Vargus moved a step closer, peering intently at Lanny’s face. “Is it really you?”
“I’m here, brother, but only briefly. It’s very difficult to focus. I need more time to heal.”
“How much time?”
Lanny blinked and quickly took a step backwards, staring at his surroundings in surprise.
“What happened?” he asked, his face awash with childlike surprise.
Vargus sighed and patted the boy on his shoulder. “I think you fell asleep standing up. You must be really tired.”
“You’re right. Night-night, uncle!” he said, hugging Vargus before stomping off to his bedroom.
In the morning there were a few more tears, mostly from Lanny, but one or two from Maire as well. Just before Lanny got onto his horse, he hugged both of his adopted parents, then held up one hand towards Maire.
“May the Maker bless your family and keep this house safe,” he said. It sounded as if it was something that he’d learned by rote but didn’t understand. Even so, Vargus felt a peculiar tingling across his scalp which made him wonder.
Chapter 3
They rode south through Seveldrom, drifting from one village to the next seeking work, blown this way and that like a leaf on the wind.
In some places, they worked in the fields, picking end-of-season fruit and harvesting the last crops before the first frost. In one town, they laboured in the quarry, carrying stone up and down ladders. In the last village, they’d felled trees, sawing wood and eating their meals in the shade of huge oaks that made Vargus feel very small.
At first, people were intimidated by Lanny’s size, but that changed the instant he opened his mouth. A few teased him, but most of the time people were sympathetic and treated him with kindness. He won over any remaining doubters with his unwavering good cheer and remarkable strength, lifting and carrying as much as three men. No matter how simple he was, they appreciated how hard he worked and respected him for that if nothing else.
The pair of them never stayed anywhere long enough for Lanny to cause any problems. As a result, people were always sad to see them leave. It was a bittersweet way to live, but that was how it had to be for the time being.
On three occasions, Vargus caught brief glimpses of his old friend, but the moments of clarity were always fleeting. They were never able to speak for more than a few seconds, but each time the message was the same: he needed more time to heal and for now this simple life suited him.
After a few weeks of travelling south, they entered a dense forest that stretched for miles in all directions. They stopped off at the first village just before noon and sat down in the local tavern for something to eat. Vargus had barely ordered their food before noticing something was amiss. This time it wasn’t directed at them. A pair of local men were talking with the tavern owner about something that had happened in a neighbouring village.
“Torn to shreds, they were,” one man at the bar was saying to the owner. “Six or eight sheep, they reckon.”
“Must be a bear that’s gone bad in the head,” said the barman.
“That or a pack of wolves,” suggested the second man helpfully.
“No. It wasn’t none of them. My brother saw what was left. Wolves will eat their fill of the best bits—liver and the like—but this was just savage. These were just butchered. Sliced up into pieces like someone went into a rage with a scythe.”
“A bear then,” insisted the barman. “Only thing it could be. They’ve got big claws.”
The village was far from the main roads and days away from a sizeable town of any description. Out here, ghost stories weren’t laughed off so easily as they were in cities where the streets were patrolled at night. There was no King’s justice out here. Only the Elders to set things straight, and sometimes when they failed, the Gath.
Vargus accepted the two plates of food and even managed to thank the serving man, but his attention was focused on the conversation at the bar. Lanny remained oblivious and tucked into his food with relish, savouring every mouthful as if it were his last meal.
The first man at the bar lowered his voice but his words still carried in the quiet room. “There are stories about something living in the hills above Morgan’s Creek. Most locals don’t go up that far for lumber. It’s just not worth it. There’s not much up there apart from slate and a few caves. Maybe it was talk of ancient treasure, or just testing the rules, but a couple of youngsters went up there a few weeks ago and never came back.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” said the barman, waving a hand, dismissing it as nonsense. “They probably fell into the river and drowned. Or took a tumble and ended up at the bottom of a ravine.”
“Maybe,” conceded the first man.
“It’s not like they found gnawed bones, is it?” asked the barman.
“No. They found nothing. Not even a scrap of clothing.”
“Aghh, it’s just stories,” said the barman, moving away to clean some glasses.
The two men drank in silence for a while and Vargus turned his attention back to his food.
“You don’t think it’s a bear, do you?” whispered the second man.
His friend took a long drink before answering. “No. I think whatever killed those sheep also took the children. I think it’s something we’ve not seen before around here. Either it’s something new or …” He trailed off and gulped the last of his ale, suddenly afraid to say it out loud.
There was an old superstition in Seveldrom that sometimes a thing could be made real if people talked about it often enough. It could be brought into the world by describing it and giving it a name. What had been coincidences would line up and a pattern would emerge from the chaos. In the bright light of day, such ideas were nonsense, but in the hour of the wolf, in the dark heart of the night, it was a different story.
“Something new or what?” asked his friend.
“Something very old.”
Vargus had heard enough. Morgan’s Creek was two days away on horseback. As soon as he and Lanny had finished eating, they were back on the road. He had intended to rest and seek out some work in the village, but this couldn’t wait. He needed to know if it was just a rumour or something else. If it turned out to be nothing, then it wouldn’t matter. But if it was something else, something dangerous, then sooner or later they would call for the Gath.
Chapter 4
Morgan’s Creek was located deep in the southern forests of Seveldrom and, as expected, most of the people they met were in the lumber trade. With the majority spending a great deal of their life outdoors, the locals were all tall, rugged and broad with big shoulders. For once Lanny didn’t stick out like a sore thumb.
The village had no wall or defensive barricade, but Vargus noticed the road in was watched by a spry girl who ran ahead of their horses. By the time they arrived at the edge of the village, two men and a woman were waiting. All were carrying weapons: long knives bordering on short swords and bows slung over their shoulders. They weren’t brandishing them but he could see everyone was nervous. Vargus was confident the villagers knew how to use them. This far south they hunted with bows first and blades second, to bring down quarry or fight off large predators. The people of Seveldrom were not the sort to be caught unaware and yet something had surprised the villagers here.
“We heard the news,” said Vargus without preamble, pointing at the bastard sword protruding above his shoulder. “Came to help.”
The woman at the front of the group relaxed a little, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. She looked at Vargus, then up at Lanny who grinned and waved, which made the corners of her mouth quirk slightly.
“We can’t pay you, if you’re swords for hire.”
“We’re not mercenaries,” said Vargus. “But we are looking for work. I figure the sooner things go back to normal around here the better. Perhaps there might be a bit of work going at the mill for a couple of strong backs.”
“Perhaps,” said the woman. “I’m Ceril
le.”
“Vargus. This is my nephew, Lanny.”
“Are you the Elder?” asked Lanny, earning another curious look from Cerille. “She doesn’t look old enough. She’s too pretty to be the Elder,” he said to Vargus, unaware that the others could hear him.
Despite his tactless approach, Lanny was right. Vargus guessed Cerille was not even thirty years old. Thankfully she took the comments in good humour.
“I am the Elder of Morgan’s Creek,” she said somewhat proudly. “And I’m a lot older than I look,” said Cerille, favouring Lanny with a wink.
“Aren’t we all,” muttered Vargus, getting off his horse to stretch his legs.
The two local men kept watch on the road, while Cerille led them into the village. It was a fairly large settlement and there were signs that it was growing. Vargus saw the skeletal frames of six new houses on a surrounding hill with space cleared for more nearby. About a mile away, he could see the top of the mill and heard the distant sawing of wood.
A narrow creek, barely half a dozen paces wide and not even a foot deep, ran through the middle of the main square. A quaint stone bridge arched over the water but it looked more decorative than functional. Several basic bridges fashioned from worn planks had been laid out across the water.
“Can’t we go over the little bridge?” asked Lanny as Cerille led them towards one of the wooden crossings.
“No, it’s too old. It wouldn’t carry the weight of your horse,” she said to Lanny. “The original settlers used it when they built the village.”
“Why do you have a bridge if no one uses it?”
Cerille raised an eyebrow at Vargus and mouthed the word “slow” to which he nodded.
While Cerille tried to explain to Lanny about the bridge’s cultural significance to the villagers, Vargus studied the locals. Everyone was going about their business as normal, but they seemed unusually alert, as if they were expecting trouble. Most people had a dagger or short sword on their belt, which was customary, but several also carried spears and axes.
It wasn’t a bear. One bear, however savage, would not have put them all on edge like this.
Cerille led them to a roughly fashioned building which showed signs of considerable age. The exterior was worn and the wood so ancient in places it was almost like stone. Around the door-frame, so many people had carved their names that they overlapped, creating a random and illegible pattern. Seasonal workers often drifted south during the summer months and these bunkhouses were used to accommodate them. Despite living such nomadic lives, even drifters wanted to leave a mark to show others where they’d been and that they mattered.
“Get yourselves settled, then come and find me at the Fighting Cock,” said Cerille, gesturing at the tavern on the far side of the village. “I’ll see to your horses.”
She took the reins and led their horses away to the stables while they stored their gear. Only a handful of the fifty sets of bunks showed any signs of recent use. The rest were covered with cloths and the mattresses rolled up on top. Vargus picked a set of beds at the far end, putting some distance between them and the others. Lanny got along with most people but some just couldn’t stand his childish ways. They seemed to believe his way of thinking was a disease they might catch. Besides he also snored worse than anyone Vargus had ever heard and getting him to turn over at night was always a challenge.
Vargus stored his stuff in the locker at the foot of the bunks and took only his sword and their money with him. Lanny couldn’t be trusted to carry any money and Vargus made him leave his broadsword behind. Sometimes when he got excited, he swung it about without thinking like any other child play-fighting.
They made a circuit of the village, and while no one was unfriendly, there was a palpable tension in the air.
“They’re scared,” whispered Lanny, for once managing not to shout. Vargus agreed. This also went beyond two children going missing and a few dead sheep.
The sign hanging above the door of the Fighting Cock was not what Vargus had expected. Instead of a pair of roosters, it showed an armoured chicken with a breastplate, helmet and even a shield. The artist had a peculiar sense of humour. Lanny was mesmerised and would have stayed rooted to the spot staring in open-mouthed wonder if Vargus hadn’t dragged him inside.
It was late in the afternoon so the only drinkers were a couple of toothless old men in one corner. They were bemoaning the current state of the world, loudly proclaiming about how it had been much better in their youth. Vargus couldn’t help smiling at the pair. It was nice to see that some things never changed.
Cerille was sat at the bar with a broad-shouldered man with thick grey hair, a bushy moustache, and every part of his clothing was sprinkled with sawdust. He peered up at Lanny from under wild eyebrows.
“These are the two I was telling you about,” said Cerille to the man as they approached. “This is Yaffe. He’s the foreman at the mill. He also led one of the groups that went out two days ago.”
Yaffe seemed to be a man who wasted no time. He rolled up one of his shirt sleeves to reveal a bandage which he carefully peeled off. Underneath, Vargus saw a long red welt and a nasty gash that ran the length of his forearm. The wound was angry but didn’t look infected. Cerille helped him wrap it up again before he rolled down his sleeve.
“It’s not a bear,” said the bluff man. “It might be about the same size, but it moved too quick.”
“How do you know?” asked Vargus.
“I had to kill a bear once,” said Yaffe, rubbing his mouth as if trying to get rid of a sour taste. Or a bad memory. “Didn’t want to, but it left us no choice. I’ve seen an angry bear, but it wasn’t like this,” he said gesturing at his arm.
“What did it look like?” asked Lanny. The others hadn’t noticed anything, but Vargus saw the subtle shift in his brother’s posture. The straightening of his shoulders. The focus of his stare.
“Didn’t get a good look. But it was maybe seven feet long. Dark brown or black, maybe. I just saw its claws. Seemed like a bear at first but there was something wrong with its face. Only saw it for a second.”
Yaffe grabbed the half-full glass from the bar and drained the rest in a couple of loud gulps. Looking from the corner of his eye, Vargus noticed Lanny wasn’t paying attention any more. His eyes were drifting over the many different coloured glass bottles behind the bar. Late afternoon sunbeams were coming in through the windows, making them dance with reflected light.
Vargus thought about pushing the foreman but changed his mind. He had an idea what it might be, but in the end it didn’t really matter. Bloodthirsty bear or something else, it had to be dealt with.
“How many did you lose?” Vargus asked instead.
“Three.”
“How many went on the hunt?”
Yaffe rubbed his mouth again. “Eight. Most of those who made it back have scars like mine.”
“Still interested?” asked Cerille.
Lanny was lost in the wonder of a sparkling beam of sunlight that made dust in the air shimmer like diamonds. Yaffe was trapped in the past, bitter at what had happened and those he’d lost. And the old men were lost in history, remembering things that probably hadn’t happened with minds fogged by age.
Only he and Cerille seemed to be in the present, willing to deal with the problem they were facing.
“When do we start?”
Chapter 5
In the morning, after a hearty breakfast, they gathered in the square with twenty men and women. All of them were armed with swords, spears and most of them carried longbows. In these woods, they usually hunted deer, boar and birds. Occasionally they had to drive off or kill wolves or mountain lions which had wandered down from higher ground. No one knew what they were hunting today so were armed for anything.
There were no smiles and the usual camaraderie Vargus had seen before a hunt was absent. Silence gripped the square. This wasn’t about meat for the pot. Something was threatening their homes and families. Tense faces wa
tched from windows in the surrounding buildings and more stood on street corners pretending to be busy with something else.
Cerille joined the party at the head of another group of five women armed with heavy spears. Twenty-six bodies for one beast. She wasn’t taking any chances this time.
“You all know what’s at stake,” said Cerille, hefting her spear. “Split into groups of six. Keep your people in sight at all times. No excuses. No wandering off. We stay out until it starts to get dark; then we get clear of the trees before nightfall. Any questions?”
There were none. Vargus was starting to see why she was the Elder. While everyone else seemed nervous, there was a deep well of calm around her. As if she could take anything in her stride. The others took strength from her and there was an easing of tension among the party.
He and Lanny were put in a group with three spear-women and a gap-toothed man called Waide carrying a long-handled axe. They followed the main group along worn paths through the forest, making enough noise to startle most prey into hiding. Vargus heard a few creatures rustling in the undergrowth, but it was only a couple of rabbits and they quickly went underground. After an hour, they split up into their separate groups and spread out into a line. Lanny was on his left and a rangy blonde woman on his right.
His group moved through the forest with care, pausing at every sound before moving on. They frequently stopped so Waide could study the ground for tracks while the others watched the trees in tense silence.
No one spoke unless they had to, and only then in a whisper. Mostly they used basic sign language which even Lanny could interpret without the need for an explanation. When he started to pull forward ahead of the group with his long strides, Vargus pulled him back. Apart from that, he did exactly as he was told and Vargus didn’t know who was on the hunt with him. The innocent boy or his old friend.
After two hours, they were all wound up so tight that they were jumping at the slightest sound. Waide had already hurled his axe at what turned out to be a squirrel, much to his embarrassment and Lanny’s amusement. They pressed on in grim silence for another hour, moving higher through the forest as the temperature started to fall.
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