by Hondo Jinx
He could feel them out there just as surely as he could have felt a fly crawling on the back of his neck.
Curious.
He fetched his things and tended to the buckskin, giving him a handful of his favorite Tardoonian snack, whisper oats.
Braddock and his people had gathered a good pile of the golden grains over recent weeks but left a stand untouched along the western bank because they might alert them of any intruders.
Whisper oats grow in dense stands. The sheaves sway constantly, as if rocking in strong breezes, even on still days, making their telltale chafing. The only time they stop moving is when some creature passes through them.
The sprites have a saying: When the oats stop whispering, it is time to listen.
The buckskin didn’t care about any of that. He ate the oats from hand, loving them. Stuffing his pockets with more oats, Braddock saddled the stallion, mounted up, and rode across the meadow, feeling a stronger sense of the cattle as he traveled.
Could that really be the herd he was feeling?
Yes, because when he got midway across the fields, he found them standing there, grazing.
Apparently, bonding with the handmaidens really had strengthened his connection to the meadow. That was good. Though honestly, he had no idea what it meant.
And what about the rest? What about their charisma claims?
Inwardly, Braddock shrugged. They would just see about all that.
He rode to within fifty feet of the herd. The cattle merely stood there chewing and blinking, seeing them but showing neither fear nor aggression.
Braddock let them get used to him for a minute then eased forward.
They kept on grazing, heavy pelts steaming a bit in the morning sunlight.
He rode closer, not stopping until he was within ten feet, close enough to hear the nearest cows crunching the crisp, green grass without so much as a roll of the eye.
When he rode forward again, the buckskin was alert beneath him. Not nervous but ready. He knew cattle, that one.
Braddock drew up a foot from a large cow. He reached into his pocket and offered a handful of whisper oats, and she lifted her snout, sniffing his hand in that tickly way cows have. Then her big slimy tongue swept across his hand and dragged the oats into her mouth, and the herd tightened around them.
Feeling curiosity and goodwill coming off the cattle in waves, Braddock led the buckskin slowly through the herd, parceling out handfuls of oats.
Reaching the bull, Braddock laid a hand on his great bony skull, admiring the long, thick horns before locking gazes with the animal’s big, intelligent eyes. For a moment, Braddock just stroked the bull’s snout and returned his stare, thinking benevolent thoughts. Then he fed him a handful of oats, which the bull accepted as gently as a lamb.
Braddock couldn’t help but smile.
It seemed to Braddock that he had done more talking in his short time with his women than in all his previous years combined. By nature, he was not a talker and preferred to use his hands rather than his mouth, to show rather than tell.
But shacking up with women can loosen a man’s lips. The trick is not letting conversation soften your thinking.
Standing here communicating silently with the old bull brought Braddock back to bedrock thoughts.
He was building something on this meadow.
This herd was a part of that now.
Again, he thought, I will not conquer this wilderness. I will live with it.
He, his people, this bull, its herd, and the meadow itself would all prosper together.
Braddock would welcome monster girls and beasts alike, so long as they lived peaceably upon this land, shared his vision, and worked hard toward that vision.
That was his vow… not to the bull or his women or even himself, he realized, but the meadow, which he could suddenly feel beneath him, thrumming with adoration and optimism.
30
Braddock rode higher, skirting the canyon wall. Far below the river was mostly frozen. The ice extending from each bank was covered in heavy snow with only a thin black ribbon of water visible at the center.
“Cascadia,” Braddock whispered.
All was silence and blowing snow. Down in the canyon, the river rushed on, dark and cold and empty.
There had been no sight or sign of Cascadia during the weeks since her heroic sacrifice, but the beautiful water nymph haunted Braddock’s dreams and his waking thoughts. He refused to believe she was gone, and every time he ventured into the forest, he lingered near any pool or stream, hoping.
Additionally, the meadow had been quiet. As Philia had feared, no additional sprites had shown up after Esper and Lala.
They hoped against hope that wayward sprites from other meadows would arrive, but increasingly it seemed their only hope lay in spring during those fleeting, green days before they would report to Hortensia.
Braddock spotted the tracks of a dozen deer and veered westward, following their trail.
He rode between two snowy peaks, crossing a ridge trail that avoided the lower gully, where the snow was piled so high only the tops of the brush were visible.
Light flurries fell. Occasionally, icy wind howled up from the valley, making Braddock hunch into his sheepskin jacket. It was bitter cold, but Spinner had done a good job weatherproofing his clothes, and though his face was numb, the rest of him was fine.
Into a gloomy stand of evergreens he rode, snow tumbling as he and the buckskin brushed against the heavy boughs. Within the forest, the world was dim and quiet, muffled with snow above and soft needles below, the cold air redolent of fresh pine. It was almost cozy.
The deer tracks were fresh and easy to follow through the carpet of dried brown needles. Reckoning he was close, Braddock slipped off his glove and took a spear in hand.
Reaching the edge of the woods, he reined in, half-blinded by the bright sunlight reflecting off the snowy field beyond the trees.
Once his eyes adjusted, he saw them. Three hundred yards away, the deer were moving slowly at the edge of another tree line.
The Henry was strapped to his back. At his request, the fur folk had made Elizabeth and the sprites bows, arrows, spears, and cudgels.
They trained every day. The women would never become fierce warriors, but they were at least proficient with their weapons, so he felt comfortable leaving a single revolver in camp and taking the Henry for protection during these long, solitary outings.
He was tempted to use the rifle now. They needed meat. Game had been scarce. Many herds had moved south. And with the cold temperatures and heavy snow that had fallen in the weeks since Esper and Lala joined the meadow, the remaining game had mostly holed up.
But Braddock resisted the urge. Only thirty-one cartridges remained, and Braddock reckoned he would need those in the spring, when the centaurs returned to the region, hunting meat and slaves and scalps.
Besides, Braddock was downwind from the deer, and they hadn’t noticed him, so he rode on, sticking just inside the timber, watching to see which way they rode. If he could judge their trajectory, he might outflank them, dismount, and get into position with the bow before they drew close.
The mustang tensed, ears twitching, and Braddock saw where something had brushed the snow from a low-hanging tree limb at the field’s edge.
There is a sharpness that comes to a hunter’s mind when he is stalking living meat, especially in cold weather, and that sharpness came to Braddock now, bringing with it a measure of intuition.
A predator had brushed away that snow.
Had this been Earth, he would have suspected a mountain lion. Here, it could have been almost anything.
The predator had been waiting for the deer, but the herd had cut wide, so the predator had moved on, as Braddock was, to stalk their prey across the field.
Only Braddock saw no tracks in the snow to any side of the tree.
That was curious.
Examining the branch more closely, he spotted numerous little slices
in the bark, the sort of scratches made by claws… or perhaps talons.
It was a flying predator, then. Whatever it was had perched there, watching the deer, perhaps flexing its talons with hunger, and then sailed off to get closer.
Judging by the distance between the claw marks, Braddock guessed the flying predator to be roughly man-sized.
Instinctively, he did a slow three-sixty, studying the trees for any sight or sign of the thing. His close encounter with the roc had made him cautious about airborne threats in a way he’d never needed to be back on Earth.
He saw nothing. But his gut told him the thing was stalking the deer now, so he had to get a move on. He didn’t want the unknown predator spooking the herd.
The deer paused at a jutting promontory of forest, before which sheering winds had peeled snow from a patch of meadow, revealing forage.
Sunlight caught the rack of the big buck there among the doe and lesser males.
He was the one for Braddock.
But Braddock had to get closer. Much closer.
Despite practice and the high quality of the bow Chundra had made him, Braddock still limited himself to shots under thirty yards.
He was reliably lethal out to forty yards, maybe even a touch farther, but he wanted clean kills. He wouldn’t have animals, especially beautiful animals like this magnificent buck, dying slow, painful deaths in the woods.
So Braddock edged closer, sticking to the trees and remaining downwind from the deer.
He saw no sign of his winged competitor and just hoped to reach the deer before it did.
Braddock needed to store as much meat as he could for the long winter. The girls were also hoping for meat to serve at their big party, which would include Tilly’s wine, singing and dancing, and a feast.
Which was pure foolishness if you asked Braddock, but the women were adamant. Philia insisted it was important, not only as the sprite tradition of celebrating new handmaidens but also to draw their community more tightly together.
“Work and war are insufficient to truly unite a people, husband,” she said. “We need wine and weddings, feasts and fun, too.”
If you asked Braddock, they had been having plenty of fun. With five sprites to please, every night was a marathon session of lovemaking with myriad variations on the theme.
But his wife and mistresses were working hard as well.
Philia spent less time communing with the meadow now and more time directing the other sprites, channeling energy to ensure the best possible pregnancy, and creating elixirs.
By adding handmaidens, Philia had expanded her power and capabilities. She concocted antidotes to the poisons of giant spiders, scorpions, and various snakes, and she had blocked another type of poison from affecting Braddock and Elizabeth: aging.
Philia’s anti-aging potion tasted like fruit juice and, drunk annually, would apparently keep the humans from aging; which was a major concern to his wife and mistresses since sprites could live thousands of years.
Philia had spent a week creating her masterpiece: a cordial of concealment. For an hour after drinking the potion, the recipient would blend with his background so completely that he would be practically invisible so long as he remained still. Even while moving, he was unlikely to be seen. Three times out of four, he could walk right past someone without them even noticing.
But the potion had its limitations. If he shared the cordial with another, the time of effect was halved. And it did not mask sounds or smells, so the user had to take these things into consideration. A cordial of concealment wouldn’t do much good hiding the drinker against a dog, for example.
The other sprites were staying busy, too.
Tilly was magically maturing and multiplying her special wine. With three handmaidens under her, however, Tilly’s powers had expanded, so tending to wine took less of her time, freeing her to scout the region. She looked for wayward sprites; searched for game; and spied daily on the beleaguered rat folk in the canyon, whom Braddock had come to agree were likely stranded refugees.
“They are digging another grave near the river,” Tilly told him one recent afternoon.
It was their sixth death in two weeks.
They were living in rough lean-tos and hunting with crude spears. They had already exhausted all the easily accessible fuel from nearby deadfalls. Which wouldn’t be a major problem if they took proper measures, since canyons are always full of deadfalls, but Tilly saw no sign of serious fuel gathering.
Several of the rat folk were nursing wounds. Two were grievously injured. On sunny days, the refugees carted these badly wounded men into the open, where they lay like the dead.
Tilly had also spied a dozen goblins riding ponies a few miles to the south and a lone orc scouting a ridge two valleys to the east.
The orc was worrisome because, according to the women, he was likely a scout for a much larger force, and from their descriptions, orcs were fierce and fearless savages who loved nothing so much as murder and marauding.
Building something, especially in the wilderness, takes time and work, hope and temerity. Destroying something takes nothing more than hatchets and heartlessness, torches tossed by whooping riders.
As a frontiersman, Braddock was an explorer, a creator, a protector, and all the way to his marrow he despised those who reveled in destruction.
Sooner or later, they would have to defend their meadow again, likely against a more formidable force than the goblins they had decimated. And this time, he would only have nine rounds of ammunition for the revolvers.
Tilly also reported the source of the nearby howling they had been hearing over recent weeks. A pack of huge white wolves had moved south with the snow and migratory game and were currently hunting Braddock’s region.
Spinner had magically weatherproofed his boots and clothing, created carpets to soften the cabin floors, helped Tilly make the snowshoes Braddock was currently packing behind his saddle, and was working on special clothes for her fellow handmaidens.
The buxom little sprite was a constant flirt, always aching for a roll in the hay, and the most playful of their little family. When Braddock asked to see a dress she was making, she hid the garment behind her back and showed him her dimples. “Oh no you don’t, naughty Master! No peeking until the party!”
Esper was awesome. She stretched ingredients, conserving their supplies, converted rough components into heavenly meals, and daily filled the whole enclosure with the luscious smell of fresh bread.
Normally timid and submissive, Esper became a terror in the kitchen, zipping back and forth, stirring and muddling and mixing, muttering to herself and barking at anyone who tried to snatch even a morsel from food she was preparing.
The skinny little kitchen sprite had been mortified one evening when Braddock had reached for some bread on the counter and without looking, she had rapped his knuckles hard with a wooden spoon.
Seeing whom she’d hit, Esper threw herself to the ground. “A thousand apologies, Master! Please don’t exile me!”
Braddock had laughed, assured her she was safe, and thanked her for striking him. “That crack on the knuckles took me back to my childhood, darlin.”
That night, however, she had begged him to punish her by smacking her bottom with the same spoon she had struck him with—all while he pounded her with deep battering strokes from behind.
Every night after dinner, Lala entertained them. The other sprites jokingly called her their fairy sister, because she loved to prance and strut and comb her long, shimmering hair; and because she spent so much time admiring herself in the full-length mirror she had created with show sprite magic.
Even when they made love, Lala wanted the mirror close by because she loved to watch herself getting ravished by Braddock and the other women. Sometimes during these sessions, Braddock would glance in the mirror and have a hard time mentally untangling the limbs and mouths to figure out who, precisely, was doing what to whom.
But there was no doubting Lala’s
talent. She truly did sing like an angel and could make their hearts soar or sag with a simple shift of tone.
Her dancing was just as wondrous. She was a contortionist capable of bending and stretching her body into any position, and she moved with such grace and beauty and strength that she mesmerized them all; whether her movements tread softly, suggesting a somber narrative, or ignited into a hot twirling frenzy that left Braddock hard as stone and the women shifting restlessly in their seats and glancing toward his bedroll.
Elizabeth had been working hard, too. With the help of Chundra, she had located a salt lick and harvested plenty for seasoning and the brine she used to preserve meat. She also had been making soap and candles and, again with the help of Chundra, arrows.
In terms of her persistent demands, building a dedicated school had gone from a notion to an obsession. She had a dozen or so books with her from the wagon, and she had gone to college to be a schoolteacher.
Braddock had laughed when she first suggested they build a schoolhouse.
“Don’t you want your daughters to be educated?” she fired back.
“Of course, I do, darlin, but since they aren’t even born yet, I don’t see the rush. Especially not with so many other pressing matters to see to.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. “Typical. You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“The gestation period of sprites.”
Well, that had knocked him off-balance. Because truth be told, he hadn’t even considered the matter.
“Figures,” Elizabeth said. “You just lumber carelessly through life, rutting with females with no thoughts whatsoever to the consequences, right?”
He wasn’t going to play her game. “Are you going to tell me the gestation period or not?”
“Five months.”
“Whoa.”
Elizabeth shook her head, looking disgusted. “Yes, whoa. You’ll be the father of three early this spring.”
“All right. Thanks for telling me. But I still don’t understand why we need to start building a school so soon.”