Randall gazed around the dark cave, whose roof was lined in a mesh of criss-crossing roots which he did not recognize. “So you’re a traveler, eh?” Minnie asked in the same croaking, wizened voice which snapped Randall’s attention back to her. “You’ve the look of a city-dweller about you,” she said without looking up from the tiny note, “what brings you this far afield of what you know?”
Randall had been around herbwise women and even the occasional oracle, but he found Minnie’s presence to be more than a little disquieting. “I’m just trying to find my way,” he admitted after a moment’s consideration. “I really don’t know where I belong; the only thing I do know is that it isn’t where I came from.”
Minnie chuckled under her breath as she finished with her note, which she rolled tightly before securing it with a thread from the hem of her clothing. With that completed, she used the same thread to fasten the message to the foot of the stuffed bird which Timmy had been playing with. “You’ve more wisdom in you than you believe,” she said with equal parts condescension and approval, “but your journey will be long and fraught with danger.”
Some soothsayer, Randall scoffed silently, it’s not like she didn’t already know I’ve been injured; tell me something I don’t know.
“Oh, I’ll do that and more,” Minnie promised, her voice again taking on a hard edge that saw the hairs on the back of Randall’s neck stand up. She passed her hand over the dead avian and no sooner had she done so than it spread its wings and began to stretch, as though awakening from a long nap. “Go to Gertrude,” Minnie commanded in that unusually strong, vibrant voice after making eye contact with the bird, “tell her the Foulchen farm has been razed, their livestock stolen, and Timmy alone made it to Minnie the Mad’s—tell them the Rule of Three has been satisfied and the elders must now do as they are bound.”
The black bird squawked twice, and Minnie nodded her head irritably. “Yes, yes, you may sleep again once you return; now go!”
With that, the bird took to the wing and darted so close to Randall’s head on its way out of the cave-house that he felt a feather tickle his cheek, causing him to flinch an instant too late to avoid contact.
“Close the door, young man,” Minnie cackled, “I’d thought a city boy such as you to possess better manners?”
“You’re from the city?” Timmy asked, his face brightening almost immediately. “From Greystone?!”
Randall had heard of Greystone since it was supposed to be the largest inland city in these lands and was located at the base of the very mountain chain to which he now journeyed. He shook his head as he closed the door to the cave-house, “No, I’m from Three Rivers.”
Timmy’s face scrunched up slightly, as though he had smelled something unpleasant—which he probably had, possessing the superior sense of smell which passed to those with Ghaevlian blood. Randall remembered the intense, foul smell of the bog and felt a shudder as he tried to push the memory from his mind.
“Mama says Three Rivers is full of sin,” Timmy explained, and his was face no longer bright with excitement at the prospect of hearing about Greystone, “so Papa took us away when the Federation killed the Kheifs. I wasn’t yet born, of course, but Sara was already four Judgments old when they left,” he said proudly.
Randall winced at hearing that the boy had siblings—and a girl at that, who would already be a woman. He had heard terrible stories of villages being sacked and every bit of portable wealth taken by the brigands—including young women.
“This isn’t the first farm, is it?” Randall asked Minnie, who had busied herself with preparing the kettle of stew. “You said the ‘Rule of Three’ had been satisfied, which means this is the third such event to take place within this Wanderer’s Passage.”
Minnie ceased her chopping and looked up at him with a flash of respect in her eyes. “Yes,” she said simply, casting a meaningful look toward him, “but I’m surprised to hear one such as yourself know the old ways.”
Randall gritted his teeth. He realized that the Rule of Three was an old, Ghaevlian tradition which most humans didn’t know. It basically said that a community-wide response was indicated after three similar events of a violent nature occurred within one Wanderer’s time. But as a ‘human’ he should have known nothing about it, so he nodded grudgingly.
“I hear things,” he muttered, “in my travels, that is.”
Minnie held his gaze for several seconds before nodding and casting a pointed look at Timmy, who had busied himself with snapping the long beans which apparently were to be part of their meal. “Ours is a small community, and one which is almost entirely made of those like us,” she waved the knife’s tip between herself and little Timmy. “Til a few months back it was a peaceful place, but now a total of seven farms have been razed.”
Randall felt his ire rise at the thought of persecution against his kind extending even here.
Minnie chuckled, and Randall shot her a look. “What?” he asked in a more demanding tone than he would have liked.
The old woman shook her head and her unkempt, blond-grey hair swished about her shoulders. “The only farms to have been struck are those with a pureblood human man at the head,” she replied. “You seem to believe humans possess some kind of a monopoly on bigotry…a naïve point of view, to be sure.”
“So you think the perpetrators are half-elves?” he pressed. She was right; it had never occurred to him that such might be the case.
“What I think is of no consequence,” she said dismissively as she scooped the chopped vegetables into the kettle, “all that matters is what is—and that is a lesson you would do well to learn in your…travels.”
She took the kettle over to the fire and set it on the hook suspended above the coals before turning back to the table. Randall wasn’t exactly comfortable in her presence, but there was something about her that seemed somehow familiar.
“It’s the Blood,” she explained, again acting as though she could read his thoughts, “it grants those with blood thick as mine certain abilities. For me, the thoughts of another’s mind are as easy to hear as the words of their lips—especially the thoughts of a fellow Mixed.”
“So you received training to control your powers,” Randall mused. No one he had ever known in Three Rivers had received proper training in the ancient arts which had brought their Ghaevlian ancestors the power to build their ancient empire. As a young boy he had often dreamed of receiving such training so he could escape Three Rivers and find a better life.
“Training?” Minnie said incredulously. “Certainly not; my mother died of The Burn when I was no older than Timmy there,” she gestured to the young boy. “The Blood knows what it knows, and it will do as it will do. You might easily enough fool the skin, the mind, or even the heart…but the Blood always knows what it must do.”
Randall was skeptical, but decided to keep such thoughts to himself—for whatever good that would do in Minnie’s presence.
“My grandmother was pure Ghaevlian, so the magic still runs strong in my veins. It calls us together, you see?” she said, gesturing to Timmy, who was using an iron poker to stoke the fire. “We’ve fifty families that work these hills and every one of them is our kind. The Foulchens are the last to have a human man in the household.”
Randall’s eyebrows arched at this latest information. “So…who do you think did this?” he asked as he gestured to Timmy, whose back was still turned to them.
Minnie shrugged. “In my two hundred moons I’ve never known the answer to such a question to vary a great deal: those who do such things bring metal to meat and believe themselves justified in doing so. What difference does it make knowing what spurs them on to such acts? Their names, faces, and banners may change, but their hearts are the same as they have always been and no amount of palaver shall dissuade them. They know only strength, and strength is what we must now show them.”
“Two hundred moons?” Randall asked skeptically. “No half-elven woman can avoid The Burn
for that long.”
A wicked smile spread across the woman’s face, and when she spoke it was as though Randall communed with a serpent, “Take care with your words, child; I am not half anything!” She glared at him with wild, intense eyes, and Randall had to break gazes with her after just a few seconds. When he looked back at her he saw no trace of the previous, savage look she had just worn. “But to answer your poorly-worded question, I will say you are correct; none of our kind can avoid The Burn…but some may survive it, if her blood is strong and her knowledge sufficient.”
Randall wanted to press the issue, but he was increasingly disturbed by the woman—and absolutely clear as to why the locals considered her to be mad. So with that, they sat in mutual silence and only the sounds of Timmy’s tuneless humming and the crackling of the fire to fill their ears. After several minutes, the old woman turned to Randall and gestured to the sword across his back, “It is an…unusual weapon. Might I see it?”
Randall was reluctant, but he eventually decided to do as she requested and placed the sheathed sword on the table. With hesitant fingers, the old woman reached out to touch its bare, metal hilt but her hand recoiled an instant before she did so.
“Please, unsheathe it,” she said excitedly and Randall did so, revealing its dark, glittering blade. The two gems nearest the hilt still appeared translucent and the third, middle gem now appeared nearly as the other two toward the tip—murky, opaque and strangely lifeless.
Randall saw an expression come over the woman’s face as her eyes rolled back in her head, her hand trembling slightly as she passed it a few inches above the blade. “Star metal,” she whispered, “and old…so very old…”
Her hand withdrew and her eyes snapped back down as she looked at the weapon in recognition. “Dan’moraed,” she breathed, and Randall saw a bead of sweat roll down the woman’s face, “I know this weapon…from when I was very young…”
Randall leaned forward, his curiosity piqued. “What can you tell me about it?”
Minnie shook her head. “It is not my place to say,” she said quickly. Her eyes passed to the hilt and a look of sorrow came over her face. “Such loss…such emptiness…it cannot be as it should be until it you make it whole, do you understand?” she demanded as her eyes snapped open and held him in a cold, angry glare. Randall noticed that her voice had taken on a barely-audible crackle, which caused the hairs on his neck stand up.
Randall looked at the damaged hilt, then back to the old woman and he shrugged. “I know nothing of repairing weapons,” he protested meekly.
A look of anger came across the woman’s face and her lips parted in a sneer, but the sneer disappeared almost immediately and her eyes snapped down the sword before her features returned to their usual, wizened visage. “You already know everything needed to repair the damage done to this weapon,” she said evenly, her eyes flicking back and forth between Randall and the sword. “And you will do this, do you understand me?” she demanded, her eyes seeming to flash with more than just anger. “It has chosen you for this task; cleave to your course and see it through without falter!”
There was something familiar about the woman’s words, but Randall was more than a little uncomfortable in Minnie’s presence and wanted nothing more than to leave her abode. He took the sword up and re-sheathed it as quickly as he thought polite, “I think I should be going.”
Minnie snorted derisively. “You’ll need supplies,” she said after a brief pause and she went to a dark corner of the room. Randall had just secured the sword to his back when she returned with a small, loosely wrapped bundle. He took it from her warily and sniffed it, instantly recognizing the sharp, pungent aroma of Redroot. “You’ll likely be needing more and better before you make Spider’s Rock, but this is all I can spare,” she said, taking one last glance at the weapon. “Keep to the north; it is the least populated.”
Randall put the bundle of herbs inside his rucksack and after refastening it he turned to her awkwardly, briefly wondering if Timmy was truly safe in her care.
“The boy will be fine,” she said irritably before lowering her voice, “but for his family, I fear prayer for their departed souls is all we can offer.”
Nodding in appreciation, Randall turned and left the small cave-house.
Chapter XI: Coincidence? I Think Not
Midday, 26-12-5-659
After a day’s travel nearly due north, Randall found himself at a literal crossroads. The paths were muddy dirt and there was no signage which he could find. One road went almost directly north, so he elected to walk parallel to it but at a remove of three hundred paces off to the right.
The ground became considerably more level the further north he had traveled and the vast, windswept fields before him were almost what he would call a ‘rolling meadow.’ Had Randall ever actually seen a ‘rolling meadow,’ he would have something to compare the scene with, but his only exposure had been via paintings and descriptions in books.
He trudged forth until late afternoon, when he saw a sight which sent his heart into his throat: another giant plume of smoke in the distance.
Quickening his pace, he looked up at the sun overhead and saw that less than a quarter of its orange-yellow orb remained. That meant he likely had around three hours of daylight remaining to him, which left plenty of time to reach the source of the smoke.
As he came to the final hill, he got onto his hands and knees and slowly looked up over the top to see a similar scene to where he had found Timmy. There were two separate barns at this farm, and the main house was considerably larger than was the previous one. At first Randall saw nothing but the raging inferno of flames which the main house had become.
But after a few minutes he spotted movement, and he squinted to focus on the source. Even with his Ghaevlian heritage he was unable to discern specific characteristics of the creature, other than to conclude that it was alive and moving carefully through the tall grass.
Randall badly wanted to run down and see if there was anyone in need of aid. But he knew that if whoever set the fire was still present there would be little he could do to defend himself, let alone a vulnerable child.
Still, he decided it was worth the risk. But caution was more than warranted, so he stayed as low as he could while making his way down the gently rolling hillside.
Finally he came close enough to the buildings to feel the heat from the roaring fire which had already consumed the main house. The house had clearly been a fine structure, with a stone chimney and three full floors. Very few residences within the walls of Three Rivers were as large, with most similar-sized structures being places of commerce or industry, so to find such a fine structure here was a bit surprising.
Randall made his way to the barns, which were not yet alight, taking the sword from its sheath as he did so. His heart was beating quickly as he approached the first barn, and he found no movement after peeking inside. A trio of wagons within had been ransacked and whatever their contents had been were now gone. Looking around, Randall hazarded a guess that this was a pig farm from the smell and the long, low troughs which connected the dozen pens inside.
He made his way to the second barn and after steeling his nerves, spun around the corner with the sword held out before himself. Again there was no motion, and this barn was essentially the same as the previous one. He was about to leave when he saw the sole of a boot protruding from one of the pens, and his heart skipped a beat. He slowly made his way to the pen and saw there was a half-elven leg wearing the boot.
When he finally came within full view of the person, he saw that the man’s face was a bloody mess and he appeared to be lifeless but Randall needed to be sure. I came to this place hoping to help someone, after all, he reminded himself as the urge to flee the scene grew stronger by the second.
Kneeling beside the man, Randall placed a hand to his neck and felt that while he was still warm, he did not appear to be breathing. He stood slowly and actually considered what kind of funeral the man
might have wanted before hearing a creaking noise behind him.
“Move and die,” came a male voice which was higher in pitch than a fully-grown man’s, but which carried an authority that Randall immediately understood had been earned the hard way.
Randall raised his hands slowly, and the weight of the sword was nearly too much for him to control one-handed but he did his best to keep from trembling with the strain.
“Why?” the voice demanded. “Why didst thou kill my brother? Where are my sisters?!”
Randall turned slowly and began to calmly explain, “I don’t know what happened here—“
“Liar!” the voice shouted, and Randall winced at the sound. “Drop thy sword, or I’ll put one through thy throat—and then I’ll gut thee like a fish!”
Randall wanted to drop the sword, but for some reason his fingers would not comply with his quite clear instructions to do so. “I’m sorry,” he began, “it’s stuck to my hand.”
He heard a twang and a brief, whistling sound was followed by a thunk from the wood near his head. It actually took Randall a few moments to realize that an arrow had just been fired at him, and he once again tried to drop the sword but was unable to do so. It was like his fingers had been glued to the weapon’s hilt.
“Next one’s in thy eye,” the voice said coldly, and Randall turned to see a medium-large half-elven boy with a well-used short bow in hand, with a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. “Drop thy sword or I’ll make good on my promise.”
Randall still was unable to release the blade from his grasp, so he did the next best thing: he slowly sprawled out on the floor with the weapon held away from his body. “I’m just a traveler,” he explained after he was lying face-down in pig-filth, “I saw the smoke and thought I would investigate. The same happened not far from here to the Foulchens and I brought Timmy to Minnie the Mad—“
Joined at the Hilt: Union (Sphereworld: Joined at the Hilt Book 1) Page 14