by Sarah Remy
“You went to bed hours ago,” the lass said. “Everyone did. Hush, be quiet. Come and see, Liam. I’m frightened.”
Honest terror made her voice shake. Liam rolled to his feet, pains forgotten, and belted on his knife as he squatted to better see her face. Her eyes were round, her freckles stark. Liam couldn’t imagine what had given her such a fright, not in the safety of the king’s barracks, at the center of Renault’s walled and well-protected city.
“What is it?” he repeated more gently.
“The straw men,” Parsnip whispered. “Come and see. They’re walking.”
Liam had seen corpses walk on Stonehill, animated by sidhe spells, when before he’d assumed what was dead stayed dead. He’d seen enormous long-nosed elephants walk in Roue when he thought such animals were naught but legends, like dragons or the basilisk. He’d watched cannons shake an entire mountain, he was all but certain he’d watched a raven coax funnel clouds up from the placid sea, and by all accounts he himself had once been the focus of dark sorceries wrought deep in the earth.
He’d sat immobile beneath an implacable green stare as year after year of his life was unwound from his very living spirit, and he’d been unable to save himself.
He was no stranger to perilous sorceries. He knew it was better to creep up on such magic sideways if at all possible so as not to draw undue attention. Wary of the unknown, he whistled low after Parsnip’s scurrying shadow.
“Slow down,” he cautioned when she paused. “Wait for me. Best not to rush chinfirst into anything.”
“Did you not hear me?” she whispered, near quivering in place. “They’re moving. Walking about. We have to stop them!”
“They’re made of straw and burlap,” Liam pointed out. “They’ve got no fingers to hold a weapon or—for that matter—feet to make haste. I hardly think four wee mannequins will storm Wilhaiim.”
“Five!” Parsnip corrected, as if she thought one more would make the difference. “They’re walking, they’re not meant to; they’re up to something and it’s nothing good. Hurry up before they get away.” She pulled on his sleeve, an entreaty, reminding Liam that she’d seen her fair share of horror in her short life. Mayhap she had reason to be afraid.
They passed a night guard as they jogged through the barracks. Silver thread decorating his livery glittered in the torchlight. He was armed with sword and dirk and wore a slim silver pipe on a leather cord around his neck; one shrill treat would summon immediate aid. Liam hesitated but Parsnip shook her head vehemently. The night guard, no doubt looking forward to a shift change and a break from the heat, paid Liam and Parsnip the courtesy of a smile before pacing on.
“He’s meant to keep the barracks safe,” Liam pointed out when they were out of earshot. “We should have spoken up.”
“What would you say: ‘Help us: the practice dummies are plotting treason’?” Parsnip challenged. “He would have sent us straight to bed and we’d be seeing Captain Riggins in the morning for causing mischief.”
“Are they?” Liam wondered skeptically. “Plotting treason?”
“How should I know?” Parsnip retorted. “They’ve gourds for skulls. I misdoubt they’re plotting much of anything.”
She hurried off again along the corridor, torchlight painting her pale hair and dingy tunic gold. Liam followed more slowly, newly cautious. The breeze carried the scent of wood smoke from the bonfire in the yard. He could hear the pop of dry tinder shifting in the brazier, loud in the otherwise quiet night. He resisted an urge to stop and peer through the nearest loophole; he’d see only shadows with torchlight at his back and the bonfire blazing below.
Instead he drew his knife and joined Parsnip where she stood beneath the vaulted, gray stone portal that separated barracks from practice yard. The iron portcullis meant to keep the barracks safe from outside intrusion was winched open, almost invisible in the arched ceiling. The gate was kept open day and night; Liam had never before given it much thought, but now he eyed the winch, wondering when it had last been oiled.
“They were there,” muttered Parsnip, “just there, beyond the fire, near the weapons’ rack. I was reading, here on the step, and something made a noise like falling sticks. I thought mayhap the fagots needed tending but when I stood up for the poker I saw two of them, and they were moving, coming toward me, and a third had knocked over the wooden swords.”
“One of the night guard about her rounds,” Liam suggested, peering into the yard. He’d been blessed with a keen eye, even in the dark, but the unlooked-for breeze was stronger outside the roof and walls. The air was thick with smoke stirred up off the brazier. “Or a soldier out late after dicing.”
“Taking a piss in the pages’ yard?” Parsnip argued in a whisper. “I don’t think so. I tell you: I saw their faces, and their painted mouths, and the straw sticking up around their collars.”
The small hairs on Liam’s arms rose but he scoffed. “More like you dozed over your book and dreamed. Holder and his talk of the Automata giving you nightmares, and I can’t blame you. His talk of giant metal monsters bid walk by power-mad necromancers was enough to give anyone evil dreams.” He looked at Parsnip, willing her to agree. “You fell asleep over your studies.”
“If that’s what you think,” the lass said sweetly, “best be sure.” She prodded him with a pointed elbow, all the while gripping her ax. “You go first. Stay close to the fire. They’re made of straw, they’ll probably burn a treat if your knife don’t work.”
So Liam eased down the steps, walking on the balls of his feet as he turned this way and that in the firelight. The breeze tossed angry sparks from the blaze onto flagstone where they lingered like small stars before snuffing out. Parsnip was not wrong; if an ensorcelled mannequin came at him out of the night the bonfire was Liam’s best ally. Weapons had done little to deter Stonehill’s reanimated corpses; if this was more barrowman tricks it was possible the straw men were immune, as well.
“Do you see them?” Parsnip demanded, startling him. He’d expected her to stay on the step but she’d followed in his wake, close enough as to be an extra limb.
“Nay.”
The practice mannequins were not where they belonged, arranged all in a line near the weapons’ rack. The wooden posts used to keep the mannequins upright were empty, hanks of rope dangling. The pummeling bag swayed on its branch on the yard’s periphery, making leaves rustle. Miniscule curls of white ash danced along flagstone before disappearing deeper into the night. The surface of the water in a large barrel kept near the brazier for snuffing the fire rippled. “You?”
“You’re the one built like a watchtower,” the lass retorted. “What’s happened? What do you see?”
“They’re gone.” Despite the warm breeze, Liam shivered. The shadows at the edges of the yard seemed hostile.
“Told you. And don’t go saying someone stole the awful, horrible things—no one would want them. They walked away all on their own. I didn’t dream it!”
“Stay by the brazier,” Liam ordered. “Don’t leave the fire. Shout if anything other than me moves.”
“Where are you going?”
“Taking a look.” Liam advanced slowly away from the fire. The breeze went still. His footsteps seemed immediately too loud on the flagstone. He scrutinized the shadows as he moved, but nothing seemed untoward. With his back to the flames the shades of black solidified into perimeter trees and shrubs, and the bench from which Avani and Everin had once supervised his training.
The weapons rack lay on its side, its contents dispersed in a loose circle around the toppled stand. Liam did a quick count of swords and pikes and shields and thought nothing had been taken. The posts from which the mannequins had hung stood straight as ever; they were old as the barracks and driven deep into the ground by ancient magic, solid as stone. He crouched to examine dangling rope. Each loop was severed clean through, most certainly by a sharp blade. The straw men had been cut free.
“Liam!” Parsnip rasped from behind him.
He smothered an undignified squeak of alarm and whirled. Parsnip looked up at him from her hands and knees. White ash flickered in her hair; she clutched her ax in one fist. “Stay down!”
“I told you not to leave the fire!”
“They’re coming back!” She jerked her head frantically at the tree line behind the empty posts. “Hide yourself!” She scuttled crabwise across flagstone and into the brush. Liam stole a glance over his shoulder. He saw that Parsnip was right; figures were moving around the bonfire in their direction.
Sparing little thought for courage, he dived around the post after Parsnip. Bracken caught at his trousers. He tripped on a root and would have fallen face-first into a low-hanging branch if Parsnip hadn’t caught the lace of his boot and yanked him prone into the thicket.
“Look,” the lass whispered. “Oh, look!”
Liam used the tip of his knife to part thorn and leaf. He saw clearly the straw mannequins mincing over the flagstone. He could not mistake the ungainly bodies for guardsmen or soldiers or even servants late about their chores. Their shiny gourds reflected firelight; their painted faces swiveled above burlap collars. They gave the bonfire a wide girth as they made for their abandoned station.
Their knees bent backward instead of forward, making for a bobbing, awkward shuffle, while their arms swung rigidly from slumped shoulders. Straw sprinkled from the gaps between their burlap sleeves and the cuffs of their misshapen gloves. They had no feet at all; Holder had simply stitched their trouser legs together at the ankles. The stubbed ends of their legs scraped softly at the flagstone as they walked.
The straw men inspired in Liam a bone-deep, visceral terror the like of which he hadn’t known before. His belly went all to liquid and his thighs quivered in anticipation of flight. Parsnip trembled against his side. Liam could hear the rasp of her fright exhaled through her nose, much too loud for safety.
Had Holder given the mannequins painted ears to go with eyes and mouth? Liam thought not but as Parsnip’s snuffling grew more pronounced five pumpkin heads swiveled unerringly in their direction. The straw men changed direction, loping toward the tree line.
“Liam,” Parsnip whimpered, rattling the thicket with her shaking.
“Run!” Liam ordered. “Fast as you can!” He tugged the lass off her feet and pushed her ahead, away from the barracks into the woods. Twigs snapped at his heels as he darted after. The straw men were not far behind.
Chapter 12
The straw men were much faster than anything made of dried grass and burlap should be, and in the night the trees became bone-bruising obstacles. Parsnip twice ran into low-hanging branches and fell. The third time she fell she resisted Liam’s helping hand back up.
“I can’t see where I’m going,” she said, looking back the way they’d come. The light of the barracks through the trees seemed distant even though Liam knew the copse of old growth was only a wilder part of the Royal Gardens, barely larger than a small park.
“I can,” Liam said. He sheathed his knife then squatted. “I’ll carry you. Climb on, now, quick!”
The girl nodded. She clambered onto his back, gripping with arms and legs. She was heavier than she looked, but Liam wouldn’t be deterred. His already-abused body throbbed in protest when he straightened. Parsnip’s fingers were cold on his collarbone. He realized she must have dropped her ax.
“I can’t hear them,” she said into his shoulder.
“I can,” he said, wishing he didn’t. The undergrowth betrayed pursuit; bracken snapped and leaf mold crunched as the straw men drew close. From the sounds of it they’d been already outpaced and the mannequins were now widening the chase, spreading out and doubling back in a loose ring.
“They’re bloody nimble for bastards without feet,” Liam complained. His heart beat a terrified rhythm at the base of his throat. He wondered if it was part of the spell to make the dummies seem so intimidating, or if it was only the natural order of things.
A man didn’t expect to wake in the night and learn old Pumpkinhead’s relatives were on walkabout. It wasn’t right.
“Which way, which way?” The brush rustled all around. They were almost out of time.
“Toward the palace,” Parsnip said, quivering against his spine. “The streets are busier there, at night. Someone’s bound to hear us, if we scream.”
A straw man broke through the trees, reaching. Its gloved fingers tangled in Parsnip’s short hair. She shrieked, slammed her head back, and caught the monster solidly in the chest. It staggered sideways. Liam ran.
“It’s in my hair,” Parsnip sobbed, fingers of both hands now locked tight around Liam’s throat. She shook her head violently. Liam heard the unmistakable rustle of straw. “It’s still in my hair!”
He didn’t dare pause. Dodging root and tree, narrowly avoiding a fallen log and fording a small crick, he charged on. He couldn’t hear past the pounding in his ears to know if the straw men still followed. Parsnip’s fingers were cutting off his air, but when he plucked at her hands she only squeezed more tightly and wailed.
He couldn’t see sign of city streets, or even the edge of the tree line. It wasn’t his way to get turned around, not even in the dark. He liked to pretend it was a knack learned from growing up on the Downs, but there were few trees near Stonehill, and he’d known since the sidhe had carved their hatred upon his flesh that it wasn’t a learned skill but part of his barrowman heritage.
He’d begun to fear he’d got turned around and was running in circles when he heard calling from up ahead: a man’s voice.
“We’re here!” Parsnip shouted, voice gone rough with screaming. “Help us, we’re here!”
Sheer relief gave Liam one last burst of strength. He could see, now, a single torch burning between the trees. He bowed his head and barreled forward, intent on placing his feet between snags.
So it was he saw the trap as he ran into it, the man with the torch in hand, the brindled hound at his side, the circle of mannequins waiting between the trees. He tried to swerve retreat, but Parsnip was a stone on his back. The thicket caught at his ankles, making him stumble. The straw men shuffled closer, a net closing.
Holder lifted his torch high. He’d traded his brimmed hat for a leather helm. The hound snuffled in Liam’s direction, wagging her tail.
“Take ’em down, lads,” he said.
Liam reached around Parsnip for his knife, but too late. The straw men pulled him down, a smothering of burlap and dread. Parsnip was plucked weeping from his back. Facedown, he scrabbled in the brush to rise and fight, but horror pressed air from his lungs and he couldn’t rally.
He wasn’t unconscious, nor was he quite awake. Whatever sorcery turned men of burlap and straw into Liam’s worst nightmare prevented him from struggling when he was tossed over a bristling shoulder with as much care as a sack of turnips. The dummy beneath him was as solid as any person. It bobbed up and down as it walked, mincing through the Royal Gardens on malformed knees. In the light of Holder’s torch Liam saw it had only one gloved hand. The monster’s other sleeve ended in a torn cuff and dangling thread. Straw sifted gently from the wound.
Panic made Liam dizzy. He closed his eyes and tried not to embarrass himself by pissing in terror. Behind him Parsnip’s weeping had diminished to muffled snuffling. He knew he ought to be glad they were both relatively unhurt, but he was laid so low by the fog of magic he thought if he could reach his knife he would slice his own wrists rather than spend another moment within sight of the straw men.
“Laid on a bit thick, isn’t it?” Holder said conversationally. He walked at the front of the pack, torch now snuffed. The Royal Gardens surrounded them, colorful spring blooms turned to shades of gray in the night. Not far away a fountain burbled merrily. A nearby peahen shrieked as they crept past her den.
“It’s the sidhe bones, you understand,” Holder continued. “They’re a far better catalyst than we expected. Much more potent; we didn’t realize what we were working with.” He huffed bitter amus
ement. “You don’t get used to it, the fright, but you learn to bear it. They’re just straw and gourd, in the end.”
Liam, chin bouncing on burlap, couldn’t piece together a coherent response.
Holder’s wagon waited in a secluded plot behind a wall of boxwood topiaries. The black cow in the harness regarded her master calmly as she swished her tail against night insects. She paid the straw men no attention at all.
“In the back,” said Holder. “Tie ’em up tight, take their weapons, and pull the cover. Few about this time of night and our luck’s held but let’s not test fate.”
The straw man tossed Liam into the wagon. The wooden slats stank of manure, rotten fruit, and wet soil. Parsnip tumbled after, landing on his legs where she lay without moving.
They’re just straw and gourd. He tried to goad his body into moving but his muscles seemed trapped midflight, cramping so hard his teeth chattered. A straw man loomed over the side of the wagon, rope dangling from plump fingers. It trussed him hands and feet, stuffed fingers uncannily deft, and took his knife from his belt. Then it rolled Parsnip off his legs and did the same to her.
Canvas flapped over the wagon, blotting out stars in the clear sky. The wheel springs squeaked as Holder climbed aboard.
“Good lads,” he rumbled. “Back you go now, and sleep. I’ll wake you again when you’re needed.” His long whip cracked. The wagon lurched forward. Liam gazed dully at the stitched hide floating just above his nose as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.
He’d been kidnapped by pirates in the spring. It seemed deeply unfair that he was being abducted again in the summer, and by a farmer.
“No use shouting,” Holder called cheerfully. “The streets we’re taking out of the city are the sort where no one dares ask questions for fear of being murdered as a daft, nosy fool.” His whip snapped again. “Farrow stitched my cover and paid a theist for a fine strong blessing read over the hide, mind, so there’s no use trying to force your way out, either. It won’t give until I tell it to, and the last that tried it had claws longer than my own fingers.”