by Andy Roberts
Tamulan breathed the mix of ale and cooked meats on the innkeeper’s breath. He thought about his answer before translating it as best he could to Eanbish. ‘That depends entirely on what it is they’re saying.’
Chapter
— 3 —
They departed before the early bird had alighted its twiggy bed and went arrow-straight across the intersecting gravel paths. Brae had been surprised to find Tamulan leaning against the tall signpost, his purse two shillbobs and a glint heavier than it was the previous evening. ‘Spittin’ feathers, so he is,’ Brae said crossing the dirt track to join him.
Tamulan lowered his hood. ‘Your brother’s first mistake was to not ask if I’d played before.’
Brae couldn’t help but stare, the druid’s right eye socket was bisected with a deep and jagged scar that ran almost two inches above and below it. The left had been spared by a wider margin—an injury of equal measure, it ran obliquely along the cheekbone. ‘And his second mistake?’
The druid came close and stood perfectly still for far too long, his lingering presence increasingly uncomfortable to bear. Brae shifted and tried to look away but found what should have been a simple act to be quite impossible. He saw images that came in rapid-fire succession and heard sounds that made no sense to him at all. The druid was deep inside his mind, searching through memories that were not his to explore. Brae fought against it, ordered him to stop, not yet willing to share what only he knew. He stepped away and rubbed his eyes.
Tamulan handed him a grubby handkerchief. ‘Yours,’ he said giving it back. ‘Be careful where you leave such things.’ Brae wasn’t sure exactly what the druid meant but snatched it back anyway.
The sun peeked over the distant hilltop just then and cast a cold, white light on the sleepy hamlet of Brindmere. The village was just visible beyond a deep dip in the road and clung to the foot of the hills in a lopsided manner—no more than a handful of chimneys coughing woodsmoke at such an early hour.
Tamulan stole one more glance at the signpost. Left would take him to Ewloe via a series of tortuous bends and steep climbs through the mountain pass—an escape route should he require it, though one that would not be without its own inherent dangers. To the right lay the forest of Tal-Ghundi—a no-go area for all but the bravest, or most foolhardy. And at his rear was the City of Thresk—a hard day’s ride with rock and dust the journey’s only companions. He needed to be careful: had to interpret the signs correctly. They’d know of his arrival by now, of that he was certain. Tamulan forced all extraneous detail from his mind and repositioned the wide strap of his calfskin shoulder-bag. ‘I’m going to make you late for work,’ he said moving off suddenly.
A mischievous wind ran about shaking the boughs of the roadside trees, their brittle leaves apologising in whispers to the bare and twisted fingers they left behind. The early bird arrived and sat on a rock issuing apologies for being remiss. Tamulan considered its excuses and released it with a gentle nod of his head.
It was Brae who saw them first: two riders slowing to a canter, their black travel-cloaks billowing on the breeze of the hill’s higher ground. The forward-most horseman carried a black standard—the scales of justice embroidered on both sides with thick, silver thread. ‘Lord Gendrick’s men.’ The concern in the teenager’s voice was ill-disguised, the stoop in his step equally apparent.
‘Gendrick?’ Tamulan raised his hood and turned his back to the hill.
‘The Minister for Punishment.’ The leather apron at the teenager’s waist clung tight to his thighs and made it impossible to lengthen his stride on the gravel path. ‘Descended from an old line of dragon-worshippers is what they say.’
‘A dragonoph?’
'Pagan sorcerers more like.’
‘And do the minister’s men watch you often?’ Tamulan asked, the full weight of his question weighing heavier than the individual words that comprised it.
Brae shrugged and kicked at a small stone. ‘Not today it seems.’ He nodded towards the empty skyline and thrust his hands into the large pocket at the front of the apron. The horsemen were gone, hidden by the crest of the nearest hill. Tamulan turned full circle and scanned the land for as far as the eye could see. ‘It’s safe now,’ Brae said stopping to watch him.
But there was a new danger, one far greater than the presence of the hilltop riders, and one to which the smithy’s apprentice was not yet receptive. Tamulan caught a hint of sulphur in the air, more than enough to warn that it had begun. He searched for approaching wind-riders and saw the tell-tale streak of orange in the distance. To the casual observer, the movement might have been mistaken for a wayward autumn leaf, or the reflection of early-morning sunlight. But to the trained eye of an accomplished demon-hunter, the splash of colour represented something far more deadly. Tamulan leaned against a craggy boulder that had long since abandoned its arduous journey to the City of Randor and reached deep inside his shoulder-bag.
Brae frowned and shifted on the loose surface as the druid moved quickly towards him. He saw a length of polished metal catch the light and blinked swiftly as Tamulan’s hand came up good and fast—the quietest of sounds whirring past his left ear, a waft of rotten eggs following in quick pursuit. ‘What was that?’ he asked when able to speak without risk of fear spoiling his voice. Tamulan wasn’t listening. He saw the skyline to the east ripple as though a small pebble had fallen into a millpond. Just a scout, he knew, but that would soon change. ‘What did you throw at me?’ Brae walked the road in ever-widening circles, toeing bits of loose stone in an unsuccessful hunt for the discarded object. When he raised his head, Tamulan had already started off in the direction of the village. ‘Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.’
They were met by a pair of wide, wooden doors and a rusted metal roof that pitched eccentrically towards them. Using a round bow-key kept in the pocket of his leather apron, Brae removed a padlock that was larger than a man’s fist. ‘Pull,’ he said grasping the hinged ring of the nearest door while motioning for Tamulan to do likewise with the other. The doors opened with a loud crack and a tired yawn. ‘Welcome to Watty’s Forge,’ he said lobbing lock and key into a bucket that sat just inside.
The place was a sight to behold, wonderfully cluttered, cosy and familiar. A half-barrel slack-tub used for quenching the heat of the day’s workpieces waited next to a solid anvil that in turn stood upon a knee-high pedestal of weathered oak. Rows of blackened hammers-‘n’-tongs hung with swages, fullers and punches—cold and still for only a few minutes longer. A hefty sack of carbon dust leaned against a corner wall, raised well above the damp, clay floor on a pair of sturdy logs that were eaten away by wet-rot at both ends. The air smelled of metal, ash and an honest day’s living, silence packing its bags and preparing to leave.
Brae set about getting the forge good and hot for Watty’s arrival. ‘Told you, so I did.’ He pointed at the roaring flame with a finger stained black by the coals. ‘It’s nuthin’ like the one at the inn.’ But when he looked up, Tamulan was nowhere to be seen. He lay the bellows to one side and wiped his hands on an oily rag as he poked his head out into the gloomy alleyway. He craned his neck in both directions, shrugged and returned inside.
Though the village was yet to fully wake, a dog was alert to their presence—a fact Tamulan found soundly reassuring. Unwelcome visitors, like it or not, would arrive by introduction only. A few more of the chimneys belched black smoke now, damp firewood drying hastily beneath copper pots.
The environment was claustrophobic, its buildings kissing one-another in a maze of dark and unpaved alleyways. So much land available to them and yet the inhabitants of Brindmere preferred to remain little more than an arm’s length apart. Tamulan couldn’t help but notice that with the exception of Watty’s Forge, all other buildings in the village were circular by design—borne out of a common, yet flawed belief that visiting demons sought secluded corners in which to hide and make mischief. Lime-washed plaster gave way to small windows and low doorways, above which res
ted horseshoes, their cups facing upwards to catch and contain malicious spirits. Roofs were, for the most part, thatched and more than capable of snapping an ill-placed ankle. But the high ground was always the preferred route, and if called upon, such a departure would be far safer than racing along alleyways that might lead him down a dead end. Tamulan heard voices coming from the open doors of the forge and recognised one as belonging to Brae. The other he guessed signalled the arrival of the master-craftsman himself. Watty was now at work.
The man was a giant and unnecessarily hairy. He stood with his back to the doors, hands on hips, issuing instructions nineteen to the dozen. He spun half circle and gave Tamulan a fierce look of warning. ‘Are you after the lead?’ he asked accusingly, his voice deep and booming in the confined space. ‘Find a man skulkin’ about in the shadows at this time of day and he’s usually up to no good. Are you up to no good?’ he asked before crumpling with laughter, the charade brought to an end. ‘Never seen him so angry,’ Watty said setting himself off again. ‘Five games of squares to none.’ He slapped his thigh and fought hard to compose himself.
Brae shook his head, a look of genuine concern on his face. ‘Molly had a right go at him, so she did.’
The smithy calmed then and ran his fingers through a mop of greasy curls. ‘Well, that’s not a good thing for sure.’
‘Checked on him first thing before leavin’ so I did.’
‘Good for you.’ Watty trailed his hand along the workbench, moving tools about absentmindedly as his earlier laughter faded to memory. He lifted a bull-nose hammer and wagged it at the druid as he spoke. ‘Folk at the inn say you’ve come for a reason, that you’re here to hunt the Dragon Lord.’
Tamulan lowered his hood, the glow of the furnace hot on his face. ‘I’m here for many reasons.’
Watty drew a partly flattened rod of red-hot iron from coals that glowed as bright as a summer’s sun, his brow coloured pink, face sopping wet with the exertion of shaping and reshaping the heavy workpiece. He plunged the rod into the depths of his slack-tub and was engulfed instantly by steam that spat and hissed like a nest of agitated vipers. He pumped his foot rhythmically against the cow-bladder bellows, forcing oxygen-rich air into the tuyere as he began another verse of The Tinker Spat in a Spotted Copper Pot. Brae brought more charcoal and fed the hungry furnace as Watty plunged, hammered and pumped.
Sunlight had at last found its way into the alley and climbed through the open window-shutters of the forge like an opportunistic thief. ‘Well you didn’t come here for a lesson in metalwork,’ Watty said hooking his thumbs under the shoulder straps of his leather apron. He swung on his stool, the rearmost of its three legs creaking under the strain of his weight. He gave the druid a knowing look and rested his foot.
Tamulan cleared a space on the cluttered workbench and upended his shoulder-bag. ‘You’ll make me six broadheads,’ he said emptying three iron ingots that landed on the battered surface with the sound of falling rocks.
Watty weighed them by hand before pressing the rounded hammer-head against all three in turn. ‘A heavy presence of lodestone.’ He prised the tool from their pitted surfaces, each time with an approving nod. ‘I can do that,’ he said dusting off his hands with a couple of brisk slaps.
Tamulan tossed the empty bag in Brae’s direction. ‘Take them home with you and show them to no-one.’
‘Where are you goin’?’ the apprentice asked bending to lift the bag from the floor.
‘That’s no concern of yours.’ The druid ignored their disapproving look and headed for the door.
Watty followed behind, stopping in the open doorway when he got there. ‘That might be,’ he said wiping his mouth with a shovel-like hand. ‘But if it’s answers you’re lookin’ for, then you’d best pay the dream-keeper a visit.’
Chapter
— 4 —
They sat opposite: four in total—all physically powerful and menacing in their movements, each sporting baselards as their preferred weapon of choice. The man to the left had already looked his way twice, nervous it seemed of being so close. Their one-eyed leader, on the other hand, displayed the mannerisms of someone possessing far more confidence. Hirelings, Tamulan knew—mortals who ordinarily posed no true threat to him whatsoever.
The front door squealed open and his suspicions were confirmed when the men at the table nodded in agreement. Brae came clutching the shoulder-bag, yawning widely. Tamulan shook his head as the teenager neared, it was barely that but tired or not the boy recognised the signal for what it was and carried on past, settling at a table on the far side of the room.
Molly polished the aged grain of the oaken bar with an obsessiveness that threatened to wear it thin, Griff resting the other side, leaning lazily on an elbow while he ‘read’ from a blank page in a book.
Pew poked at the fire, stopping only to satisfy himself that his iron was suitably hot. And Madoc—he slept with one eye open, Socks already free of her rope leash.
The druid just managed to contain his smile. He’d underestimated the inhabitants of Journey’s End.
Molly gave the woodwork a welcome reprieve, disappearing into the kitchen only to return a few short moments later carrying two steaming bowls. The hirelings frowned and reached for the handles of their weapons, they’d come for the boy, not rabbit stew.
It happened with an exquisite economy of time and fluidity of motion. Molly let the bowls of boiling water drop into the laps of the nearest two, both men lurching forwards, screaming with the pain of scalded groins. Griff advanced and delivered a pair of swift uppercuts; tightly packed lead-shot tearing the open jawbones free of their hinge-points. The men’s heads jerked violently, their squat necks straining as fractured bone was driven through their jelly-like brains. One hireling hit the floor a second earlier than the other, both men already free of their dangerous world.
Pew danced away from the fireplace, reached and set the glowing iron to the exposed neck of the third hireling. The farmhand did it gently, as though he were bestowing a deserved knighthood upon his hapless victim. The man shrieked and grabbed reflexively for the iron, screaming as his fingers closed around it. A splash of crimson streaked from the gaping wound in his neck, the artery sealing quickly as the surrounding flesh congealed beneath the intense heat. Griff lifted the hireling by his earlobes and drove his forehead hard into the centre of the man’s face, holding on just long enough to watch the eyes glaze over before he let go. The hireling fell like a tree going to ground, his head meeting the edge of the slate with a loud and sickening crack.
The one-eyed man drew his baselard and swung it at the preoccupied landlady. Madoc whistled and sent a flash of black and white clear of the table in a single, agile leap, Socks gripping the attacker’s wrist tight in her jaws. The hireling fell to his knees, twisting and pulling as he tried to free himself of the salivating animal. The baselard fell to the floor with a loud clatter and Griff ended another wasteful life with a firm blow to the crown of the head.
‘Pigs’ll see to them in no time.’ Madoc pulled an oily tarpaulin over the battered bodies and slammed the waggon’s clapboard shut. ‘You’d best get the place cleaned up,’ he said sliding two rusted bolts to their locked position.
‘He’s not really gonna feed them to his pigs?’ Brae heaved at the very thought of it.
‘Well, they wouldn’t stay in the ground long if we buried them.’ Griff shook his head and tugged at his beard. ‘Corpses have a nasty habit of disappearin’ around these parts.’
‘Eat it all, so they will,’ Madoc said with a grim smile. ‘Bones, clothes, the whole damn lot.’ Brae raised his hands in submission and turned away as the farmer climbed into his seat and took the reins. The waggon set off, its wheels catching in the deep grooves of the road, the vehicle rocking violently side-to-side as it went.
Brae doubted the farmer would get anywhere near home with all four bodies still on board. ‘What if Gendrick has more men out there?’ he asked as the waggon disappeared int
o the dark of the night.
Pew rested a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. ‘It would take Lodan himself to stop old Madoc.’
In the first instance, there was cleaning to do and lots of it. Brae closed the shutters and locked the front door. ‘What’ll the regulars think?’ he asked when all three bolts were secure in their slots. ‘Journey’s End opens every evenin’, so it does.’
Pew took a firm-bristled brush to the bloodstained flagstones, gripping tightly as it slipped about in his hand like a young river trout. ‘It’ll set tongues waggin’,’ he said largely ignoring the froth of rust coloured soap bubbles.
‘Then we best get on with it.’ Griff sat on a creaking stool, winding a clean wrap of cloth to the shoulder support of his bloodied walking-crutch. He caught his brother’s eye and held it a long while. ‘So what was that about?’
Brae looked away, his face a shade of hot crimson. ‘Thieves is all.’ Griff watched him some more and folded the last wrap of material under itself.
Tamulan leaned on the bar, his back to the others while he examined Watty’s handiwork. He turned each polished broadhead in his hand, checked for imperfections and found none. The smithy was as good as any he’d used in the near-lands and certainly better than most. He returned them to the bag and buckled its flap down tightly. With that done, he followed Molly as she went about straightening tables and righting up-ended chairs. He whispered words that she didn’t understand, her demons kept in their place for another day at least.