She listened for her pursuers, but heard nothing. Her weariness settled upon her, and she sat on the trunk of a fallen tree to regain her strength.
Her lips were dry. Her mouth was dry. So dry that she found it difficult to swallow. She felt twinges in her knees and other joints. She felt light-headed. Three times she’d almost lost herself to the firelust. The last time she had almost failed to put her weave of might back on. Lords, but the Fire was sweet. All she’d wanted to do was burn and burn.
She knew she’d just consumed a large quantity of her Days. Most living things were made up of three vitalities—body, soul, and a store of Fire, or Days, as some of the masters called it. Fire was consumed or “burned” like wood or grass. When a person used up all their Fire, the binding of the three vitalities broke. The body died. Every time you burned Fire, you hastened your own death.
This danger was compounded because when you built your Fire to multiply your might and speed, you couldn’t do so in a linear fashion. If a man wanted to increase his strength by half, he might have to use double or triple the normal amount of Fire. If he wanted to double his strength, he might have to burn five to eight times the normal rate. Sugar couldn’t gauge exactly how much Fire she’d burned. But she was sure she’d shortened her life by a number of days. And such a multiplying took a toll on the body, especially one that wasn’t used to it. She needed to get back to Rogum’s Defense. Needed to talk to River and make sure she hadn’t done permanent damage.
She slid her pack around and opened it yet again to look at the items she’d retrieved from her mother’s secret cache.
Of the items she’d taken from the cache by the hearth, Sugar could only remember seeing one of them before. And that had been when she was very young. The first was a codex of parchment sheets as square as a roof shingle. Five bands of soft leather ran along the spine of the sheets. Groups of sheets had been sewn together and put in a stack. The sheets had then been sewn to the bands of leather along the spine. The bands also secured two thin wooden boards—one covered the front of the codex, the other the back. The boards were lacquered red. Two brass clasps attached to the front held the codex shut. She’d unclasped the codex earlier and looked at a few pages of the writing. Mother had taught her how to read, but the blue script on these pages would take some deciphering.
The second item was a necklace. The chain was made of silver, segmented every few inches with carved figurines. Some of the figures were made of wood, some stone, two appeared to be woven of wire. There was a horse, birds, a man, a woman, a bear and other animals. The necklace had been wrapped in a cloth with a sprig of godsweed.
The third item was a lacquered box that contained another sprig of godsweed as well as a metal otter as long as the flat of her hand. It was black and heavy and felt like it was made of gold wire. The other item was an armband much like the candidate’s weave she had been given by Argoth and the Creek Widow. She wondered if that was the weave that had awakened her mother to the lore. Was it one she had planned on using to awaken Sugar herself? The thought of Mother teaching her filled her mind and brought with it a sharp pang of loss.
Sugar sat there a few moments, contemplating her mother’s things, and caught a whiff of wood smoke. More than anything else, she needed water. She needed it now, before her body became enfeebled and found herself unable to go on.
She knew the village of Redthorn lay somewhere up ahead. It was Fir-Noy, but she didn’t have a choice. She needed food and water.
Sugar brought her dark scout scarf up around her face. Despite the brief rest, she still felt a bit light-headed, but she hooked her thumb through the strap of her sack across her chest and, with a sigh, heaved herself to her feet.
She traveled some distance through the pines, then came to the edge of an apple orchard. Sugar squatted to get a good look through the rows of trees. Nobody was in the orchard.
She listened, expecting to hear the sounds of the villagers up and about their daily tasks, and heard nothing but the breeze. Maybe Redthorn was one of those places that celebrated the Apple Dance a bit too heartily. Maybe the inhabitants were all still asleep.
She entered the orchard, her feet sinking into the smooth cool grass, and immediately saw an apple lying under a few long blades. She picked it up. It was partially rotted, gone to soft brown goo and fungus on one side. But the other side was whole and blushed with red. She bit into that part. The apple flesh burst like honey and sunlight on her tongue. But even better was the juice that ran down her throat. She found another apple lying in the long grass, a small thing with a couple of brown dots indicating worm holes. She devoured it in three bites. She made her way down the row toward the village, but only found one other apple. It was clear the Redthorn folks were diligent with their fruit.
Something moved a few rows down.
Sugar’s heart leapt to her throat, and she froze.
A moment later a handful of spotted deer moved into view. They had come, like her, to eat what fallen fruit the tidy villagers had left. She sighed in relief, and then one of them saw her, stopped, and bounded away in a fright. The rest followed.
Sugar shook her head. She should have seen them. Her thirst and weariness were making her stupid and slow. They were going to get her caught.
The villagers had begun to prune this part of the orchard. The cut branches were gathered in piles between the rows. Sugar crouched down behind a pile and peered through the tree trunks at the village beyond.
Nothing moved.
She thanked the Creators for Fir-Noy reveling, hoping they weren’t anywhere close to sleeping off their cider binge.
She proceeded to the end of the orchard and crouched behind a low stone wall to scan the road running past the orchard and the village on the other side. Her throat still ached for water.
A number of homes lined a main road. About them stood outbuildings, gardens, fields, and three large orchards. The upland villages grew apples and cherries far sweeter than anything that could be grown in the lowlands. Heaps of pruned branches stood in the other two orchards. There probably should have been crews of adults and children finishing the pruning in this orchard, but all was silent. The only thing that moved was a thin ribbon of smoke rising from the chimney of a house down the road. Behind that house stood a community well with a number of paths leading to it.
She looked down the main road, looked the other way, and saw nothing but three brown chickens a few houses down the lane, pecking at something in the dirt. So she hopped the stone wall, hurried across the hard dirt road, and slipped into the shadows alongside one of the houses, silent as a cat, and moved to the back.
She turned the corner and almost trod upon a brindled bulldog lying on its side. Her heart pounded, and she jumped back, expecting the animal to rise up. But the bulldog didn’t move. It just lay there. A fly buzzed about, landed on the tongue hanging out of the dog’s mouth, then flitted to the dog’s nose.
The dog’s ribs weren’t moving. It was positioned oddly. Sugar looked closer. The dog was dead.
She blew out a soft sigh and paused a moment to relish her luck. She looked about. The early morning sun lay softly on the yard fences, the privies, and gardens being prepared for winter. It illuminated the well’s small wooden roof and very clearly revealed that nobody was out. A large set of wooden windpipes had been fastened onto a pole at the edge of the garden. These were uplanders, after all, and believed in giving the wind a voice. The morning breeze whistled through these pipes and a number of others throughout the village, making an eerie, lonely sound. This village’s Apple Dance must have been quite the reveling.
She darted across the garden. The rows of beets and carrots were covered with a thick layer of leaves against the coming cold and held down with a thin layer of dirt. She hopped the fence on the far side to a path leading to the well and almost landed on a pale ox lying on a swath of yellow birch leaves. Its large dark eye
s had dried. Its mouth hung open.
Sugar paused. Beyond the ox lay a man. He was sprawled along the fence, wearing red festival trousers embroidered with blue loops around the cuffs and a festival shirt embroidered about the shoulders with leaves and fruits.
Alarm ran up Sugar’s neck. She carefully approached the ox and man, circling around until she could see the man’s face.
The man’s face was painted with festival swirls. There was no wound she could see. No blood on the leaves or ground or clothing. Farther down, a boy lay slumped alongside another house. The body of a woman sprawled in the grass by the orchard fence across the road.
Her arms goose pimpled. Her senses went on full alert.
This wasn’t cider, unless the cider had been poisoned, but then who would be giving an ox cider? It could be the effects of too much of the herb sinnis. But again, who would be giving that to dogs and livestock?
She used the shaft of a garden fork to roll the man at her feet over. He was heavy and stiff and moved more like a big log than a man. She used the end of the stick to raise his tunic, examining his belly and chest. She lifted the tunic higher to check his armpits. Nothing.There was no sign of any pestilence.
Woodikin lived in the Wilds beyond the borders of the land. Half the size of a man, they made their homes mostly in groves of huge trees called tanglewoods. When the first Koramites had settled in the New Lands, the woodikin had fought them. They were wily, using ambush and poison and insects, but in the end, they had lost, and their tanglewoods here had been destroyed. The woodikin themselves had retreated into the Wilds. It was rare to see them within the borders of the land, but in the last few weeks there had been a number of sightings.
She looked for the markings of woodikin darts. But there were no wounds, no insect bites, nothing at all. The man was just dead.
She felt someone watching her and spun around. A small flock of sparrows swooped over a garden and perched on the peak of a roof.
She needed to get out of here.
But she needed water more. She was still dizzy with thirst, a small ringing in her ears. The well stood just a few paces away. The gate at the end of this path stood open. Despite her fear, Sugar left the man and quietly walked to the well. The smell of cold sweet water rose up from the depths. She carefully dropped the bucket down, the whole time keeping an eye out.
The house closest to the well was a simple structure: board and plaster, thatched roof, with a main room for living and cooking and another to the side. This was the home she’d seen before with the thin stream of smoke coming from its chimney. Painted on its back door were two stalks of barley which announced this as the residence of an ale-wife. The door stood ajar, revealing a hallway to the main room, the end of a table there, a chair, and three baskets sitting on the floor. A covered ceramic pot sat in one of the baskets. The contents of the other two baskets were covered neatly with cloths.
Food, it had to be. Leftovers from last night’s festivities.
The well bucket hit the water below. Sugar let it sink. When it felt good and heavy, she gently cranked it back up. The water was cold and clear, but part of her said it could be poisoned. Maybe that’s what killed these folks. She held the bucket up, sniffed it, tasted it. It was sweet and pure. She took a large gulp, and felt the lovely relief washing down her mouth and throat. She lifted the bucket higher and drank, the delicious cold water spilling down her chin and into her tunic. She drank until she knew she couldn’t hold more, then filled her waterskin.
She needed food. She didn’t know how long she might be on the run. She might be in Rogum’s Defense by the end of the day. But it also might take her another day to make it back. It had been drilled into her that you took your opportunities when they presented themselves. You ate and slept when you could, because you might not be able to eat and sleep later.
She didn’t know what had killed these people, but she didn’t think it was the food. No one would have brought enough for everyone to eat. They would have all brought a dish or two, which meant the food wasn’t poisoned, if poison is what killed these people.
There were tales of the Famished, the souls of sleth that refused to move on. They would enter the bodies of the living and, in perfect disguise, drain all those about them for their Fire. After a number of days or weeks, when the neighbors and loved ones were all consumed, the famished soul would travel to a new out-of-the-way place, jump to a new victim’s body, and begin all over again.
But those were tales told by Divines, and who knew if they were true? Like all the rest of their lies, it was probably part of their propaganda. Nevertheless, she drew her knife, then sidled up to the house and listened.
She heard only the breeze whistling through the windpipes in the gardens. She looked through the door. The house was still.
She pushed the door open with her foot. It glided silently on its iron hinges, uttering one creak. The main room had one window that stood unshuttered, allowing the light of the day to dimly illuminate what was inside.
Sugar stepped inside, her knife ready. The door swung gently behind her. The floor in this main room appeared to have been replaced in the last month, for the boards were unpainted and so newly cut she could still smell the wood.
She crept quietly to the baskets and bent down. The lidded crock contained a dish of beans cooked in hog fat. The fat was white and congealed at the top. She dipped a finger in and scooped some out. It was savory and delicious. The other baskets contained bread, roasted mushrooms, and a half-eaten cherry tart. She took a bite of that tart. The flavor burst in her mouth, and she couldn’t help but take another, then another.
She was amazed at how good this food tasted and wanted to eat more, but told herself she could do that when she was well away from this village. She wrapped the other items up and put the crock of beans in her sack, then heard horses clopping down the road. Moments later the voice of men carried through the window at the front of the house. “Check here,” one said.
Regret’s eyes! She’d lingered too long. She backed up, then hurried to the door she’d come through. Just as she went to grab the handle, the door opened. A huge bearded man stood there. His clothes were dark. His eyes were orangish-brown, but it wasn’t their color that filled her with dread. It was the shape of the irises—horizontally like those of a goat.
Sugar stumbled back.
“Ho there, Darling,” he said.
Someone else entered the front of the house.
Sugar tried to dart around the big man, but he was quick and blocked her path. Were these two of the Famished? Had they drained the life out of this village and now come for her?
He raised his voice and grinned. “I think we’ve found what we’ve been looking for.”
Sugar drew her knife to strike, but the man who had entered the front of the house rushed up behind her and caught her arm. Sugar twisted, threw her elbow back, and slammed it into his face.
He grunted, but he did not let go. She struggled, but he grabbed her hand. A sharp pain shot through it, and she dropped the knife. She tried to yank her arm free, but his grip was iron. He twisted her hand and wrenched her arm around into her back. Pain shot up her arm. She lashed out with her free arm. Kicked back.
“Great lords,” the big man said, “we’ve got ourselves a tiger.” He grabbed her free arm, and the two of them pushed her face-first against the wall.
“She’s Koramite,” the big one said. “It has to be her.”
“Sugar,” the one that had disarmed her said, “we’ve been sent by Shim. We’re friends.”
She stamped down hard on his foot.
“Oh!” he grunted and loosened his grip just enough for her to yank herself free and whirl around to face them.
Then she recognized the one that had come up from behind. It was Urban, one of the foreign sleth, the one that had all the women talking. That meant the big one was not on
e of the Famished, but part of Urban’s crew that kept themselves out of sight.
The big one backed up and held his hands wide to show her he meant no harm.
Urban felt his eye. “Goh,” he said. “Remind me next time I rescue someone to suit up in full armor.”
“That’s going to be a pretty one,” the big one said. “Swell up real nice.”
Sugar’s heart was still beating wildly from the fight, her breath still coming fast.
“You can drop that fighting stance,” Urban said and stepped back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, but didn’t dare relax.
In the scuffle, she’d dropped her sack. She’d not tied the top shut, and the necklace she’d found in her mother’s cache had spilled out along with the cherry tart and lay on the floor.
Urban went to pick up her sack for her and saw the necklace. “Now that’s a pretty piece,” he said and picked it up. He fingered the segments, then held it up to get a good look at it. When he fingered the horse, he immediately winced as if it had bitten him and dropped the necklace.
He looked at her with a bit of puzzlement on his face, then squatted down and used the point of Sugar’s knife to pick up the necklace again. “Is this what you went in for?”
He was a handsome man. His clothes were not sumptuous, but they were well tailored and the green of his shirt set off his dark hair and eyes, making him a striking figure. But she didn’t know what to tell him or how much to trust him. “Just put it in the sack,” she said.
He held it out to her instead. “Grasp the golden figure of the horse.”
Sugar took the necklace, felt the weight of it. The memory and loss of her mother welled up in her, but she refused to let it show on her face. She curled her fingers around the horse.
“What do you feel?”
“Nothing,” she said.
Curse: The Dark God Book 2 Page 10