by M. C. Elam
Ignoring everything that made him want to rush into the open air, go home to Ascalla and forget that all he thought true had changed forever, he pushed through the crowded space until he reached them. Hawk could see a gaping hole in Terill's side. Every heartbeat brought more blood. No man could survive such a catastrophic wound.
“He’s been calling for you,” Griffin said. The even timbre of his voice did little to hide the anguish in his heart. “Wryth prays for him. Selene will like that.”
Hawk’s eyes rested on the old priest’s head. The man knelt beside Melendarius. A brown lump of a man Hawk had known all his life, made jokes about as he scurried through the corridors of the palace, a man who never gave way to anger. Now Wryth, whose lips moved incessantly, prayed for the soul of his nephew. Melendarius stood beside him in sharp contrast. Terill’s life light bathed his upturned face in fearful wonder and made him appear younger than his years. Tears streamed from his eyes unhindered, and all the while, he sang the pain lifting mantra.
“Brother?” Terill released his father’s hand and sought to clasp Hawk’s.
“Aye, Terill, I’m here.” He took a firm hold, and shocked by how cold the flesh felt, covered it with his other hand in a feeble attempt to give warmth. The fingers were deathly white, the nails blue.
“Shadall calls me, Hawk.”
“No,” Hawk’s voice broke.
Fluid rattled in Terill’s throat as he struggled to speak. A weak cough brought red froth to his lips. Shadows crawled across the plane of his face, and in the last waning moment, his life-light dimmed. He squeezed his eyes shut clearing them of tears and spoke again. “I love you well, Hawk. I love…” His last breath expelled like the tender flutter of a leaf.
***
“Strip the dead of weapons and armor,” Barclay ordered. “Take everything save the cloth that wraps their loins, and pray any conceived by them give no thought to the black deeds of their fathers.” Confronted by empty silence, he scowled.
One young Baline recruit found voice. Many of the others lay among the dead, slain by the same Owlmen Captain Barclay had now ordered them to strip of all that made them warriors. Still the boy spoke on their behalf.
“What be happening to their souls, Captain? They be warriors. Good or bad, Captain, they be warriors.”
Barclay eyed the boy, noted the intensity of the gaze. “How many seasons be you, boy?”
The boy stood a little straighter, as though gathering a bit of height might make his opinions more significant. “Fourteen, Captain.”
“Just that, I’d be fair on guessing.”
“Aye, sir, a fortnight past.”
“Well, lad, truth be truth you see it clear. Good or bad these men be warriors. Think you King Hawk be onto the same way of thinking. What with his good right hand, the man he called brother, lying dead inside yonder tent?”
The boy turned his gaze in the direction Barclay indicated. Tears blurred his vision, and he blinked them away before Barclay chanced to see them and think him weak. “Terill be dead, sir?”
“Aye.”
“Terill, be the son of High Warrior Griffin. Honorable men, they be, sir, King Hawk and High Warrior Griffin. High of spirits or deep in the miseries, I be thinking they’d no strip a warrior’s pride.”
“Harrumph.” Barclay tugged at his beard muttering under his breath while he considered the boy’s comment and watched him shift from foot to foot. “We’d be well put honoring the old ways, would we now, lad?”
“Aye, Captain.”
Barclay turned to the rest of the men. “The order stands. Strip them.”
The boy’s face fell.
“Greed’s what filled their pockets, greed and lust. Was the likes of them what misused my wife and raped your womenfolk. Still, the boy speaks true. Warriors they be no matter how black their core. Strike a single feather from each mantle. Cast the lot into the pit with the bodies afore you set it ablaze. They’ll no miss the rest. We take their armor and weapons with purpose, lads. Clad in black feathers when we march into Brendemore be nixing any challenge from Brenan’s henchmen.”
***
The sky opened and rain poured over the encampment washing away remnants of the battle. The storm had held off long enough for Barclay to order peat blocks layered over the corpse pit and set afire. Earth shoveled over the top would keep them burning for days, long enough to turn the bodies of the Owlmen to ash.
Though fatigue plagued Father Wryth, he moved among the Brotherhood of Defenders, a name that had somehow gained popularity from a need to differentiate them from the enemy. Compatriots and loved ones lay claim to the bodies to prepare them for burial. Mourners gathered in small groups while Melendarius knelt beside each body and waited for the Mother to reveal their star names. When it came to him, he brought his lips close to the body and whispered.
“Angus of Ascalla, an honorable death takes you from the living. The Mother calls your spirit to the stars. Go now and wander here no more.”
“Stefan the Light of Shadall, an honorable death takes you from the living. The Mother calls your spirit to the stars. Go now and wander here no more.”
“Prentice of Glynmora, an honorable death takes you from the living. The Mother calls your spirit to the stars. Go now and wander here no more.”
The last body he came to was that of Terill. Hawk had ordered the body placed under cover of a tent on a raised dais surrounded by a kneeling platform. The platform provided room on four sides for mourners to offer prayers. A steady stream of people, trained warriors, and the citizenry who had fought beside them, paid homage to the young Shadallian who gave his life. Hawk knelt beside Griffin. Neither had moved in all the long hours. One other came that day.
As soon as he entered the tent, Melendarius knew her. She had fiery red hair, blue-green eyes and a luminous skin that glistened as though covered by a light powdering of gold dust. Strong, like the Mother, her essence told him she came from a time when the world began.
Ancient one, you stand upon the Mother’s soil. You are the last of your kind—the last dragon.
She settled into his mind unfolding to him that he might see her true image.
Aye, Melendarius, wise and learned son of the Mother. I am Skylla come in human. Once my kind numbered more than man, but now I am the last. Whisper the words of passing, honored one, that Terill’s spirit will seek Shadall and not linger in this place.
Melendarius nodded moving to kneel between Hawk and Griffin. He waited for Terill’s spirit to find him. In death, it drifted aimlessly between father and brother. At last, Melendarius claimed its attention and whispered, “Terill bright star of Shadall, an honorable death takes you from the living. The Mother calls your spirit to the stars. Go now and wander here no more.”
Griffin, his shoulders slumped in the abject misery only a father can know at the loss of his son, stumbled from the tent, leaving Hawk alone save for the woman.
“Skylla,” he whispered, “can you not rouse him?”
She knew he had sensed her presence from the moment she appeared in the tent.
“Nay, young Hawk. His spirit seeks Shadall.”
“But your dragon tears restored my life in the caves.”
“Nay, my tears awakened your soul and brought you into the light. Nothing remains of Terill in the world of men, save this body.”
“Then why,” he twisted to face her, “have you come?”
She brushed his cheek with her fingertips. “I have come to carry him home.”
34 - Exposed
Devon Runderly sat in a dark corner of Chandler’s Tavern. He watched the candle in front of him sputter and die as the last of its wick drowned in mutton tallow. The shadows served him well, but the wobbly chair played havoc with his vertigo. Brain woozies, Ma called it. That was as good as anything, he supposed. Whatever it was, he had never climbed a tree, or ventured onto a roof when Pa fixed a leak. You'll be sure footed as a goat by the time you're a man, Pa told him. He was, too, as lon
g as he didn't whip his head around too much. Oddly enough, he had a way with horses, so Pa taught him their ailments and the cures. Good thing too, because after the capture, he moved right up the chain until the old stable man breathed his last, and Devon took over. While riding the most twist gaited nag never caused a stomach rollover, lopsided chairs made his head swim. He felt the juice in his belly sloshing around, or imagined he did, and reared back against the wall. One boot, strategically positioned on the edge of the table compensated for the chair's uneven legs enough to abolish his current woozy.
Across the public room, Chandler's tavern maid delivered a tray of ale to a rowdy group of Owlmen, wagering their pay on which of them might best the others at Ring-the-Bull. One thick-necked lout grabbed her around the waist and nuzzled her neck with his bewhiskered face.
“How be you tonight, Minerva? Think Chandler can spare you for a bit whilst we take a wee stroll out back?”
She pushed him away, watched him stagger and laughed at his fumbling effort to keep his footing. “By the looks of you, you’ll not be strolling much of anywhere.” With a provocative swing of her ample hips, she turned and approached Devon.
“See you watch that tongue. I'll no have a strumpet like you talking that way to me.” The Owlman started after her.
“Let her go,” one of the others called. “Better pickings down to the whores.”
“Aye, more willing, too,” the Owlman laughed.
“Another tankard, Mister Devon?”
“No, Minerva. I’m good. But I might spare a copper or two for the name of that Owlman at the end of the bar.” He reached into his pocket for the coin and twirled it from finger to finger. “New fellow, isn’t he?”
She looked in the direction he indicated. “Him, well, don’t know his name, but he be one of King Brenan’s palace guards. Heard him tell Chandler as much. Got him a case of the dreadfuls 'bout something he done.” She caught Chandler watching her. “Got to get to my work, Mister Devon. I be in a heap a trouble, I don’t.”
Devon caught her around the waist. “Chandler wouldn’t want you neglecting his customer’s now would he?” He pulled her onto his lap.
“I spect not.” She smiled at him.
“I think I might find a piece of silver if you know what vexes the guard.”
She wiggled her bottom against him. “Silver?”
“Aye, lass, silver, but don’t you be making up tales just to get it.”
Awk, no Mister Devon. Minerva’d never, make up nothing just to get a coin. Sides,” she flashed another grin, “don’t have to make up what be true. I heard him tell Chandler ‘bout how King Peter give the order.”
“What order, lass?”
“Well,” she glanced around warily. “He be telling how he fetched some old woman and a wee babe straight off to the pig man. Said he felt considerable bad about it.” She leaned close to his ear. “Mister Devon, think you that old woman be Maudie?”
“You mean Maudie that works in the whore’s barracks?”
Minerva nodded.
“How do you know her?”
“All us girls knows Maudie. She be doctoring one or the other of us nigh on fifteen years. Then one day she’s up and gone. Think it be Maudie?”
Devon gave her a squeeze. “Now, don’t spread gossip like that, Minerva. Probably just some servant old Brenan found fault with.”
“Prolly. ‘Cept she be carrying that babe along with her.”
“Might belong to her, Minerva. Mayhap she’s younger than the guard thought. Best keep mum about it. Tell you what. Think two silver coins might silence those pretty lips?”
She beamed and nearly bounced off his lap. “Oh aye, Mister Devon. I’ll no whisper it to a soul.”
He pressed the coins into her palm. “And if I don’t hear a single tittle-tattle about it,” he winked, “next week you’ll have two more.”
“Oh, I’ll no let on. Not a word.”
Devon eased her off his lap. “Best get back to chores, girly. Oh, and Minerva, those Owl men, take care the way you speak to them.” He smacked her round rump and watched her scurry away.
Devon knew Minerva had figured it right. The woman the guard spoke of had to be Maudie, and if Brenan had sent her to the hog barn, the bastard must have figured out that the baby didn’t belong to him. He lifted his foot from the table, leaned forward until the chair legs rested on the floor and waited. It wouldn’t do to rush out in a big hurry. A bit later one of the Ring-the-Bull Owlmen shouted victory and leaped into the center of the table, dancing from foot to foot until the table collapsed. No one noticed a tall man pass into the mud hall that led outside.
Soon after, Billy Runderly carried a message to old Clay Willis.
“Maudie be down to the hog barn, babe too.”
Same as every night, Clay walked past him without so much as a nod.
***
As soon as Billy told him that Brenan had shipped Maudie and Miss Ceri’s babe to the hog barn, Clay Willis set about freeing them. Doing so would prove no easy matter. The pig man wanted goods, not coin, and he had only a few kegs of mead to barter the deal. He squeezed his brain nearly dry before an idea bloomed.
The hog barn teemed with rats, and Billy Runderly was the best rat catcher Clay knew. Billy and his rat-killing skill, who’d have thought that pastime be key in getting the pig man to turn her over. Of course, he’d need to give Billy a few how-to’s for dealing with the likes of the pig man. Might look stupid but Clay knew him for a sly lout. He’d be testing Billy, sure. The boy be quick-witted as they come, though. Clay had no worries there. If any could pull it off, Billy Runderly be the one could do it.
The next morning, Billy set about striking a deal. He started by hanging around the pig barn ogling Maudie until the pig man chased him, waving a clever. He lit out like the devil’s own curse hung over him. That drew a satisfied smirk from the pig man who failed to see the grin that spread across Billy’s face while he high-tailed it. Not an hour later, in marched Billy.
“You daft, boy? Guess you got no sense in that head a yours.” The pig man raised a beefy fist.
Billy guarded his face with his hands and put on his best, horrified expression. “No sir, I no be daft. Come to ask do you got work for such as me? Ya know, chores and such. My brother claims I got a strong back.”
The pig man lowered his fist. “Brother? Who be your brother, boy?”
Billy let his arms fall to his sides. “Stableman, Devon Runderly.”
“Ah, you be the one they call dumb Runderly cause you no be talking.”
Billy winced. Some did call him that, he knew. Never to his face, though, and if they did— well, Billy saw to it they didn’t call him that again. He clenched his fists a time or two until the desire to knock the pig man on his fat arse fell to reason. “I be the same,” he said at last and hoped the timbre of his tone bore no challenge.
“Well, I be bumfuzzled sure. Never would a thought it. You ain’t dumb at all are ye, boy.”
“Nay, sir. I be right as any.”
“So it’s chores you want,” he scratched his balding head. “I got no regular chores but hear tell you got a fast hand at rat catching. We might negotiate us a bit of bidness if you’ve a mind.”
Billy nodded eagerly and let a grin play across his lips.
Hiring Devon Runderly’s brother put a feather in the pig man’s cap. Devon might be property like the rest of them but he sat top of the chain, next thing to free, while the pig man scratched his arse clear the underside of low. So, if he could bamboozle the boy a bit into ridding the barn of rats, why that made him snicker. Next time he headed down to Chandler’s for a pint, he’d be telling how Devon Runderly’s little brother stood up to his knees in pig shite catching rats.
“So lad, what kind of pay we talking. Might part with a butchered up hog, you make good on it.”
Billy squatted on his haunches gazing through the flat boards into the sty beyond. He could see Maudie cradling the babe and trying to ease
his cry. “Whole barn? Rat free? Hmmm,” he rubbed his chin.
“Aye, whole barn, rat free.”
“I be thinking that be good for eight coins at least.” He kept his eyes on Maudie the whole time.
“Eight coppers.” The pig man’s eyes gleamed. “Fair enough price, lad. Will you shake on it?”
Billy rose to his feet and opened his mouth in shocked disbelief. “Coppers? Nay, can’t shake on coppers. I be thinking eight silver be a fair price for the passel a rats what scutters round here.”
It was the pig man’s turn to look dumbfounded. “I be, that’s no bargain at all. What you take me for? No, we got us no bargain here.”
“Mayhap you’d be willing to barter flesh of another kind,” Billy said. He walked over to the sty, rested his arms on the top of the gate and set one foot on the bottom rail.
The pig man came forward and stood beside him. Billy’s six-foot frame appeared dwarf-like next to him. The top of his head barely cleared the man’s shoulder. “What? You want that old whore?”
Wouldn’t do to shrink from the task now. Billy puffed out his chest. “Aye, if you be of a mind to offer her up.”
The pig man scratched his bald spot again. “What you want that sow for, boy? Reckon her bedding days be long past.” He wiped a stream of greenish snot on the back of his hand, and then smeared it onto his britches leg.
“Still got all the parts, don’t she?”
“Aye, spect so, even do they be wizened a might.”
“Well then, truth be I can’t afford me no youngish woman. Reckon she be good enough long as she can bend over.”
The vulgarity of the comment made the pig man laugh. “Property buying property, I be damned for a fool.” He looked Billy up and down. “Got to take the brat if you take her. Got no use for a milk brat. End up tossing it to the hogs.”
“Have to pay out more than it be worth just taking care of it,” Billy smirked.