugar. “Let’s just take this one step at a time. Right now we need to find where they ford this river.”
9
HATCHLING
Talen still ached from the beating he’d taken at Stag Home. He stood, took off his wide-brimmed straw hat, and wiped his brow. Then he gingerly felt his ribs and looked for Da. Nettle had returned from taking his message to the Creek Widow long ago. But there was still no sign of Da.
Nettle threw another pitchfork full of dried bracken onto the wagon bed. They still had three windrows of the stuff to haul off the hill. From the time Da left until now, Talen had eyed the woods every chance he got. But after hours of vigilance, and seeing nothing more exciting than three hogs rooting for acorns in the distance, he began to think less of the dangers and more on the promised bounty.
The reward was a miller’s annual wage. Goh, he could buy a Kish bow for that.
And why couldn’t a Koramite bring them in?
Why couldn’t he bring them in?
Sleth were wily and dangerous. And maybe he’d need help. After all, it was said Sleth had animal strength and could twist your head off as easily as a housewife could twist the head off a chicken.
Nevertheless, they were, after all, only children. Not full Sleth.
He and Nettle piled the wagon high with another dozen forkfuls of bracken then took it to the last haystacking site. Prince Conroy, their red rooster, clambered up on top, surveying the world as the wagon moved along.
They put a thick layer of the long fronds at the base of this last site for the hay they’d use this winter to feed their horse, cattle, and small flock of sheep. A thick bracken base kept a dry layer between the hay and ground. They’d also cut enough for lining bundles of foodstuff, for the rats did not like chewing through it because it made their mouths sore.
When they’d finished the last stacking site, Nettle said, “I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” said Talen. “You stinking Mokaddian garlic-eater.”
“Koramite goat-lover,” Nettle shot back.
Talen smiled. This name-calling had been their joke for some time now. And with the possibility of Talen being adopted into Argoth’s clan as a member by privilege but not blood, it took on a new meaning. Of course, Talen had already been recognized by the Koramite Council and granted a man’s braid to hang from his belt.
The Koramites didn’t proclaim their clan or male-rights by elaborate tattoos. One small tattoo was sufficient. Your clan was in your blood. What more did you need? And your male-rights were things you earned or lost by your actions. Talen’s braid, which was only to be worn at formal occasions, was kept in a box with those for Ke and Da. It was a simple leather braid with three silver beads. Other men with greater capacities extended their belts and added disks. Some were worn from a shoulder. But regardless of the rights granted, the braid was a privilege that could be taken away. Not a right to be painted on.
In the meadow, River and Ke turned the rows of cut grass with their hay forks so it could finish drying. A flock of blackbirds followed behind, picking through the grass for a meal.
“I’ll start on that acre your da wants cleared for the oats next spring,” said Nettle. “You get something to eat.”
“I thought you were supposed to be riding with your da today anyway, not here eating up all our food.”
“No, the captain wouldn’t let me come on patrol.” Nettle referred to his father this way when he was dissatisfied with him. “He made some excuse again.”
Uncle Argoth was responsible for watching a stretch of coastline. “He’s just trying to protect you,” said Talen.
“I don’t want protection. Half of the men resent me because they’ve been ordered, behind my back, to keep me safe. So instead of being a full member of the patrol, I’m a burden. To the other half I’m nothing but a joke. They might as well bring along an infant in arms.”
“You don’t know what they’re thinking.”
“I can read a man’s eyes,” said Nettle. “I’ve heard their whispers and seen their patronizing smiles.” He shook his head in disgust.
Talen didn’t know what to say so he just nodded. Of course, why court death when you didn’t have to? He was happy he didn’t have patrol duties and was about to say this when Nettle looked at him honestly.
“I envy you,” said Nettle.
“Me?” asked Talen. Nettle had everything. Looks, wealth, the right blood. He might not be a giant like Da or Ke, but he was larger than Talen. And he had a father who was a captain in the Shoka clan.
“Not you exactly,” Nettle said and grinned. “But your d
a trusts you. You have your braid. He treats you like a man. You almost have your life taken and he simply dusts you off and sends you out to the fields to work.”
“If it’s damage you want,” said Talen, “let me find a stick. I’d be happy to give you a good thrashing. Especially since you failed to come to my aid this morning.”
“See,” said Nettle, “my passivity is becoming habitual. I’m sick to death of being coddled. I want to do something real.”
No he didn’t, Talen thought. There is no joy in being on the receiving end of the stick. “The acre that needs to be cleared is real,” said Talen. “And don’t worry about stumps. We’ll just plow around them. When they’re good and rotted they’ll come out just fine.”
“Whatever,” said Nettle, obviously frustrated with Talen’s response.
Talen picked up the hoggin. He might as well fill it back up with water. But when he turned to walk back to the house, he got a chill. There were stories of one Sleth lord who had lain in wait for his victims in their cellars. Talen and the others had been working out in the fields since before noon. That was plenty of time for hatchlings to move about and hide in a cellar.
“What are you doing?” asked Nettle. “I thought you were going to get some food.”
“Nothing,” said Talen. But, of course, he was doing something-he was acting like a coward again. “Just thinking about what we’re going to have for a snack.” Then he strode toward the house as quickly as his injuries would let him, hoggin slung under his arm.
Prince Conroy jumped off the wagon and accompanied him back.
Conroy was fierce beyond all reckoning. To rodents, that was. Or cats. Or weasels. Lately he’d been giving the squirrels what for. But it was his violence with rats that had won him his name. The real Conroy was a prince of story who had scoured his city of a nasty infestation of rats. Talen’s Prince Conroy loved nothing more than to drop like a stone upon a rodent, skewer it with his talons, and then peck it to a bloody pulp.