“Use my own words against me, will he? Fever or no, that is not the act of a friend! Goblins, he says! Bunch of rutting, grey-skinned, gap-toothed, vicious, lying, lecherous, piss-smelling vermin! Live where they may, ha! Hob’s a daft bugger, always have said. Faabar, too!” He turned on his heel, causing Bulge-Eye to come to an unexpected halt. Deglan thrust a finger in the toad’s large face. “And I will tell you something about that damn fomori. Slaughtered countless of them bandy legged rodents, Faabar did! During the Rebellion and decades before besides! He’s killed more goblins than I have ever said a bad word about.”
Bulge-Eye did not argue.
Deglan turned and resumed his trek, angrily swatting at bugs that were not there. He had a mind to go straight home. There was work to be done, other more minor maladies to treat among the villagers. But he kept walking, regardless. The thought of trying to concentrate on proper dosage and the correct moisture content of poultices made the back of his ears itch. He hiked on into the hills, justifying his dalliance in his own mind as an excuse to search out rare herbs to replenish his stock. It was still early afternoon, plenty of time before sunset to deal with the complaints of the good people of Hog’s Wallow.
Deglan came across a patch of turnips and stopped to dig out a few. Not much good for medicinal use, except to alleviate his grumbling gut. He took his meager lunch up a rocky knoll that afforded a good view of the surrounding countryside. Here he sat with his back against a moss covered boulder and eased the tension in his back. Bulge-Eye squatted close by, seemingly uninterested in the view. The wind was stronger at this height and Deglan took a moment to button his vest up under his chin. He brushed the soil from the turnips as best he could, while looking out on the horizon.
“She’s still green, our dear old isle. Give her that. Trees’ve been red for too long now, but the rest of her, she’s still green.” He bit into the largest turnip and crunched, chewing thoughtfully at the verdant fields below. Without looking, he hooked the remainder over his head at Bulge-Eye, who opened his wide mouth to catch the flung vegetable and swallow it whole.
Deglan could see Bwenyth Tor in the distance, maybe a day’s walk from where he sat. The hill was as high and brooding as it ever was, the blackened ruins of stonework still visible on its crest. The green had not yet managed to reclaim the entire Tor, Deglan noted bitterly. Some things will not allow themselves to be forgotten. He squinted hard at the rocky debris which he knew to be the remnants of walls, battlements and towers, wishing he could wipe his thumb across the vista and clear them away for good. There had been so few folk left in those days. Not enough able bodies to bury the dead, much less the broken reminders of war. Kederic and Brogan should meet in the shadows of that place and allow those with longer memories to talk some sense into them. Or beat their soft, mortal heads against the stones.
He should not have gotten angry, Deglan knew, but Faabar knew better then to bait him so. He would make the salve for Faabar’s horns when he got back to his burrow and look in on him tonight as he said he would. Everything would be fine, and neither of them would need to discuss the matter further. They had seen Summer together and fought the coming of Autumn side by side. Some friends need no apologies.
Deglan pushed his hands back against the boulder and shoved himself upright. The day was getting on and there was nothing like a good view to get a person looking inward for longer than was healthy.
“You are just wasting time, you fat sack,” he told Bulge-Eye.
He took one final look off the rise and was turning to climb into the saddle when something caught his eye in the fields below. Movement, at first, was all he saw. He peered harder and shaded his eyes from the glare. It was a good ways off, Deglan estimated. Possibly halfway between his perch and the Tor, but he was certain it was headed in his direction and maybe a little more to the east. It was big, too. Deglan would have had difficulty seeing even Faabar at this distance and the fomori was taller than the largest man in the village by a full head. There was something unsettling about the way it crossed the fields. Its movements were too regular, too steady. Tireless. Wrong.
Coming from the Tor. Towards him…and a bit to the east.
“Buggery and spit!”
Deglan heeled hard into Bulge-Eye’s sides, turning him down the hill. The toad made the descent in half a dozen long hops, switch-backing down the slope. Deglan decided to forgo the road and cut back across the fields, alerting any herdsmen or farmers he found along the way. Word would spread quicker that way.
They came out of the highlands and Deglan could see the regular square partitions of land separated by stacked stone. He could make out small clumps of sheep dotted amongst the flat green and steered his mount towards the nearest herd. The sheep brayed and scattered as he came leaping over the wall. Deglan called out for the herdsmen. He stood in the saddle and cast about, but could see no one and there was no answer to his call. Not a dog, not a whistle. He moved on to the next flock, cursing when he found it unattended also. Maybe, with luck, someone had already seen and raised the cry. Why else would they leave their animals unguarded?
He cut hard across the fields and found the Trough within moments. Keeping the river to his left, he kicked his toad harder, pushing him south. He could still alert the men of the village and have them prepare to flee. With Faabar crippled and Kederic’ warriors off and gone it would be fruitless to stand and fight. They would run. They must. Or they would stand and protect what was dear to the last. Fools. Human fools. Either way, Deglan would give them time.
The town lay before him and Deglan thanked the Earth and Stone for the speed of the great toad. The villagers had already gathered behind the ale house, but they were making no preparations to leave, nor was there a single weapon amongst the men. Why were they just standing there? Deglan knew he was not too late! There was no chance it could have gotten here before him! He reined Bulge-Eye up on the edge of the gathering and jumped from the saddle. The people were simply standing around talking softly to one another, whispering behind hands and steering children away. This was not the hurried panic of a forewarned attack. This was something else. They were tense, still and awkward, standing around what Deglan supposed was the eel pond, but he was too short to see what was so remarkable about that. He pushed his way through the cluster, mutterings of relief passing through the crowd at his presence. He broke through the press and stopped short. Deglan hung his head at what he saw in the pond. Death was not coming to Hog’s Wallow. It had arrived.
THREE
This is taking too long. Rosheen peered up at the darkening sky without removing her chin from her hand. The moon was already visible and it would not be the turn of an hour before they were overtaken by the night.
“Want me to do it?” she asked hopefully.
“No.” Padric did not look up and continued to fret with the feeble pile of twigs and wood shavings. Rosheen blew air noisily between her lips and began drumming her fingers against her face. She had been sitting atop Padric’s pack for some time now and had worked several new braids into her hair. One of them was now woven with a squirrel bone she found on the first day of their travels. She toyed with it idly and tried to fight her boredom. There was nothing to do but watch Padric struggle to get the fire started, his flint in one hand and the absurdly large knife in the other.
Damn thing.
The knife was almost bigger then she was and Padric doted on it more than he ever did that girl-child from the fort. Still, it was not iron and that was something. Rosheen shifted uncomfortably on the pack at the thought of Padric’s axe tucked away inside. It was more tool than weapon, the scourge of firewood, but his mother had wanted to leave it out for Rosheen’s sake, which was a kindness. Rosheen had insisted it be brought along. There were beings in the wilds other than piskies with an aversion to the cursed metal.
A tautly whispered curse issued from Padric as he struck tiny showers of sparks from his flint with the steel knife, desperately trying to ignite the
tinder. The wood is too wet. It had rained lightly but steadily all day as they made their way down the narrow herd paths and game trails that cut through the woodlands. Padric was in high spirits for most of the day despite the weather and he was as fresh four days into their journey as he had been the first night out. Today, Rosheen was forced to ride along on his shoulders after her wings failed to keep up with his aggressive pace. Their journey would take well over a fortnight, but Padric seemed determined to do it in mere days. Of course, his easy mood had fled when they stopped for the night and could find no dry wood.
There was a bark of triumph from Padric as the tinder caught fire and he hunkered down to carefully feed the flame with bits of kindling. Rosheen pushed her eyebrows as far up her skull as they would go and watched without movement or comment. Padric nurtured it with care and then with increasing force as his frustration grew in opposition to the wilting flame. The tiny fire weakened and withdrew from the wood. A pitiful stream of mocking smoke leaked upward from the pile as the hope of light and heat died. Padric stared at it scornfully as it drifted away into the treetops, where dusk lay dying behind the leaves.
“The wood is too wet,” Padric told the ground. Rosheen lowered her eyebrows and grimaced in his direction. Padric sat back on his heels and hunched his shoulders, staring off into the darkening trees. Mustering his pride.
“Ask me nicely,” she said.
Padric looked up at her, his mouth tightening and then looked off into the trees again. He looked at her. Then the trees. Her. The trees. Rosheen waited patiently.
To the trees he said, “Would you kindly aid me in this task…O wise and benevolent child of the wood?”
Rosheen jumped up dramatically on top of the pack. “Weak-minded and foolish mortal! Your feeble entreaties have swayed us and we will now ensure that you do not perish from foe or cold here in the terrible wilds! Such is the generosity of the Fae-folk!”
She hopped down and made her way over to the fire, affecting an alluring sway of the hips. After all, Faery saviors must appear wanton and mysterious. She over exaggerated her sultry swagger as she approached and by the time she reached the woodpile, she and Padric were both laughing at her ridiculous gait. She attempted to recapture her provocative air as she knelt by the failed fire, but when she looked at Padric, his hand clutched tightly over his grinning mouth, she gave up the charade.
“Hush,” she told him and took a deep breath, her eyes closing.
She could still smell the smoke in the air and the charred tinder, but mostly her nostrils took in the damp, cloying smell of wet Earth and moist wood. She pushed the Earth away and focused on the wood. It was dead, lying in the pile, soaked through from the rain, bloated with water that no longer gave it life. She opened her eyes and gazed at the pile, penetrating the twigs and logs until she found their core. Her breath quickened and she pulled at the water, rhythmic, coaxing. She invited it out into the air in misty waves, allowing it to settle on her skin and dampen her naked flesh. It beaded in her tangled hair and hung on her eyelashes, coalescing and sliding in rivulets down her bare back. She shivered hard and her eyes regained focus. She looked up at Padric who sat staring at her, his head shaking slightly from side to side.
“Now hurry up and get it lit,” she told him, still dripping. “I am getting cold.”
Padric was able to ignite the tinder on his first strike of the flint and within minutes he had a crackling fire going, the flames licking merrily at the bone dry wood. He had managed to hook a fish during their brief stop along the River Trough earlier in the day, so they shared some hazelnuts Rosheen harvested from the forest while the catch cooked slowly over the fire.
I wish we had some cider. “You know what would be lovely?” Rosheen said.
“Cider,” Padric returned bluntly.
“No,” Rosheen tossed back, aware of her pouting lip.
“We will be in Hog’s Wallow soon,” Padric said, popping a hazelnut into his mouth. “Fafnir said they have good ale there.”
“Bwlech!” Rosheen mimed a gag. Padric sat back against a large fallen tree limb, chewing absently. Rosheen let the silence go on as long as she was able. “They usually drink mead.”
“Who?” he asked, barely coming out of his trance.
“Dwarves.” She made a face that suggested she found the word more disgusting then the prospect of drinking ale.
Padric shrugged. “Fafnir is well-traveled. This is not the first time he has traded in Airlann, I know. And by what I could gather, he has been all across the Tin Isles. Albain. Sasana. Maybe even beyond to Outborders.”
Rosheen scoffed hard through her nose. Tin Isles. Metal-minded dwarves. She looked at Padric and saw he was casually tossing hazelnut shells into the fire, deep in his own head. Again. Probably thinking of dark, dangerous places, wishing he was traveling through them. Or wondering if he has the courage to do so? Rosheen had feared Padric would turn back and go home during their first night in the wild, but he surprised her with his determination to rejoin the dwarf. His long, inward silences were still prevalent, but they seemed more contemplative and purposeful. He was thinking through to solutions instead of swimming through the murkiness of self-doubt and private fears. He was even asking for her help in good faith, which was a rare and treasured pleasure. She knew he was annoyed when she flew around the bend in the trail and joined him that first night. He wanted to do this alone, as if that gave the endeavor more importance. Still, he did not run her off or make much of a fuss at all. He simply fixed her with his hard eyes for a long moment, then nodded his head toward the trail and pressed on. Maybe he was truly growing wiser, as humans seemed to do so suddenly in their short lives.
“What will you do if you do not find him in Hog’s Wallow?” she asked. In truth, she did not much care, but she wanted something to talk about. The night was too young for silence.
Padric stood and placed more twigs in the fire. He has no answer. “There is a human warlord from Sasana. Kederic Winetongue, they call him. He resides close to the village and has men in need of steel weapons. Fafnir will likely go there next.”
“And if he is not there?”
“Someone will have seen him.”
“And if they have not?”
“Rosheen!” Padric’s voice snapped against the trees.
Too far. She went back to playing with her braids.
Padric awoke to a chill, cloud filled sky. The same bleak morning that always seemed to follow a night spent outdoors. He never really slept at night in the rough. Too many strange sounds and even stranger silences when there were no walls or people around. There was something primitive and alert that awoke in his brain when his body tried to rest in the woods. The nights became something to endure and survive, offering no comfort. Padric always found sleep with the coming dawn, when the primitive side crawled back into the cave of his skull, relinquishing its vigil to the sun. His slumber was fleeting and cruel, tempting him with relief as the sky called him to rise and get moving. Padric felt a shiver in his ribs at the thought of crawling out from under his blanket. He lay for several long minutes, staring up at the cold, new day, watching his breath escape in a vapor. He tried to will the trapped warmth of the blanket into his bones and store it there for the day ahead.
Gritting his teeth, he flung the blanket aside and rolled to his feet. The cold squeezed down on his bladder mercilessly, forcing him to hurry stiff-limbed away from the smoldering fire and relieve himself. A twisting spasm ran up his spine when he released his water and he felt instantly warmer. He stood and scanned the surrounding forest, his piss spattering sharply on the fallen leaves, the trees as grey as the sky in the morning mist. The relief in his bladder spread and he felt his body relaxing, grateful to find himself whole after the long night and looking forward to another day of traveling that would bring him closer to warm food and the illusory solace of shelter.
He ambled back to the campsite and stoked the embers of the fire with a stick. Rosheen was nowhere to be se
en, but that was nothing to be alarmed about. She was rarely around when he woke and he never could reason out where she went at night. Fae-folk had curious ways and mysterious knowledge about the wilds. Padric had never seen a piskie village and was not entirely sure they ever slept indoors. He knew Rosheen’s wood lore was vast, despite her casual attitude towards all things. He was grateful and more than a little relieved she had come along, not that he would admit to it.
When he left Fafnir, the trip home was an adventure. Padric was filled with confidence from his new experiences and the seax at his belt. He saw it as a test of his resolve and his abilities, eager to be home and show Eirwen his competence, prove to his father that he was a capable man. Worthless sentiments in the end, Padric saw that clearly now. The choice of returning to Fafnir was sound, but the prospect of passing the journey alone was not a welcome one. He knew this path now and while it was not wholly familiar to him, it had certainly lost the allure of adventure his childish fancies placed upon it some weeks ago.
He did not know why Rosheen had come with him and did not ask, for fear that she would see him as ungrateful and leave. He knew he was foolish in the ways of women and Rosheen puzzled him far more then Eirwen ever did. When Padric was a child, she was a fascinating and delightful playmate. She showed him the plants and animals that thrived in the lands around his village, often seeing him home well after dark. He grew and matured, while she remained unchanged, yet new things about her became captivating. Her wild hair, all tangled with braids and beads, shells and bones. Her lean, strong body, unclothed save for the intricate patterns of blue tribal markings that adorned her perfect skin. Ever-young and untamed, she became the focus of the lusty stirrings of early manhood. But she was his only friend, more like a sibling and the attraction towards her felt forbidden and shameful. He came to understand that she was immortal, a piskie, and that he did not truly want her, but yearned to find her amongst his own kind in the girls of the village. At last, after long years of loneliness, he found just that. Or so he thought. Now that was well and done, and Padric was on to a fresh life, far away from anything painful or familiar, except Rosheen…
The Exiled Heir (Autumn's Fall Saga) Page 4