Wolfsbane Winter

by Jane Fletcher

  Alby sighed. “You know, every year I do the Trail, I tell myself it will be the last. I’m getting too old for the game.”

  “How many times have you done it?”

  “Thirty something. I’ve lost count.”

  “Won’t life be dull if you stop?”

  “Ah, now there you’ve got it. At the moment, I’m thinking about when you’re stuck between windigos and rapids, and it’s way too dangerous to be fun. But after another winter, cooped up, I’ll have itchy feet again. Come spring I’ll just be remembering the open spaces.”

  “You sound sure of that.”

  “I am. I’ve tried giving it up before.”

  “Why?”

  “Have you got family?”

  Deryn was startled, and not merely because of the abrupt change in tack. Families were not something you ever talked about on the Trail. Fortunately, Alby did not wait for a reply.

  “I’ve got three kids sitting back home, with their mother.”

  Home was another unfamiliar word. Deryn wondered if she should ignore it, but in the end she asked, “Are you going to see them?”

  “Oh yes.” Alby’s expression softened and his voice dropped. “Yes. Eli runs a dairy farm just outside Sattle. She’s…” Words were unnecessary. His smile said everything. “When I met her, I thought she was the one I could give up the Trail for. Two years I tried being a farmer, but it never worked out. I went back to riding the Trail, but I go clutter up the farm in the off season, getting in Eli’s way and pretending I know how to make cheese. My youngest kid is twelve. I’ve missed seeing her grow up. I’ve missed all of them. Each winter when I go back, they’re strangers to me. But maybe I’ve not left it too late to find out who they are.” Alby took a long draft of his beer. “Will you be seeing your family?”

  Deryn hesitated before giving a quick nod.

  “You got kids?”

  “No.”

  “How about your brothers, sisters? Will you visit them?”

  Deryn shook her head.

  “You don’t get on with them?”

  “I haven’t any.”

  “What family have you got?”

  “My foster mother. She’s the one I’ll be visiting. She’s an Iron Wolf. Been working down in Ellaye, running the desert trails.” Deryn was keen to shift the conversation. “I’m thinking I might join her next year. It would be something new. Have you seen much of the south?”

  The ploy did not work. “What happened to your real parents?”

  Deryn stared down at the empty tankard, dangling from her fingers. Lamplight reflected on its scratched surface, as it swung to and fro while she mustered her thoughts.

  This was why she never hung out with her comrades, once the job was over. Ex-comrades, she reminded herself. All the rules were changed. Suddenly they wanted to talk about life outside the Trail. Why had she joined in with the farewell party, this time?

  Rico appeared through the crowd. He grabbed her hand. “Come and dance.”

  Deryn let herself be towed into the midst of the dancers, but only as a means of escaping Alby’s questions. She was not going to stay in the Lodestone any longer, but before she could disengage herself from Rico’s grip, Corbin flung himself around her neck. The smell of alcohol, sweat, and wet leather swamped Deryn with nearly as much force as the weight of Corbin’s heavily muscled torso, pulling her off balance. Were it not for Rico they would have ended up on the floor.

  “De… Deri…” Corbin showered spittle in her ear. “I nev’r said this, but youz an fuckin good scout. An, I’ll mish you.”

  Deryn peeled the drunken warrior off. “Yeah. I’ll miss you too.”

  Corbin hunched down so their eyes were on a level. The feat strained his balance. He wobbled left and right before steadying. Despite his size, the young man clearly had a bad head for drink. “You actz like a fish. Cold. But ish all in there. I know. I can tell.” His face crumpled in a cross-eyed smile. “Comeon, ish the las’ night. Dance wi’ me.”

  “I don’t…” Deryn stopped, uncertain of what she wanted to deny. “Look, you keep dancing with Rico. He’s better at it.”

  “Rico’s a good mate, but he’s not as priddy as you.”

  “Hey! That’s not what you said before.”

  “Yeah, b’ I’ve already humped you. I still gotta sweet-talk Deryn.”

  “You old heartbreaker, you.” Rico’s parody of indignation was clearly in jest. Corbin laughed until a bout of hiccups hit him.

  While their attention was diverted by backslapping, Deryn ducked away, slipping between the other dancers until she reached the bar. She dug out a coin and attracted the innkeeper’s attention. “This buys the next round of drinks for that group of Wolves.” Deryn pointed. “I’ve got to go, but tell them…” Deryn frowned. What did she want to say?

  “I’ll tell them you bought the round.” The innkeeper finished the sentence for her.

  “Thanks.” If it was not what she intended, it was also not worth the effort of correcting.

  The daylight had faded into premature dusk, brought on by heavy clouds, but the afternoon’s rain had eased off. It fell as no more than a soft misting against Deryn’s face, cold after the heat of the tavern. She stopped at the junction with Main Street, and considered her options. What did she want to do?

  Activity outside the various taverns was brisk but orderly. This was unlikely to last. Drunken brawls were common on Oakan streets. Most evenings would see at least one break out, although currently, the only disturbance came from the whores leaning from the upstairs windows of the Hunter’s Moon Saloon. They were shouting to a group with the look of miners about them, standing below. Judging by the grins passing between the miners, some were tempted.

  The breeze carried the scent of damp wood, and also that of cooking. Deryn turned her head in the direction it came from and smiled. A good idea, and far more appealing to her than the whores were. Food would soak up the alcohol in her stomach, and maybe she would not get drunk after all. She could eat and return straight to the bunkhouse where her bed was reserved. An early night would speed her departure in the morning. The journey to Ellaye would take long enough, without dawdling on the way. Deryn sighed. What she wanted to do was actually an easy question. She wanted to sit with Brise, chat and relax. It would have to wait.

  “Excuse me. Do you know where the Silver Strike is?”

  A young man appeared at Deryn’s side. He had clearly been out in the rain for a while. His fair hair was plastered to his forehead. The hopeful expression on his face would have looked at home on the muzzle of a puppy dog. He was dressed in the rough-spun woolen clothes of a townsman, rather than the sheepskin and leather preferred by miners and Iron Wolves. Deryn was a little surprised by the faint scent of flowers about him. What line of business was he in? She doubted that even the richest households in Oakan employed a professional gardener.

  “The Silver Strike?” Deryn shook her head. “Never heard of it. There’s a Silver Nugget and a Lucky Strike. Are you sure it isn’t one of them you want?”

  “No. Neither sounds right.” The man cast around, staring up and down Main Street, as if the tavern he wanted would materialize if he looked hard enough.

  “What road is it supposed to be on?”

  “Do you know the town well?”

  “Pretty well.”

  The man’s gaze returned to Deryn and he smiled. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a farmer.”

  “I’m a mercenary. An Iron Wolf.”

  His eyes lit up. “Have you ridden the Misery Trail?”

  “Got back from it this afternoon.”

  “Wow.” He looked awestruck. “I’ve always wanted to see the wastelands, but my wife won’t hear of it. This is the first time I’ve gotten her as far as Oakan, and I’m not sure I’ll ever get her out again. She’s picked up a cold. I’ve left her in the bunkhouse, sneezing her head off. I was going to meet the friends we traveled with, but…” He shrugged and then held out his hand. “My nam
e’s Abran. I’m a trader from Sattle.”

  “Deryn.”

  “I’ll be going, then. Thanks anyway.” Abran turned, as if to leave, but then paused. “Say. I don’t suppose if I buy you a drink, you’ll tell me about the Misery Trail? It doesn’t look like I’m going to find my friends and I don’t want to go back and listen to my wife sneeze all evening.”

  “Oh, why not? Sure.” What better than the company of a total stranger to pass a spare hour? One drink more would not hurt, and she could still have her early night.

  Abran headed for the doors of the nearby Warrior’s Return. Maybe he thought the name appropriate. Deryn hesitated for a moment before following. The tavern would have been well toward the bottom on her own list of choices. Not that the beer was bad, quite the opposite, or so she had heard, but it had the reputation of being the most expensive in town. Her new acquaintance was clearly unfamiliar with Oakan. However, he was the one paying, and at least the prices ensured no shortage of spare chairs.

  Abran returned from the bar with two full tankards. “There you go.”

  “Thanks.”

  He took his seat. “Are the wastelands as dangerous as they say?”

  “In places.”

  “What’s the worst, rapids or windigos?”

  Deryn took a mouthful from her tankard before answering, and fought back a grimace. The beer in the Warrior’s Return did not live up to its reputation. It was overhopped, with a sour aftertaste. If she had been the one paying, she would have complained.

  “Windigos. The rapids probably kill more people, but that’s normally their own stupid fault. The rapids are predictable. You know where they are. The windigos can turn up at any time.”

  “Have you seen many windigos?”

  “Hundreds.”

  “They’re all dangerous?”

  “No. Some aren’t. I once met a man who had a small one as a pet.”

  “What did it look like?

  “A six-legged squirrel with horns.”

  “Sounds weird.”

  “I’ve seen weirder.” Deryn smiled. “Windigo is what you call anything in the wastelands that you can’t think of another name for. In the forests on the other side of the mountains, there are clans of tiny green people, about the size of this tankard. They’ll steal your stores and mess up your stuff, just for the fun of it, but they won’t do anything worse. I’ve heard they can talk, though I’ve never spoken to one. Maybe they have a name for themselves, but nobody else knows what it is, so they’re windigos.”

  “I’ve heard about huge flying lizards and men with bull’s heads.”

  “I’ve heard about them too. I’ve never seen one.”

  “Nothing close to the stories?”

  “Huge lizards, yes, but not flying ones.”

  “I guess breathing fire is out as well?”

  “Yup.” Deryn rubbed her nose, while trying to think what she could tell Abran in exchange for the beer. “The most frightening one I’ve ever seen was like a cross between an enormous cat and an eagle, with hair all round its head. That one could fly. It attacked a party I was with, but luckily it cleared off once it had gotten a couple of arrows in it.”

  “Have you been as far as Nawlings?”

  “No. I want to, some day. But, after Sluey, the trade all goes by boat. There’s not much call for a scout.”

  Deryn continued talking, recounting stories of life on the Trail. By the time she had finished her pint, she no longer noticed the aftertaste and did not argue when Abran brought her a second. He was an attentive listener, who showed no sign of wanting to ask personal questions, and Deryn found herself surprisingly relaxed in his company.

  She moved on to anecdotes of mishaps she had heard from other Iron Wolves—or she tried to, but concentrating was becoming more of an effort. Events unraveled in her mind. She would find herself in the middle of a sentence, with no idea how she got there, or where she had planned taking the tale. At the same time, the tavern around her was vanishing into a dreamlike haze. She was powerless to stop her storytelling lurching from topic to topic in a random sequence. Yet, somehow, Abran appeared to follow what she was saying. At least, he managed to laugh in the right places. Maybe she was not doing as badly as she thought.

  Once Deryn stopped and stared at her tankard. It was almost full. Surely she had drunk more than that? Was it her third pint? It all seemed very silly and Deryn was seized by giggles. Abran joined in, presumably just to be sociable. At his prompting, she continued with her stories, while the tavern dissolved into an impression of sound and movement. Only the occasional wafts of Abran’s faint flower scent remained distinct.

  The shock of cold air cut through Deryn’s mental fog. True night had fallen and they were out on Main Street. Abran linked his arm through hers and guided her into a side alley. Deryn did not notice which one. Isolated lanterns, hanging over doorways, provided the only illumination. It was insufficient to recognize the road, but even were it broad daylight, all Deryn’s attention was needed to navigate around the potholes. In fact, all of her attention was needed just to make sure her feet stayed on the ground. If she did not watch out, she might just float away. She stared down, mesmerized by the sight of each foot in turn, swinging out in front of her and striking the ground.

  Abran guided her left and right. They could have been walking for five minutes or fifty. Deryn had lost all sense of time and direction. She did not have the first idea which part of town they were in. She was just pleased that someone knew where they were going. The rain started again and cleared her head a little, but thoughts still kept slipping from her mind so she could not keep a coherent sequence in focus.

  They turned into a passageway too narrow to walk side by side. Abran slid his arm from hers but still held her hand and towed her along behind him. Deryn was so unsteady on her feet that her shoulders bounced off the walls with each step. When Abran stopped unexpectedly, Deryn ran into his back, barely managing to keep upright. The light was too weak to make anything out, but she heard Abran knock and a door opened. Weak lamplight flooded out, dazzling after the darkness.

  Abran’s smile had lost none of its friendliness as he drew her inside. “Here we are. You’ll like this, I promise.”

  The dingy room was another tavern of sorts, and even in her drunken state, it was a sort Deryn recognized immediately. Two small tables took up most of the floor space. No other customers were currently seated, although an indistinct cluster of people gathered in the shadows of a doorway at one side.

  The scent of flowers was much stronger, and Abran was no longer the main source. He obviously spent enough time here for the odor to impregnate his clothes. The sweet smell was heavy, cloying. It launched a fresh attack on Deryn’s senses, blunting what little cold-induced clarity she had mustered. When Abran released her arm, she fell into the nearest chair. Abran positioned himself opposite.

  A bottle and five mugs were already on the table. On cue, three figures left the doorway and joined them, two women and a man. Their clothes revealed a lot and suggested more, an impression aided by the dimness of the room. The lighting was low enough to mask details—how cheap the wine was, lacking any label; how shabby the decor; how unattractive the whores. Deryn had no doubts as to their profession.

  She sat slumped in her chair and stared across the table at Abran. She should have guessed. Who had not heard about the sort of establishments where everything on sale was at five times the market rate, or about how they obtained their customers? Abran was not a trader who had lost his friends. The whole charade was a ruse to get drunken punters into his employer’s brothel. She wondered how big a cut he took from the profits.

  “Deryn, this is Arnie, this is Lana, this is Del.”

  Another pointless sham, and an insulting one. How stupid did they think she was? Deryn braced her hands on the underside of the table. She should just flip the whole thing over and walk out. But when she tried to flex her arms, they were too weak. Her legs were equally slow to ob
ey her. Would they support her weight if she stood? And even if they did, would she be able to walk?

  In an instant, her mood changed and the absurdity of the situation struck her. She began to laugh. Two whores joined in, although they could have no idea of what was so funny—but then, Deryn did not know either. The thought made her laugh even louder.

  One of the women stood behind Deryn. What little lucid thought Deryn could muster was drowned in the sweet scent of flowers, now recognized as cheap perfume. The whore’s fingertips lightly traced the back of Deryn’s neck, and then massaged her shoulders. It felt so good. Deryn could not deny it, as the muscles in her back relaxed and any urge to resist was swept away.

  The man shifted his chair closer to Deryn. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Deryn made no attempt to stop him, but she met his eyes and slowly shook her head. A brief expression of regret crossed his face, but he released her hand and rose from the table. His place was immediately taken by the second woman.

  Her hands were soft. Her lips were softer, hot and wet. She first sucked the tips of Deryn’s fingers, and then flicked her tongue against them. The effect of the suggestive touch rippled down Deryn’s arm, sparking a response in the pit of her stomach, and then lower. Deryn felt herself grow wet.

  Why not? The question drifted through Deryn’s head.

  The contents of the bottle on the table would taste like hog’s piss. The chances were that it was rainwater, collected from the nearest horse trough, rather than wine. Nobody would drink any, yet she would be charged as if it were the finest vintage. A similar mark-up would apply to the whores, but Deryn had a year’s pay in her purse. She could afford it and she was in no fit state to go anywhere else. And was this not what she had been looking for when she left the Lodestone? Company with no questions, no ties, no risks?

  And it’s not as if I’ve never bought it before.

  Deryn made no objection when she was helped to her feet and urged along the corridor. The room she entered was darker than the one they had left. When the hands released her, she stumbled and fell. She landed heavily on a straw-stuffed mattress that was drenched in scent, although the cheap perfume could not cover the other, mustier odors. Deryn was grateful she could not see the state the mattress was in.