Gonda was torn. On one side, the shadows filling the valley; on the other, the inviting glow of the tavern lights.
Damn it.
Before I fling myself into fathomless murk, I’m going to go and check the inn. I won’t ask; I’ll be careful. I’ll say I’ve come back for a scarf or something else I’ve left behind. If he’s there, at least I’ll know he’s safe. No one’s going to pick a fight with a two-year-old boy - I’m guessing that’s his age.
Gonda decided if she ever saw the boy again she was going to find out as much as she could. The basics, at least: a name.
Steeling herself for another onslaught, she approached the tavern with her head held high. Something was wrong; it took her a moment to realise what, delaying the pushing open of the door.
It was quiet. Too quiet. Closing time quiet. But had the drinkers all been sent home, she would have heard them, would have seen them. It had only been a few minutes before she had walked out.
She peered into the barroom and the gasp caught in her throat. All around, covering the floor and every surface, the drinkers were slumped, dead. It was as if they had all just fallen asleep where they stood. There was not a mark on them.
At the centre of the room stood the man who had saved her; his sword was raised ready and his eyes darted in all directions. He caught his breath to see her in the doorway.
“Hello,” she said. “Someone’s been busy.”
The warrior spoke in hushed tones. “It wasn’t me. This wasn’t me!” Seeing the disbelief cloud her face, he showed her his blade. “Not a drop on it, see? Not a scratch.”
“What happened?” Gonda picked her way across the bodies to join him.
“Careful!” he cried, his eyes on the dead.
“What happened?” she repeated the question. “They didn’t all just drop dead, did they? Did they?”
“Looks that way,” said the warrior. He jumped around, menacing the nearest corpses with the tip of his blade.
“They can’t hurt you now,” Gonda pointed out.
“They might,” said Lughor. “You don’t know...” It wasn’t the right time to tell her what he had experienced at Tullen Spee: the dead clawing at him, even after he had chopped them to pieces.
“How did –?”
“I don’t know. I was ready to take them all on and I would have, too, but, well, as you can see, something beat me to it.”
“What?” Gonda scoffed. “You were going to kill all of these people?”
“I could have,” said Lughor. “I would have.”
“If you say so,” said Gonda. “Stars, but you’re twitchy. It’s all right; the dead don’t get up and walk around.”
“That’s what you say,” the warrior turned around the spot. The clattering of a dropped tankard made them both jump.
“Behind the bar!” Gonda whispered, pointing at the long, low table. Lughor strode over, sword at the ready. He peered over the counter, wary of anyone or anything that might spring up.
No one or nothing did. Lughor was about to straighten up when half a dozen bottles cascaded from a high shelf and something pounced on his head. Flailing wildly, trying to pull the clinging thing off of him, Lughor collided into furniture and corpses alike. His sword brought down more bottles from the shelves and pictures from the walls.
“Stop! Stop it!” he heard the girl cry.
At the sound of her voice, the thing released its hold on the warrior and jumped to the floor. Lughor was astonished to see it was a little boy, running directly to the girl’s open arms. She picked him up and swung him around, planting kisses on his face and laughing with relief.
The boy threw his arms around her neck and snuggled against her face. His expression didn’t change but Gonda could tell he was as relieved and pleased to see her as she was him.
“I see you two are acquainted,” Lughor observed wryly. He put up his sword.
“I’d introduce you,” said Gonda, “but I don’t know either of your names.”
“I’m Lughor,” the warrior bowed his head. “And what you have in your arms there, little lady, is a malgrim.”
***
“A malgrim,” Lughor said as they walked out of the valley, “takes the form of a human child. That creature in your arms might look like a sweet little boy but it’s not, a boy or sweet. The one thing you must never let a malgrim do is grow up.”
“Why?” said Gonda, still cradling the creature that looked so much like a little boy in her arms. “What do they do?”
“No one knows. At least, no one still alive. You have to kill a malgrim while it’s still small and relatively harmless. You have to kill it with fire.”
Gonda’s mouth and eyes widened in unison. She hugged the boy - how could she see it as something else? - closer to her chest. A horrific realisation: the villagers had deliberately set the cottage on fire to kill him! Superstitious fools! And - and - they were not chasing her for child abduction, they were after the child. It was him they wanted, and they wanted him dead!
The poor, sweet little boy! What had he ever done to them?
As though reading her thoughts, Lughor continued. “Oh, he doesn’t have to do anything. Things just happen around malgrims. Bad things. Tell me, since you began your association with him, have you noticed people dying? In their droves?”
“Well...” Gonda told him about the deaths of their pursuers from the village. Lughor paled.
“Were they carrying farming implements and gardening tools by any chance?”
“Yes...” said Gonda. “Why?”
“And where did this happen?”
“In the woods.”
He appeared to relax. “In the woods, eh?” It couldn’t be the same men.
“Yes,” added Gonda. “There’s a ruined fortress there called-”
“Tullen Spee,” Lughor said grimly.
“You know it?”
“More than I’d like to but not as much as I need.”
The remark puzzled Gonda but she let it go. “Those people. In the tavern. You don’t think...” She nodded at the child, sleeping in her arms.
“Unless it was something in the beer,” said Lughor. “What more proof do you need? That kid’s a malgrim. Best get rid of him and soon.”
Gonda was horrified. She cupped the boy’s head and planted a kiss on it. “I don’t believe it. Not this sweet little-”
“Murderous, cold-eyed, demonic-”
“Stop it!” Gonda placed a hand over the boy’s ear. “He’s not like that! I swear!”
“Then what’s his name?”
“What?”
“What’s his name? Who are his parents?”
“I don’t know - he was alone when I found him.” She decided against telling the warrior about the circumstances of the boy’s rescue; it would only reinforce the warrior’s wild allegations.
“And you don’t know his name?”
“Of course I do! Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Then what is it?”
“What?”
“His name?”
“Oh. It’s - it’s Tiggy.”
“Tiggy?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a stupid name.”
“Is it? Well, whoever heard of a malgrim with a stupid name? Nobody.”
Lughor stopped walking. It was a while before Gonda noticed. She stopped and turned around. “Something wrong?”
Lughor looked at the road and shook his head. “I’m sorry, little lady, but I can’t go any farther, not with - not with Tiggy.”
“Suit yourself,” said Gonda. “Mister Big Hero. Turning your back on a poor little boy. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“It’s dangerous!”
“And you’re cowardly. Tigg
y would never hurt me.”
“Well, bully for you!”
“And I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt my friends either. And do you know why I’m so sure? It’s because he’s JUST A LITTLE BOY!”
Her raised voice caused the boy to stir in her arms. He let out a whimper. Lughor flinched.
“Pathetic,” was Gonda’s assessment. “Listen: I’m grateful to you for intervening on my behalf back then, but if you want to go your own way, that’s completely fine. Tiggy and I will manage.”
The boy - child - thing’s eyes were open and fixed on the warrior’s. Lughor felt it was like being stared at by puddles of ink. He shivered.
He was about to bid them farewell and walk away to resume his original business but there was something compelling about the girl’s determination and fierce protectiveness toward the boy - or whatever the hell he was.
“Well,” Lughor heaved his shoulders and asked himself what the hell he was doing, “If he doesn’t hurt your friends, I’d best keep on your good side, eh?”
“You better believe it,” said the girl, and her smile was full of relief and gratitude.
***
Broad was uneasy. Shade had retired to the ring; he had claimed he was fine but Broad could tell his companion was weakening. The last of the farmer’s daughters hadn’t given him much before she had vanished into the bag. Shade would have to feed or he would fade away - and then what would happen to Broad? Would the ring fall off? Would it explode? Would it kill him?
All he knew was that he and Shade were linked and had been so for longer than he could remember. They were both outcasts, in a way, because of the bond between them - a bond that neither of them would have chosen and that they regretted on a daily basis but one they would be lost without.
And now there was this poke. Shade had just about convinced him, before turning in for the day, that it was the wizard’s sack that had done in the farmer and his family and not him. Are they dead, Broad had asked, unwilling to touch the bag? Shade said he didn’t know. They could have been transported elsewhere or they could still be in there, somehow. Unlike the poke which could apparently accommodate eight people, the whole idea was too much for Broad to take in.
“You’ll have to carry it,” Shade had pointed out. “I can’t take it into the ring with me, can I?”
“Can’t we just leave it? Bury it somewhere?”
Shade had shaken his head. “And leave it to fall into the wrong hands. That thing wiped out a family in a moment. No; it came to us. We have to deal with it.”
Broad’s handsome face had frowned and was frowning still. ‘Came to us’ - what did that mean? They had stumbled upon a dead wizard in the wood and that was it. They should have left the sack where it was. It was wizards’ business and Broad was uneasy, to put it mildly, to have any truck with it at all.
The wizard had died - defending the sack? Or for some other reason?
Oh, stop thinking about it! Focus on finding somewhere to go so that Shade may feed tonight.
And so, although he was aware of the poke hanging against his belt as he walked along the road, away from the farm and toward he knew not where, Broad was happy to have a purpose in his day - and it was the same purpose as always: find food for Shade. If Shade is happy, so am I.
He came to a village athwart a river. It was almost midday but there was no one around, no one in the street, no boats on the water. Broad wondered what day it was. Perhaps it was a holiday. Perhaps they were all enjoying a day out somewhere.
It seemed unlikely but he would rather seize on an outlandish but pleasant explanation than on the sense of foreboding that was gnawing at his gut. Something was wrong. Something terrible had happened here.
As soon as he reached the first building at the end of the thoroughfare that followed the course of the river, all sense of holiday evaporated. The house had an open frontage; it was a shop selling vegetables. The proprietor and a couple of his clients lay dead across the barrels of turnips and carrots.
Turnips! Broad thought of the family - those girls. He had not got to the bottom of what that was all about and perhaps he never would - and they had got to the bottom of the sack.
Bodies were everywhere: in every doorway, face down on the cobblestones, the slaughtered lay rotting in the sunlight, abuzz with flies for whom it was indeed a feast day. An army must have been through here, Broad assumed. An enemy army, it must be. Broad froze: was the army still here? He held his breath as if that would protect him but relaxed when nothing happened. The army was long gone.
Something niggled at the youth’s conscience. I have a duty to tell someone about this. We can’t have enemy armies going around wiping out villages. But who to tell? The local constable - who was probably dead himself, for the army had been very thorough.
Broad walked the length of the street looking in vain for someone who might still be alive. For information, if they were up to it. For feeding Shade if they were not.
He was too late. Everyone was long dead.
How terrible what people do! Broad was crushed by the carnage. Innocent, defenceless people slashed to ribbons, chopped to pieces, for no reason other than they were in somebody’s way.
The sweet-natured youth was sickened to his core. He resolved to go to the highest level in the land - to the Duke himself - to let him know there was evil in his land.
He followed the path that climbed out of the river valley. High on a ridge, he was afforded a vista that showed him the lie of the land ahead. Gleaming in the distance, the ducal palace, like a jewel dropped from the sky. Broad determined to be there by nightfall. And, as for Shade, well, he would have to shift for himself.
***
He walked late into the afternoon, glad to put the charnel house of a village behind him. The landscape was stark and inhospitable. Clouds lowered and a cold wind blew. Broad found some pale berries on a roadside bush. They were bitter but succulent and you got used to the taste after the first couple of handfuls. Broad hoped they wouldn’t upset his stomach and yearned for the flavoursome home cooking of Philomeny and her sisters. Which reminded him he was carrying the wizard’s poke. Perhaps he should tell the Duke about that too.
Something told him he should not. Telling him about the marauding army was one thing. Talking about magical things was another. Broad didn’t want locking up for sorcery - what would become of Shade then?
Onward he trudged. A building loomed ahead with lights in the windows. The youth hurried toward this welcome sight. An inn! Everyone likes to see an inn! Food, a warm fire, and beer! It wouldn’t hurt to stop for an hour.
Broad strode in and tripped over a body in the doorway. Aghast, he took in the sight. He was surrounded by death for the second time in a few hours. The only difference here was the absence of blood and gore. These men all looked asleep - he stooped to check that that wasn’t the case - but no, they weren’t breathing, snoring or anything.
“Hello?” Broad called out. “Service?”
There was no answer; he hadn’t expected one. Is everyone dead, he wondered? Everyone everywhere, and I alone am alive. And alone. Apart from Shade. And if he doesn’t get someone to eat before long, he’ll be gone. And then what will become of me?
Devastated by this lonely vision, Broad sloped out of the inn, a picture of abject misery. Perhaps I should put the poke over my head and let it take me, he considered.
“Sst! Boy!”
Broad didn’t hear it the first time but the insistent whisper persisted.
“Boy! Sst!”
A fat keg of a man was half-crawling, half-rolling from the inn and reaching to the youth with an imploring look.
“Sir! You’re alive! What happened here?”
“I don’t know,” the innkeeper wailed. “There was trouble - a stranger with a sword - but - but - it wasn’t him. I nipped
into the cellar, you see. I keep a mace down there in case of rowdy customers and I thought I’d best fetch it up, like, but when I came back, and I was only gone but a moment, everyone was dead. The man with the sword was gone. Then he came back with the girl - Did I tell you there was a girl? - and there was a boy. I hid behind the counter; I thought I was a goner. But they left. I don’t know what they did - there’s not a mark on any of them. But I can’t help thinking if I hadn’t nipped into the cellar, I’d be lying there along with them.”
Broad gaped, imagining the scene. “This man with a sword. What did he look like?”
The innkeeper made a helpless face. “I don’t know. He was tall. Very tall. Long cloak. Grizzled face. One eye gone.”
Lughor!
It had to be! Broad felt it in his gut. His blood ran cold; was Lughor responsible for the widespread murder in the village? Was he really that dangerous?
“He’s with a girl and a boy, you say?”
The innkeeper tried to nod but he could barely lift his head. “A little boy...” The innkeeper’s eyes rolled white and he collapsed. Broad dropped into a crouch.
“Sir? Sir!” Broad cried. The innkeeper was still breathing - just about. Broad looked at the sky. It was dark but not dark enough. Beyond the clouds, the sun was still abroad. Broad felt sick; what a trial! Keeping the man alive long enough for Shade to come out and finish him off.
The innkeeper was fading fast. Broad picked his way to the bar to find a drink, almost turning his ankle on a couple of dead drunkards. He splashed whisky on the innkeeper’s lips, already pale and blue.
“Come on, come on,” Broad urged. “Stay with me.”
“You... are... kind...” the innkeeper’s voice rasped. Broad turned his face. Kind was not the word for it.
“Don’t speak. Save your energy.” He tipped the whisky bottle to the man’s mouth again. The man spluttered but seemed to rally a little. Broad was encouraged.
“Where...you...from...boy?”
“Don’t talk. Rest!”
“You...talk... Keep me...company.”
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 8