by Thomas Locke
Then the flaming paths had risen up like snakes, writhing around him, binding and blistering with savage glee.
The moon cast a silver wreath over the cottage and garden and barn, just as it had in his dream. Hyam pulled bucket after glistening bucket from the well and poured them over his head, doing what he could to wash the images away. The cows had grown used to his early arrival and shouldered in beside him to drink from the trough. He milked them and the goats, filled the byre with fresh fodder, and ate a meal of flatbread and fresh cheese and plums. By daybreak he was ready to set off for the fields, when he heard a distant voice call his name.
Norvin was a broad-shouldered man with a ready grin. The mayor ruled through good humor and strength of will. Hyam’s mother had considered him a dear friend.
Norvin swallowed Hyam’s hand in his own and demanded, “How are you keeping, boy?”
“Working hard.” He hesitated, then added, “Nights are a trial.”
“Loss will do that to you. Stand fast. It will pass.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“And I’ll wager you’ve forgotten what happens in four days’ time.”
Hyam had to search hard. “The planting festival.”
“We brought down a boar two days back. He should be good and hung by then. We’ll bury him in coals and roast him all day. Good wine, pretty lasses, two fiddlers who’ve put down roots for the season.” He clapped Hyam hard enough to almost buckle his knees. “You’ll be right as sunrise. Or too hungover to care.”
“I’ll be there,” Hyam promised. “Is that why you came?”
“Eh, yes, well, no.” Norvin cast a wary gaze over the empty pastures. “The women elders are setting their eye on you, lad. They say your mother didn’t want to marry you off, but she’s gone, and it’s time.”
“It’s none of their business.”
“They tend to decide for themselves what is theirs to worry over. Mark my words, lad. You’re a catch, and they aim to land you. I wouldn’t want any man to go into such a battle blind.”
Hyam caught the furtive looks and said, “You might as well give me the other half.”
Norvin sighed. “You remember my niece Irvette.”
“We grew up playing together.” Hyam recalled a girl with a smile too broad for her face and copper pigtails that always seemed to dance with unbridled joy. “She married downriver.”
“She lost her man to the midwinter fevers. And her own parents two years back. There’s been some trouble with her man’s family she won’t discuss. Now she’s back home, arguing with my wife over who has dibs on our loom and raising her little one in our little shed out back.”
Hyam searched his heart, which was what the mayor’s unspoken invitation deserved. All he felt was emptiness. “Come with me.”
He led Norvin into the cottage and over to the alcove by the two windows. He opened the shutters, revealing his mother’s loom and spinning machine and the half-finished tapestry. “Irvette can have it if she wants.”
“Son, this is too much. Your mother—”
“Is gone. Irvette had a good hand with the weaving.” The unfinished tapestry showed a mystery Hyam had pondered for over a year. A young man who looked remarkably like Hyam sat upon a massive warhorse. He was dressed in finery the color of royal purple. In his right hand was a staff, and atop the staff was a purple orb that shot brilliant light over the landscape. Hyam had twice asked his ailing mother about it, but the question had only caused her to weep.
He shuddered anew from the burden of lost hopes and said, “Irvette should complete what my mother couldn’t. I will count that as payment enough.”
The mayor of Honor village inspected him. “You know what the elder ladies will say. That’s the sort of gift a man uses to lay claim.”
Hyam nodded and wished he could care one way or the other. Still . . . “We were friends. She’s in mourning. As am I. We’ll speak of our futures when the time is right.”
Norvin puffed out his cheeks. “I could bring my wagon up tomorrow, if you’re certain.”
“It’s the right thing. Take it.”
They walked back outside. But Norvin made no move to rejoin the road. “There’s something else. We’ve heard rumors, carried by tinkers I trust and a caravan making their way west.”
The man’s somber tone said it all. Hyam spoke the word, “War.”
“How did you know?”
“My mother’s dying wish was that I go tell my father of her passage. After the funeral I went back to Long Hall. My father was gone. But the Mistress of Long Hall saw me.” He shuddered anew at the impact of her words. “She said war was coming.”
Norvin took a moment digesting the news. Hyam did not rush him. The mayor finally asked, “You speak Ashanta?”
“I learned the tongue at Long Hall.”
“Your mother had contacts with the Ashanta, as I recall.”
“She claimed they were my father’s connections, from his merchant days. She traded village weavings for their soaps and oils.” He smiled at the memory. “I had a friend, Bryna. I haven’t seen her in almost two years, not since Mother took ill.”
“Rumors point to battles being fought throughout the badlands far to the east. Some say the troubles won’t touch us, but too often trouble has a habit of spreading where it’s not welcome. Will you go and ask if they have news?”
It was a sensible request. The Ashanta were telepaths, and legends claimed they could communicate with others of their race throughout the realm. Little was known about them for certain. The Ashanta themselves said nothing at all. They did not forbid contact. They did not dislike others. They simply lived apart. In every sense of the word.
Hyam replied, “I’ll leave tomorrow at first light.”
The hand on his shoulder was gentle this time. “You are a friend to our village. And to my clan.” The mayor of Honor started off, then turned back to ask, “How long has it been since you’ve seen Irvette?”
“The summer we both turned ten,” Hyam recalled. “She was betrothed the year I returned from Long Hall. We might have spoken before she left Honor. I don’t remember much of that time, except how happy I was to be rid of the mages.”
“The lass has changed. Even carrying her sorrow she’s a lovely woman.” Norvin inspected him anew. “You were apprenticed to the wizards for five years?”
“An eternity, more like.”
“Did any of it catch?”
“Very little magic, if that’s what you mean. The elders of Long Hall share few secrets with acolytes.”
“Pity, that. If we’re to raise a militia, having a bit of wizardry on hand could make all the difference.”
“Magic is outlawed,” Hyam pointed out.
“So is war, lad.” The mayor of Honor kicked at a stone. “So is the killing of one’s own.”
3
Hyam’s two horses and the oxen would pull his wagon along the forest trail, but they did so reluctantly. Hyam found it hard to pay attention to genuine threats, with them jerking and pulling and veering. Horses and oxen alike loathed the forest and moaned at each scrape of branch upon branch. Leading a team on his own was nigh on impossible. The previous harvest season, Hyam had almost been trampled when some beast had howled in the distance and the team bolted. So far this spring he made do with a handcart. He had erected a lean-to where the trail entered the clearing and left his tools there. Most farmers dared not leave valuable implements laying about. But in all his life he had only met a handful of others upon the trail, and none since his uncle had passed away.
Today he carried just his bow. A quiver hung from his back, and a knife long as his forearm was strapped to his waist. It was more a sword than a knife, but peasants were forbidden to own weapons of war. Hyam had learned to wield it from the Long Hall forester, a silent mage whose few words would still the most feral of beasts.
Hyam’s bow was as tall as he, and only three people he knew could string it, much less bring it to full draw. He
had made the bow himself, fashioned on the instructions of his uncle, the most patient man Hyam had ever known. His mother’s brother had once served as archer to the king. The year Hyam had returned from his banishment to the Long Hall, while the nightmares plagued him and he feared he would never be free from his stone prison, his uncle had taken him deep into the forest. There a lightning bolt had split a yew so vast ten men could not have joined hands around its girth. Together they had fashioned three bows, one for his uncle and two for Hyam. Each had been formed from the point where the supple exterior wood joined the stronger heartwood. Hyam’s first bow had been a third smaller and so slender he feared his uncle was mocking him. But his uncle had explained that Hyam was coming to archery late in life and needed a youth’s implement to develop the skill. Two years he had drawn and shot, drawn and shot. In the process he had developed shoulders broad as his larger ox and a chest to match. Then his uncle had declared him an archer and shifted him to the second bow. Somewhere along the way, the nightmares had stopped. They’d never returned. Until now.
He stepped into the oval farmland in the heat of mid-morning. He set his bow and quiver by the lean-to and reached for his tools. But when his hand settled upon the spade, Hyam faltered. He told himself it was only a dream, that no night specter was waiting to shout in the forbidden tongue and pounce. He forced himself to grip the implement.
Farming was all about meeting the most urgent need. Chores were never done. Accepting this was part of sleeping at night. Since his uncle had passed away and his mother took ill that final time, Hyam had limited his crops to less than half the field. He planted a border of fruit trees around the tiny spring that bubbled up near his shed. He raised some wheat but gave most of his time to vegetables. Every season he debated whether he should put the pastures surrounding his cottage to the plow and forget the oval field entirely. But he knew it was idle chatter. There was no other farm that came close to his yield or quality.
He had been debating whether to add a few rows of corn. It meant reclaiming some of the fallow earth, which had not been touched in more than two years. Not to mention forcing a terrified ox to walk the forest trail so the beast could drag the plow. And he was going to put in some blackberry vines that he had clipped from wild bushes growing along the forest perimeter. They had rested in a shallow watering trough for three days, and all had sprouted roots.
Hyam walked to the point where his farthest row of carrots met the knee-high weeds. This field contained mystery upon mystery—how the wild growth never rose higher, how brambles never took hold, how neither ravens nor wild mice attacked his ripening crops. He often wondered about such things as he worked. Imaginings about some long-forgotten heritage and a possible tie to his mother’s forebears did much to shove his loneliness aside.
He settled into the simple, satisfying routine of hard work and sweat. The heat grew with the sun’s approach to zenith. He stripped off his shirt, drank deep, and started on another row. When it happened.
The shovel in his hand vibrated like a water-seeker’s implement. Hyam dropped it and jumped back. The spade lay at his feet, mocking his jolt of genuine terror. He hesitated a long moment, then picked it up once more. The sense of power returned, but muted.
He stood there in the baking heat, wondering. Either he confronted this or he packed up and left for the day. And then . . . what? Return the next day and let his fears dominate again?
Angrily he stabbed the shovel into the earth. And leapt back a second time, shouting as he did. Because the earth came alive before him.
The furrow opened with a rustling sound, like a river of dry earth, which in a way was precisely what he saw.
Two years of weeds and wildflowers disappeared as the earth turned upon itself. The furrow opened at the pace that Hyam could run, quiet and easy and smooth. It reached the field’s far end and stopped. The forest beyond remained silent. The furrow lay straight as a sword. Open. Waiting.
Hyam reached down and hefted the spade. The same thrilling energy vibrated through his hand, up his arm, through his entire body. He sensed it more clearly now. The force seemed to be coursing in both directions, from the spade to him, and back down again.
Hyam took two steps to his left and gingerly planted the blade into the earth. Another furrow opened up before him. Running with impossible precision across the expanse. The oval field was at its longest here, almost a mile in diameter. No trained team could plow such a line. It did not waver nor vary an inch. He stepped over and started another, not even waiting this time. Again and again, until he had a dozen furrows all opening before him simultaneously. The air was filled with the sound of softly ripping roots, of earth tumbling and opening and turning.
He reached the field’s far side and halted. Now that he was done, he could not believe his own audacity. The shovel continued to vibrate softly. The coursing energy was no longer content to flow from his body to the dirty handle and back. Hyam felt it rise up from the earth now, filling him with an immense awareness of his connection to this place. A bonding that ignored time or logical limits.
Hyam jerked again as the dream flashed behind his eyes. He recalled how it had ended, the lines of power rising from the earth and lashing him with cords of flame and vengeance.
At that very moment, a voice cried merrily, “Do my eyes deceive me? Have we found ourselves a farmer practicing the forbidden arts?”
4
The first man who emerged from the woods was a knight of the realm. Even from this distance, Hyam could see the gold chain of office that looped around his neck and under his sword arm. The chain was linked to a mail coat that sparkled like polished silver. He kneed his horse forward. The sunlight caught the gemstones on his sword’s hilt and flickered off the rings upon his gloved hands. He wore no helmet but rather a fanciful cap of black leather. A black feather sprouted from the cap and waved jauntily as his steed trod upon the perfect furrows.
“Stand still, you,” he called. “It’s far too hot to give chase.”
Hyam measured the distance to the bow leaning against the shed, then gave up the thought when eight men-at-arms emerged between him and his weapon. The knight must have seen him tense for the race, for he grinned and shouted to his fellows, “I say, we have come upon a fighter as well as a farmer.”
All nine warriors rode destriers. Hyam had never seen one before, but he had heard tales. The beasts were massive, fully twice the size of his own workhorses, heavier even than his largest ox. Destriers were trained to obey their riders’ commands even in the heat of battle. They were bred for ferocity and fury and fought with teeth as well as hooves. Such horses would not be spooked by forest scents or sounds.
One of the men-at-arms held back and called, “Perhaps he is a mage, sire.”
“Don’t be foolish. Look at the man. He is a peasant with a forbidden gift.” The knight ambled across the field. “Which explains his tilling this forest pasture. Doesn’t want anyone else to know his dirty little secret.”
The first warrior did not share his mate’s qualms. The blade snickered as he drew his sword from its scabbard. The warhorse snorted in anticipation and stepped forward. The other knights made a line behind him, tracking around the forest perimeter.
“Hold there a moment.” The knight’s smile was a carelessly tossed lie. “We are tasked with ferreting out the Ashanta village. Point us in the right direction, that’s a good lad.”
Hyam remained silent.
“Come, come, peasant. We know one exists around here. Don’t deny it. Give us directions and we’ll make your end swifter than you deserve.”
Hyam still did not speak.
“Well, never mind. We’ll find them soon enough. Who has the rope?”
“I do, sire,” the second soldier called.
“Well then, stop your shilly-shallying and string the fellow up.” He gave Hyam a cheery wave. “We’ll burn your village while we wait for my brother the prince to arrive with our full force. Of course, we could aim straight
for the Ashanta, if you’d do us the kindness. Still refuse to speak? Well, never mind. A village roasting is as good a way as any to idle away the hours.”
Hyam’s racing heart only heightened the sense of connectedness to the power. It coursed through his shabby boots, up his legs, filling his body, pouring into his arms and the fists clenching the shovel’s handle. He did not think on what to do. He simply gave motion to the power.
He stabbed the earth with the spade. As he did so, he spoke the first word of Milantian he had uttered in nine long years. The word came as naturally as the power that now rushed from his hands, down the handle, through the blade, into the earth. “Open!”
Another furrow rippled forward. Only this one was neither straight nor shallow. It coursed forward, reached the tree line, and turned sharp left. Taking aim at the warriors.
The first horse snorted and jerked back. The soldier sawed at the reins, but it did no good. Nothing did. The furrow opened like the maw of a great beast formed from earth and stone. The trees bowed back, their roots exposed like gnarled fangs. The earth was riven by a trough fifteen paces wide and twice as deep. The soldier gave a single hoarse scream, echoed by his steed. Then he tumbled into the depths.
The other warriors were caught in a panic-stricken jumble. They yelled and sought to flee in every direction save toward the opening earth. But to no avail. The furrow swept up and opened farther and swallowed them all.
Hyam lifted his spade. Instantly the cavern closed, smooth as flowing water. The sounds of screaming men and horses were chopped off. The roots returned to their place, anchoring the terrain. Of the men there was no sign.