The Focus Stone (The Tome of Law Book 1)

by Matthew W. Harrill

  Once everything was secured, they found a way into the house, thanks to Mavra, who had spotted an open window. She climbed in and unlocked the door. It was almost spooky to walk through such a large house and have nobody at all there. Mavra was used to being around people all of her life, and this sudden lack of them, even if they were still close by, was unnerving. It was different being outside driving the team of horses, as there was noise and a sense of company. There was none of that here, just a brooding silence that her footsteps tried to fill with the small amount of sound her movement made. Whoever lived here had obviously left in a hurry, tables were still covered in food, and rooms showed evidence of a great family.

  As Mavra made her way through the kitchen, she paused at the stove. Putting her hands close to the oven, she touched tentatively, seeking for any warmth at all. There was none. It was the only shred of hope she had clung to. The owners of this complex were long gone. The food on the table was dried and stale, and a few droppings on the floor indicated that the resident mouse had taken this area for its own private banquet. She moved to the back door where Gren was standing, an impatient look on his face. As she fiddled with the door, he mouthed 'Hurry' against the window set in the frame.

  The door opened with a rusty groan, further evidence that this place had been left alone for a good while. Gren silently beckoned, and everybody else hurried in, followed lastly by Layric. Venla enquired silently of Mavra with a mere rising of one eyebrow. Mavra shook her head in response. “The oven is as cold as snow, mother, and the food on the table is stale and old. Whoever lived here before left in a hurry, but they have been gone a while.”

  Venla nodded, and then looked around them. “Do not touch anything here. We still follow the Old law, and although it may not seem like it all of the time, its rules still guide us. Were the situation not so unusual, I would forbid this. Do not touch anything if you can help it. This is not our home but simply a refuge. We will wait here until the riders have passed us, then we shall continue. For now though, let us find a place that we may conceal ourselves should the need arise.”

  The group split up, and Mavra found herself walking through the house behind the mistress. It seemed to go on forever, with the many twists and turns and the countless rooms and hallways that farmhouses in this region contained.

  “You have been very brave these past months, Mavra.” Venla said as she explored a darkened doorway. “Your parents have needed you and you have been there for them. It is a commendable attitude to take.”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do, mother,” Mavra replied modestly.

  The mistress nodded. “I think you have it in you to lead a caravan in the ways of our people, what do you think of that?” Venla looked back, but Mavra kept her face impassive. Inwardly she shone with pride for such a commendation. Venla had never said that to anybody else before.

  “Sometimes when I am driving the horses and keeping check on mother and father, it seems like the natural thing to do.” Mavra looked around her. “But then I see a place like this and wonder what it would be like to live a life such as this.”

  The mistress appeared to give this serious consideration. “There are advantages, but then would you truly give up a life of meeting so many different people for a life where you are restricted to one place?”

  There was no coercion in Venla's question, no hint of pressure. It seemed to carry some sort of hidden meaning, as if momentous decisions would result in the outcome. Mavra looked around her. There were so many items in the rooms, so many possessions. She had never felt the need for such things. The fine cloths and statuettes and candle-holders that filled this house were just things. Things that cost money and things that could be stolen.

  “I understand, mistress.” Mavra said finally. “We have possessions, but we take them wherever we go. What happens to the people that stay in a place such as this is that they build up too much. It is not that we are severe, it is just that we have never needed it.”

  Venla nodded in satisfaction. “You do understand, daughter. Good. Remember, there is nothing wrong with material possessions, but to let them rule your life is against everything we stand for. The Old law is not severe, just fair. I have nothing personal against the merchants, but money has never ruled our lives, nor shall it ever. There are always other ways. That is the cardinal rule that my mistress taught me. Of course,” Venla said with a smile, “That does not totally exclude us from buying things. We all have our little treasures.” Venla swept back her dark hair to reveal earrings with diamonds set in them. “A gift from Layric on our wedding day,” she whispered. “I have never let them out of my sight.”

  Mavra grinned, content to know that nobody was perfect, not even Venla, and then together they climbed the stairs that appeared at the end of the hallway.

  Echoes of footsteps drifted up from below as Mavra listened intently, evidence that the others had found the same staircase as they. She had explored the entire first level of the main building, and now sat patiently, waiting for her parents to arrive. The first floor was a reflection of the ground floor, completely filled with all sorts of wonders and nic-nacs that made her itch to touch them. She kept her hands to herself though, a result of her promise to Venla.

  A window near the top of the stairs opened to show the vista to the East, from where the horsemen were coming. The cloud of dust was clearly visible now, blotting the autumn haze with ugly, yellow patches. There was almost a trembling in the very wood of the house as the simultaneous pounding of thousands of hooves made the very land shake. She shut the window, and then tried to peer through it. The grime and muck of ages gathered on the pane showed that whoever had lived here either did not care for such tidiness as would be expected in a caravan, making it difficult to peer through.

  Voices from below reassured her, as her mother and father could be heard talking quietly. Feeling better for knowing her parents were close, Mavra decided to look around again. If it was a maze of rooms and hallways below, up here it was a labyrinth of bedrooms. Every turn took Mavra to a new set of rooms, and before long, she felt quite lost. Trying to get her bearing, she searched for a window. It was difficult, as many of the rooms were internal, lit only by the natural light that came through the corridors. Most rooms were dusty and silent and Mavra found her way to one at the side of the house, and tried to get a bearing.

  The view from the window showed that she was still on the same side of the house – the dust cloud loomed over the horizon, visible through a grimy pane only marginally cleaner than the one by the stairs. Straining her ears and listening for any sort of a sound was futile, as her parents and anybody else who had made it up here would be whispering. Suddenly feeling tired and afraid, Mavra wanted to curl up on the soft bed in the room with the window, but she knew she had to try to find her way back to somebody, taking every passage in the direction that she had come from, but this house was a labyrinth indeed.

  After a while, she gave up, and wandered aimlessly down old corridors. The dust on the floor showed that the passages she was in had not been used until recently. There were a couple of footprints and she decided it would be best to follow them. Unsure which direction she was walking in, she found herself confronted by another set of stairs, and climbed them in the hope that she would be able to find her way down at some other point. The loft she climbed up into was airy and well lit. Dust and cobwebs abounded, as small insects and spiders flourished on the other nasty things too small to think about.

  Off to one side, near a large and mostly dark window, stood Gren and Cahal, silently watching. Mavra breathed a huge sigh of relief and approached, glad to be amongst company again. Gren turned as she got closer, and smiled, his lack of teeth and general age making his face somewhat comical. “Well there you are, my girl. We thought you had lost yourself in this rabbit warren for good.”

  “I wandered around a bit when I heard mother and father and then I got lost,” was her simple reply. “I didn't realise this house w
as so big.”

  “Big, and supposedly haunted,” Cahal grunted with a derisive snort as he peered back out of the window. “What are they up to?” he added.

  Mavra squeezed between the two men, and took a look out of the skylight. For as far as the eye could see along the road, there stretched a column of horses and wagons. It was continually moving, but a large detachment had removed itself from the column and was heading up the track to the farmstead. From the glitter of metal on and around the horses' flanks, it was easy to spot that they were heavily armed. The detachment spread out to face the front of the house. A man much larger than the rest rode into view, and climbed down from his horse. “They are in there. Go and find them and bring them to me, especially the women.” Several of the men moved reluctantly towards the house, not wanting to enter. “NOW!” barked the large man, and moved as if to hurry the men of his own accord; several of them almost ran at the house.

  The distant sound of a door being smashed caused the three of them react. “We must go back down and find the others,” Gren said, his face creased with worry. He made for the stairs they had climbed. Cahal reached out and grabbed him. “Let me go you fool! We have to go back down and warn the others!”

  Cahal did not let go. “Gren, old friend, I am sure that everybody is aware of what is happening out there, but if there is any trouble, do you think you can make a difference, bearing in mind what we have already seen out there?”

  The old cook struggled for a second more, and then gave up with a sigh of defeat. “We can't just wait up here for them to come find us, Cahal,” Gren said pointedly. “There must be something we can do.”

  “Let's search the loft for another way down,” piped Mavra in a voice rent with worry. “There must be more than one entrance to a room as huge as this.”

  Cahal nodded, looking at Gren. “Let us go and see what we can find,” said the old cook. “Maybe a way down out the back of the complex will be less hazardous. But let's not split up; who knows where everyone else is.”

  With that, the two men and young lady began a meticulous search of the loft. It truly was massive, for once they had passed what they thought was surely a wall, the storage and beams opened up to show a room again as big as the one they had just left, and they were still facing the same direction. Cautiously, they moved amongst whatever it was that had been packed and stored here so long ago, staying to where the beams extended across the floor, in an attempt to not reveal themselves, mindful of the protesting groans of some ancient floorboards. Straw that had been used as insulation poked up through the boards, and where a board was missing, it revealed that other occupants had taken up residence at one time.

  Mavra examined a pile of small bones, only to be told by Cahal that it was the remains of an owl's meal from some time in the past. She looked up, and sure enough on the rafters above were the scratches that were an indication of a bird that preferred the loft of a building to living in the open woods. Around here though, there was not a lot of woodland, so this was probably the safest place for such an animal. The loft did not quite meander the way the rooms did with such apparent randomness, but there were still copious piles of sheet-covered clutter that broke up the room. Voices drifted through the still air towards them from the direction they had come. She strained to hear, but what phrases she could pick up did not sound like anybody she knew. Wordlessly, the three looked at each other, and then moved quietly, but quickly on, travelling along the wing of the house that led to the rear, seeing that a little way off, it sloped sharply into the windbreak.

  It looked like there was no way down until Mavra's foot disturbed a loose board, and there below her was a hallway. She waved frantically at the other two, conscious of the fact that the voices from behind were growing steadily louder, but they were looking in other directions. Afraid to shout, but desperate to do something, she nudged the board to the side with her foot, hoping the slight sound might get their attention. Instead, it dislodged the board, sending it crashing to the floor below. The noise seemed to have the desired affect, as Cahal looked back sharply, and Gren nearly jumped out of his skin. But the side affect was the instant shouting from what now seemed very close, and the thudding of heavy boots on floorboards. Mavra stood there, half-paralysed with shock.

  Cahal was not so hesitant. He bounded over to the hole, took one look below and jumped through. He landed softly, and held up his hands in a mute command for Mavra to jump down. She grabbed a hold of her skirt and jumped through the hole, being caught by Cahal's strong, but firm grip. Gren did not need to be told, and the old cook followed down almost as soon as Cahal had set her aside. This part of the house was completely different to that from which they had climbed, but they did not have time to stop and look around. They darted down narrow corridors, bleached white by scrupulous cleaning, and through rooms that were almost bare in the cold air, making them seem large and foreboding. The voices dropped back, although the shouting continued. It was hard to follow anybody in this maze of houses that made up the farmstead.

  Slowing at Cahal's indication, Mavra took stock of what was around her. The back of the house was utilitarian, unlike the rest of the rooms that she had seen on the way up. Everything here was strictly for use, and not for pleasure. Implements hung from racks and hooks, and barrels were stored in the orderly fashion that marked the style of a farmer in this land. Even though they were upstairs, storerooms still abounded. Above all, it was cold, almost bitter. The walls felt chill to the touch, and Mavra soon gave up leaning on them, and sitting down was also out of the question.

  “I see why these places make such good storehouses,” Gren said quietly through chattering teeth. The old man's nose was turning blue in the chill of the rooms. None of them had a great deal to fight off the cold with. One look at Gren, and Cahal decided to move off. Eventually, they found a set of stairs, which led them down into the main set of storage rooms. Half were filled with stored grains and kegs containing various things. Others Cahal did not look into, though at one point Mavra saw through a window the skeletal remains of what looked to be a half of a cow still hanging from a meat hook. The voices that had pursued them had now disappeared, so it was a complete shock to Mavra when a hand reached out form a dark doorway and grabbed at her. She managed a half-squeal before being pulled off-balance, but it was enough. As her assailant grabbed at her, Cahal bowled into the man, sword drawn, and knocked the both of them over. Mavra jumped to her feet and ran into the arms of Gren, shivering with silent shock. There were a couple of sounds from the black of the room, and then a gurgling sound.

  After a pause, Cahal came out of the room, a red welt on his forehead and crimson splatters down his tunic. “Are you all right?” he asked the trembling Mavra. She nodded, her mouth open at the thought of someone trying to kill her.

  “What about you?” Gren grunted.

  Cahal reached up to touch his head. “I cut it when I hit the floor.” He looked back into the room, where a trickle of blood had started its way towards the doorway. “The dullard had obviously never fought in the dark, like I. Hiding in there was the last mistake he ever made.” Cahal started along the hallway, and then paused, grabbing Mavra's hand and opening her fingers. Into the open palm he deposited a small but very shiny knife. “From our friend in there,” he whispered. Cahal then gave Gren a rusty short sword that he had also concealed. “Gifts from our friend,” he said smiling. “Hold onto them, both of you. You may not want to use them but you may have no choice.” He then started quickly down the hallway. When Mavra had the chance to think, she realised that the voices had not followed them nor had anyone jumped down from the loft. It had been a good way down, but Cahal seemed unaffected by it. Two things began to intrude on her current thoughts as she mused this. Cahal had given her a knife – a weapon meant for stabbing somebody. The mere thought of this repulsed Mavra to the point that she felt ill. Even worse was the fact that when Cahal had given her the knife, the hilt had still been warm. It could have been the heat
of his hand, but the thought that it was the heat of the man who lay dead in some dark, chilling chamber behind them made her skin crawl.

  The hallway opened out into some kind of large, circular reception room, which from the look of it was right back in the far corner of the farmstead. The walls were still white, but there was a lot of glass. The sloping roof touched the ground outside of this, making for a surreal vision of being outside and yet not outside. Two huge barn doors provided the exit. A smaller opening had been built into one of the doors, and Cahal opened it carefully, praying that there would be no creaks of protest from the hinges that were sure to be rusty. Surprisingly, as he pushed with a feather like touch, there was no sound at all. Leaning against it, Cahal edged through to see what was outside, peering carefully around the edge of the wooden door. Mavra began to shiver as the wind, now suddenly very cold, swirled in and around her. Feeling a slight weight around her, she came back to her senses to see that Gren was settling a dark, hooded cloak around her. She immediately felt a lot better.

  The old man chuckled slightly. “Quite the little assassin you look, Mavra.” She looked at what she had on, and could not help but smile. With the loose dark cloak about her, and the dagger held tightly in her hand, she would have not looked out of place in the back streets of any major city. Instead, she was in a freezing barn, with her two friends for company. Pulling the hood up over her head helped warm her immensely, and she flashed a quick little grin at Gren, who smiled and nodded his approval, before looking for other garments they could use.

  Cahal was still peering out of the door, and listening intently. He beckoned to Mavra. She crossed the room to him and he pointed with one finger. “They are still continuing to pass, girl. But there are none around here.”

  “What should we do?” she asked.

  Cahal studied her for a second. “What do you think?” he asked.