by John Brown
There were other roosters that would fly into an attack when they felt threatened or one of their hens screamed. And most chickens would snatch up a mouse and run off with the prize to eat it. But Conroy, it seemed, went looking for rats. He was, in his rat hunting, better than a dog. Of course, he wouldn’t be much against Sleth.
Conroy darted ahead of Talen to chase a white and black butterfly, following it into the tall weeds.
The barn, old house, and smoke shed stretched away from Talen like a crooked arm on his left while the pigpen, garden, and privy stretched out on his right.
When he came to the barn, he heard a scuffle by the wood stack alongside the far wall.
His heart jumped. He realized he had no weapon but the hoggin.
It could have been a rat, he told himself.
“Conroy,” he called. He made the trill and yip that always brought the rooster. When Conroy came running, Talen looked down at the bird. “It’s time to earn your keep,” he said and pointed to the side of the barn to where the wood was stacked. They’d gone rat hunting like this many times before. He made another trill and yip and Conroy dashed around the corner of the barn.
He waited and heard nothing.
This would go down well in the stories, he thought. The mighty hunter stays back and sends his rooster in to deal with the danger. Talen took a deep breath and marched around the barn so he could get a good look down the wall.
Conroy stood alone, eyeing the woodpile.
So, it was a rat. Talen walked down to the spot where he figured the sound had come from and kicked the wood. He waited for a scrabble of tiny claws. What he heard instead was someone running away from the back of the barn.
Talen’s heart quickened. He took the last three steps to the back of the barn, giving the corner a wide berth just in case something was there.
Conroy lingered for a moment, eyeing the wood stack, and then trotted after Talen.
Talen saw nothing behind the barn, but then out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. He turned toward it and saw someone’s back and one of their legs disappear behind the old house.
Lords, he was not imagining it.
“Sammesh?” he said.
Sammesh was the ale sot’s son. Da had caught him once stealing meat from the smoke shed. But instead of putting some fear into the boy, Da told him if he wanted meat, he’d have to bring something to trade. So from that day on, Sammesh slinked in and out of their place with his trade. Sometimes it was fair; other times, it wasn’t. He’d once taken a rope and left a small bowl of blueberries for it. The blueberries had been delicious but they were not worth half the value of that rope. Talen had told his da that he was only fostering dishonesty-Sammesh needed to be taught a lesson. But Da said Sammesh had received far too many of those kinds of lessons already. Talen wondered if that’s where all the boy’s bruises came from. Or was it simply because he was a thief?
Talen picked up a short cudgel from the woodpile and walked toward the old house.
“Sammesh! Come out, or I’ll thrash the stumps with you.”
There was no answer.
“An honest trader doesn’t skulk.”
Then he heard another sound behind the old house. He paused and listened, but all was quiet.
Something was there.
He had seen the back of a figure too small to be that of an adult. Too small for even Sammesh.
“Who are you?” said Talen. “Come out.”
Of course, maybe he didn’t want them to come out. Ke and River were too far away to be of any help; and if this were a hatchling… who knew what it might do? He wished he had his dogs. Then he realized he hadn’t seen them at all out in the fields. And that was odd. Where were the dogs?
Talen called for them.
Moments later Blue appeared from behind the old house, exactly where the skulker had disappeared. Blue wagged his tail and gave a happy bark.
Conroy made a low sound and hopped a few paces away. Then, with a great deal of noisy flapping, he flew up to the roof of the smoke shed. Despite Talen’s attempts to make them reconcile, the bird and the dog did not get along.
The dog’s warren lay underneath the old house on the far side. Blue must have been there the whole time.
But he should have barked.
Talen took a few steps, again giving the corner a wide berth, and peered along the side of the old house.
He saw nothing but Queen wriggling her way out of the hole they’d dug underneath the house.
Talen raced back to see between the old house and the barn. Perhaps whoever it was had run around. But he saw nothing.
If it was Sammesh, he’d clobber him. This was no time to be running about stealing meat.
Talen yelled and ran about the old house itself; halfway around he reversed directions to trick whomever it was.
Blue thought it was some game and followed him the whole way with playful woofs.
Nobody was there. Yet Talen had seen someone. He wasn’t imagining it.
He looked down at Blue. What good was a dog that didn’t bark? “You’re a fine fellow,” said Talen.
Blue licked Talen’s hand then wiggled his way between Talen’s legs.
Talen groaned and shook his head. Overfed and underworked, that’s what that dog was. Talen pushed Blue away and gave him the eye. Then he walked over to the side of the old house where he’d seen the figure disappear. The line of the woods was a good thirty yards from here. It would have to have been an exceedingly lively creature to cover that distance between the time Talen had heard that last noise and seen Blue. And it would have had to run very quietly.
That ruled out Sammesh.
Goh. He gripped the cudgel tighter.
He thought of the sod roof. The edges were low enough for someone to climb. They could be up there getting ready to spring. Talen spun around and scampered back.
There was nothing on the roof. He circled the whole house again, scanning the ground for footprints.
Nothing.
He took a step back and out of the corner of his eye saw something in the grass: one of their painted wooden spoons lying at an odd angle. He bent over and picked it up. It had not been out here long because soft bits of barley porridge still clung to it. Whoever or whatever it was had been in the house and dropped it here.
Talen scanned the yard about him.
The Sleth hatchlings were here, in the woods, watching. Talen was sure of it.
He studied the woods and backed away.
For some reason the dogs hadn’t barked, hadn’t even smelled the intruder when it was only a few paces away.
It was said that Sleth had some power over beasts. He cast a wary glance at Blue and Queen. Could they have been subverted?
He studied the dogs, but could see nothing that might reveal the truth of it.
Talen retreated back to the well.
He could run or bluff, but running was not proving a good choice today.
Talen kept an eye about and drew the first bucket of water. He cleared his throat.
“One of these days, you beast-loving tanner’s pot, we are going to catch you and let you join your mother in the cage.”
He waited for a response.
“You’ve come to the wrong farm, you yeasty boil.”
Talen poured the water into the hoggin then dropped the bucket back down into the well.
He scanned the tree line again. If the thing charged at him out of the woods, it would catch him before he got to the pigpen.
But then, if the hatchling were going to attack him, it could have done it earlier.
His heart raced, but you had to fight fear; had to fake courage sometimes until it came of its own accord. Children, Da had said. Only children.
“Sleth child,” Talen called out, “as you can plainly see, I do not fear you. Nor do we fear your abominable depredations.” He realized his talk had taken the edge off his fear. So he continued, “You want something to eat? Eh? Come out and I’ll feed you.
How about a moldy crust of bread eaten and shat out by our pig for supper?”
No response, only the leaves of the trees swaying in the small breeze.
The villagers this morning, they’d come after him, not out of fear, but dreaming of a fat bounty. Dreaming of this very opportunity.
Had the bailiff not said that a Koramite should bring the hatchlings in?
Something shifted inside him. His fear deserted him, and he suddenly wasn’t thinking about what the hatchlings might do to him. He was thinking of what he could do with them. What they could do for him.
If he were adopted into the Shoka, he would still be Koramite, still owe duties to his ancestors. Being a Shoka by priviledge did not change your blood. But Talen didn’t know if the adoption would really change his prospects. He’d still be a half-breed in most people’s eyes. However, if he could catch these hatchlings, it might not only mitigate some of the ill will against his people, but it might also prove the quality of Da’s line, prove the quality of Talen’s breeding.
Those villagers could dream all they wanted. They weren’t going to get the bounty. Oh, no. He thought of the tales of the heroes who had hunted Sleth. Not all of them were from the ranks of the high and mighty. Maybe a little Koramite would win a spot in the chronicles.
He could see himself purchasing that fine, Kishman’s bow, made of wood, horn, and sinew, wrapped at the ends with yellow and scarlet thread. There wasn’t a people who could make better bows than the Kish. But why settle for a bow? He’d get himself a horse.
Talen drew up a third bucket, emptied it into the hoggin, and replaced the lid.
He addressed the old sod house. “Every soul worth his salt will be hunting your clay-brained trail. You’re going to end up a boiled cabbage no matter what you do.” He paused. “You should have never begun with the dark art. But turn yourself in to me and you’ll avoid a wicked beating. That’s a promise you’ll not get from any other quarter.”
There was no answer, only the voices of Ke and Nettle in the distance.
He realized then if the hatchling were an angry thing, it would kill Talen and stop his mouth. But it was either stupid or scared, for it had thrown away a perfectly good chance. Or maybe it was waiting for its master, the one that slew the butcher’s family in the village of Plum.
That thought sent chills up his spine. That was a creature no lone Koramite would take. But he wasn’t going to let the fear of such things overcome him. It obviously wasn’t here now. And standing at the well all day wasn’t going to do him any good either, so he walked to the house with as much ease as he could muster and fetched the figs.
When he came back out he paused. “You’re a fool to refuse my offer,” Talen called. He hefted the hoggin onto his shoulder, gave the farm one last glance, and headed back out to the fields. This time Blue and Queen came with him, Conroy bringing up the rear.
On the way he began to think of ways to catch the hatchlings. He wasn’t going to be able to corner them like normal animals. Oh, no. He was going to need something entirely different.
Talen distributed the figs and passed the water to Ke. Nettle sat on the trunk of tree Ke and River had just felled. Next to him leaned the two-man saw. A strand of Talen’s hair had come out of the leather string Talen had tied it with. After Sabin’s yank this morning, Talen was about ready to have Nettle hack it all off with his knife. But he undid the string, gathered his hair up, and said, “You said you wanted to do something real? Well, we’ve got ourselves a whale of an opportunity.”
Nettle plopped a fig in his mouth. “What do you mean?”
Talen faced the three of them. “I spotted the trouser thief.”
“Somebody actually stole your pants?” asked Nettle.
Ke rolled his eyes.
“Not somebody,” said Talen. “The hatchling. And we are going to get the bounty.”
Nettle blinked.
“What are you talking about?” asked Ke.
Talen related what had happened back at the house.
“We need to alert the bailiff or territory lord,” said Nettle.
“No, no. That’s exactly what we shouldn’t do. We don’t want some idiot Mokaddian getting the reward.”
“Excuse me?” said Nettle. “I don’t think Mokaddians were the problem this time.”
“I’m not talking about you,” said Talen. “You know that isn’t what I mean. Think about what people will say when a Koramite brings them in.”
“Except we’re not full Koramite,” said Ke.
“That isn’t the point,” said Talen. “We have an opportunity.”
“Did you see their faces?” asked River.
“There was only one of them.”
“But did you see more than a leg?”
“No.”
“Then it could have been anybody. It could have been a beggar. Could have been some stranger passing through.”
“Nobody can run that fast.”
“Come on,” said Ke. “We’d all love to catch us one. But it takes fifty to a hundred men to conduct a proper hunt.”
“Not to catch children,” said Talen. “Besides, I’ve worked it out. All we need is a counterweight and a rope.”
“Have you forgotten Da’s last words?” asked River. “This is how innocent people get killed.”
“Somebody was there,” said Talen.
“Then we keep our wits about us,” said River, “and our eyes open.”
“And our knives at the ready,” said Nettle. He looked up at Talen, the turning of his mind showing in his eyes. “This isn’t one of your pig-brained jokes, is it?”
“No pigs,” said Talen. “And I don’t intend on getting close enough to use a knife. I’m perfectly happy to use my bow.”
At the far end of the dog warren underneath the sod house Sugar lay still as stone, her back pressed into the dirt wall. She hugged Legs to her chest. Above her head a monstrous yellow spider scuttled along the underside of the floorboards.
“I think he’s gone,” said Legs. “I can only hear the breeze.”
She was hungry and thirsty. Her hair was full of dirt and filth. She had taken great comfort in the dogs, but now realized how childish that was.
“We’re not safe,” she said. “This place is not safe.”
10
BATTLE
It was almost midday and Argoth kept himself hidden behind a screen made by an immense rock and a thick clump of blackberry briar. With him on this side of the steep ravine were fifteen of the best fighters the Shoka had. The same number had concealed themselves on the other side of the ravine. All lay in wait, their bows ready.
The mouth of the ravine opened up onto a wide meadow, deep with brown and dark green grasses. A stream ran through the meadow and out of sight behind a thick grove of river birch on the far end.
Argoth looked at the group with him, gauging them. There were a few young men here of Nettle’s age. He wondered, should he have brought the boy? Nettle was eager. He was of age. And when he’d demanded to know why he couldn’t come, Argoth had no answer. Nettle was skilled, but he just wasn’t ready.
A fly landed on Argoth’s lips and he shooed it away. Where was Varro? It was past time. He and his ridiculous, bleach-streaked beard should have ridden into view long ago, leading their quarry into the trap.
Argoth was just about ready to break position and organize a search when Varro burst from behind the grove of river birch, riding his spotted steed at a full gallop.
Moments later a dozen riders rounded the same corner, their horses stretched out, racing to catch him. Most of them wore helmets and shaped-leather cuirasses festooned with various furs. One man rode with a mail tunic, another was bare-chested. All had their faces painted white and black. All of them Bone Face rot.
Varro splashed across the stream, and then he cut through the deep meadow grass, making straight for the steep ravine where Argoth and the rest of the men waited.
Argoth gave the hand signal to get ready, and his
men nocked their arrows. Each man clutched four others in the hand that held their bow.
Their goal was to kill most of these dung heaps but keep one or two for the Shoka warlord to question. A band of Bone Faces had been sallying forth from this quarter, and it was time to be rid of them and find out if they were on their own or scouts for a far larger raiding party.
This was going to be like shooting rabbits in a hutch.
Varro closed half the distance to the ravine, then his horse stumbled and rolled, throwing Varro wide into the tall brown and green meadow grass.
The horse screamed and struggled to its feet, but it couldn’t stand straight. One of its forelegs was broken. Argoth winced; it must have stepped into the hole of a fox or ground squirrel.
The horse limped, but Varro was up, running, cutting his way through the tall grass.
His pursuers gained on him, but not by much. Varro was a dreadman, one of those upon whom the Divines had bestowed a weave of might. He ran with the speed of that weave, flying through the meadow with enormous, quick strides. He was fast to begin with, and his weave doubled, almost tripled, the liveliness with which he ran.
But then he slowed.
What was he doing? This wasn’t a time for tricks. All he needed to do was run into the ravine.
He slowed even further until he ran with the speed of a normal man.
Varro glanced back over his shoulder, and when he turned back around, Argoth could see from Varro’s expression that something was terribly wrong.
He wasn’t going to make the ravine. He wasn’t going to make it out of the meadow.
Argoth rose. “Mount up,” he called. “Mount up!” It was possible the Bone Faces had a dreadman among them. But he wouldn’t be one of those in heavy armor. Dreadmen only wore such when they were sure to be fighting their own kind. In most battles it was speed they desired. Brutal, blinding speed.
Argoth put away his doubts about sending Nettle to help Hogan with his harvest. This type of battle would have thrown the boy into a situation he was not prepared for. Exactly the type of situation into which he’d put his son, of a different wife and in a different land, so many years ago.