“Anyway, I must be away or I'll never make it back in time for your festival,” Trallen said. “There'll be another four or five deliveries in the coming days. If you could make sure they get to where they are supposed to be, I'd be in your debt.”
Devin nodded easily. It wasn't a great task. Trallen shook his hand firmly in thanks and turned to go back into the inn.
The site the priest had picked out was on the other side of the village, but only about five minutes' walk from the inn. A large area had already been staked out and marked with string. Devin led the workmen over to the site, listening openly as they chatted about local gossip.
“I heard Baron Rentrew got sick of Bjornmen raids.” A short, thick-bodied man confided. “He built signal fires.”
“What, to let him know when his villages were burning?” laughed Lorn, the foreman of the crew.
“No, fool. So they could send warning when they saw the boats coming,” the short man said scathingly. “My cousin Jasper worked on 'em. He said they stretch over a hundred miles, going this way an' that.”
“So now he gets to know they've burnt down, just faster than he used to?” Lorn laughed again.
The short worker's face flushed. “Why do you think they've stopped raiding so much then, hey?” he demanded. “The fires worked, is why. Couple of year ago, they got men there from the garrison in Holt and nearly wiped a whole load of the thieving bastards out.”
“I hadn't heard that. You serious?” Lorn said, his laughter gone.
“Almost to a man, Jasper reckons,” the man said, seriously. “He reckons Old Freyton caught word of it and he's so impressed, he's going to build forts.”
“I can't see that, Len,” Lorn replied. “Not enough villages to make it worth his while, is there?”
“Just what I heard, is all,” Len said, sourly.
Devin left them bickering at the site, as they started to unload the stones and supplies, and walked slowly back towards the farmstead, his head reeling. The Bjornmen had always been a thing of myth and legend to him. They'd never penetrated that far in from the coast and Widdengate, being three days from the closest shore, had never been touched by them. They'd always been like a force of nature to him, a storm that struck and devastated farms and families alike. Hearing they'd been forced back gave them a human element he'd never considered before. For the first time, he wondered what sort of people they were. Did they have homes and families? He supposed they must have. What could drive a people to inflict such suffering on others? The thought kept him going all the way back to the farmstead.
Chapter Eight
Samen leaned back in the chair with a satisfied sigh and admired the colour of the glass of red wine, holding it up and watching the glow of the firelight through the blood red liquid. There had been a time when you would have been hard-pressed to find any wine this far east, at least anything worth drinking. The cask of wine had travelled further in the last few months than he had during his whole life, from the vineyards of southern Surama, through Feldane and then into Anlan, before finally being transported east, to his tiny corner of the world. He savoured the aftertaste, before turning back to the small crowd of expectant eyes at his feet.
“A story, then?” he said musing. “Do I even have any stories left that you haven't already heard?”
“You know all the stories in the world, Samen!” cried a young girl.
His eyes crinkled at that and the ghost of a smile played over his lips. “I know one or two, it's true, Daisy.”
He glanced around the inn, noting the farmers pretending not to listen, and Owen and Harlen at the bar with more than half an ear cocked his way. Khorin's foundling, at least, was more honest and sat at a table with his father, listening openly. His dark eyes were fixed upon Samen, his mug of ale sitting untouched before him.
A glance at the windows showed the snowflakes dancing against the glass panes as the wind howled. It was late, but none of the people in the inn seemed inclined to brave the weather to return home to cold cottages. He was in a whimsical mood and, when the children had approached him for a story, he'd barely bothered to put up a fight.
“A winter's night calls for an old tale, wouldn't you say? Winter is the oldest season, after all. The world was born on a winter's night just like this.” The eyes at his feet grew wide and glittered in the firelight, as he leaned in towards them. “A story, then. The story, you might say. I'll tell you the story of the beginning and of the droos.” The inn was silent as Samen took a sip of his wine. The blood red colour of the vintage was not lost on him or his audience, both young and old.
“Well, now, the droos,” Samen began. “This world is old, older than most people imagine. Its countries and empires are children when compared to the history of the droos, though. Their tale stretches back into the farthest misty reaches.” He looked up at his audience. Even Owen and Harlen were no longer bothering to hide the fact they were listening. His mouth twitched with a tight smile, as he watched Father Trallen come in through the doorway, kicking snow from his boots before making his way to the bar.
“The world was spun out of the darkness by the Master of All Skies and the Lady of Deepest Night, or created by the Lord of New Days, depending on which version you want to believe. I doubt any man really knows the truth of how our world came to be, but it matters little. It's enough that you realise it is old and that few men, if any, know the truth of its beginnings. We have always sought the truth, however, and it is this search for the truth, and maybe for meanings which aren't there, that lead us to search in dark places. We raised churches and gods, when perhaps they had best been left alone.” He stopped suddenly, as Trallen stormed to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste. The priest marched over to Samen, white-faced with fury.
“I think that will be quite enough!” he hissed.
“You just get back to your sherry, Father,” Samen said mildly, not bothering to stand.
“I don't think so,” Trallen spat. “I'll not have you filling the children's minds with that sort of nonsense. Or the minds of the good people of this village, either!”
Samen climbed to his feet, leaning heavily on his stick. He squinted up at the priest and poked him hard in the chest with one gnarled finger. “You listen here. You've done a lot in this village since you arrived. Some of it good and some of it bad. You can make people stop the morris, and maybe talk them into getting rid of horseshoes and luck charms, which never did anyone any harm. One thing you can't do, though, is stop a story.”
Trallen gaped open-mouthed at the old man. “It's a load of old nonsense and it…”
“It's older than you or I put together, young man,” Samen said, with a hint of steel in his voice. “It's older than the pages of that book you wave around and call the sole source of true knowledge. I'll tell you this for free, young man. If you think all the knowledge of the world comes from a book scarcely five years old, then you're a bigger fool than I thought you were.”
The inn was silent, and the children and customers watched on in amazement, as the gnarled old man, who barely came up level with the priest's shoulders, dressed him down before young and old alike.
“Now, just you see here!” Trallen tried again.
“No!” Samen cut him off, raising his voice for the first time. “You just close your yap for a minute.” Trallen closed his mouth slowly, as the wizened old man went on. “It's a story. Maybe there's a grain of truth in it, maybe there isn't. Thing is, it brings a bit of joy to these children and I'll not have you taking it from them just because of the scratchings in that book of yours.” He moved closer and his voice dropped to little more than a whisper. “Or maybe I need to be having a chat with our good miller about just what it is you've been teaching his lady wife in those meetings of yours? She makes some very strange noises for a lady studying scripture. I could hear her clear outside the window. I'll wager the miller could work a way to fit more than wheat between the stones of that mill.” He looked down meaningfull
y before giving the priest a pointed look.
Trallen swallowed hard and took a step back. “How did you...? Who else..?” He stopped himself and looked around guiltily, before turning on his heel and marching out of the inn without another word.
***
The clearing was silent. A light covering of snow dusted over the fallen leaves and twigs. It was the last night of the full moon and the ground was bathed in a light almost as bright as day. A hand slowly reached out to touch the monolith at the centre of the clearing. It was gnarled and thick-fingered, the long thick nails more than halfway to being claws. Coarse hair covered the back of it, extending as far as the middle knuckles in wisps and tufts. The hand extended, not from an arm, but from empty air, which rippled gently around the wrist like the waters of a still pond. It hesitated, as if fearing the stone would burn, or feel as sharp as the blade of a knife. It jerked back suddenly but then reached again. It grasped the stone firmly, as a laugh, high and wild, filled the glade.
The few leaves that the wind had not tossed to the edge of the clearing crunched lightly as the feet stepped through the snow and frost. Cloven hooves leaped high and landed lightly, as the laughter carried around the stones. The creature cavorted in and around the circle, with a delight few men ever have the luck to experience. There was a brief trill on a wooden flute as it danced in the moonlight, and then it froze, head on one side like a bird, though no sound disturbed the stillness of the night.
It stood only as high as a tall child and was naked, other than two leather straps which came down from each shoulder and crossed over its chest, before looping around its waist. The dark leather mirrored the colour of the short horns jutting from the thick hair atop its head and the short beard sprouting from its chin. The bottom edge of its belt was lost in the dense wool-like fur that covered the creature's legs and haunches. A fierce grin split its face, bright white teeth catching the moonlight as it stood up straight, as if it had just finished listening. It turned abruptly and shifted into a run, making its way into the trees.
It moved with a hircine grace as it darted through the woods, giggling quietly to itself as it glanced around at the trees, the stars, the moon. It sprang easily over the small stream, weaving its way through the tightly packed beech trees. The woods were silent in the wake of its passage. Animals which had never seen the like huddled down into burrows or lay quiet under bushes, as ancestral memories bubbled to the surface, warning that this, more so than any other creature, was a thing to be feared and avoided. Its eyes burned with a cold amber fire whenever the moonlight caught them and the grin never left its face. At last, it burst free from the trees and stopped, chest moving lightly as its breath misted away in the cold winter night. It gazed down the hillside towards the lights of the village, its own eyes mirroring the warm light shining from the lanterns in the windows.
A small collection of buildings and barns stood close to the edge of the trees. The satyr moved silently through the long grass, towards them. A dim light shone from an upstairs window of the cottage, but it was otherwise dark. It reached behind its back to pull a long horn knife from where it lay tucked under the back of the broad belt, as it moved slowly towards the quiet house.
It stopped at the gate, as if expecting something. Its black tongue flicked out for a second, almost seeming to taste the air, and it giggled madly again, as if overcome with some unexpected delight. Slowly now, it moved closer to the buildings, its head darting this way and that, stopping every few steps to listen to the silence in the darkness.
It glanced up at the large barn. The large doors caught the light of the moon fully, and the old wood appeared silvery. Above the doors was a dark horseshoe shape, formed from flakes of rust and wood that had been covered for a generation and protected from the elements. The satyr grinned at the shape formed by the darker wood and sneered at the few flakes of rust, though it made no move to go closer. Instead, it skirted around the barn, seeking another entrance.
The side door opened easily beneath its gnarled hands and it stepped lightly inside. The darkness within was almost absolute but it moved easily, clearly having no problem picking out a path. The barn was rich with the smell of animals, and they shifted uneasily from a scent that was both new to them but also sparked instinctive warnings. It stared through the gloom into the goat's pen for a moment through the gloom. The goat stared back into the pitch darkness. It could see nothing, but the scent was tantalising its nose and its nostrils quivered.
The satyr laughed and danced in a tiny circle as it gazed at the goat. The animals shifted nervously at the sound and the cows let out a worried lowing. Smiling to itself, the satyr went out the way it had come and continued on through the night.
***
Samen muttered spitefully to himself for a minute as he lowered himself into his chair, wincing as his old joints protested. “Where was I?” he said softly, more to himself than to anyone else.
“The droos,” a red-haired girl breathed in a carrying whisper.
“Yes, yes,” Samen said into his glass, as he drank down the last of the wine. He waved it at the bar, catching the eye of Owen and noting, with satisfaction, that no other conversation stirred the air of the inn.
“So, this quest for knowledge was probably best left alone.” he began again. “The droos began as one such people. A people driven by the quest for understanding, to discover their place in this world and the starry skies above. They had no temples, no churches. They gave no Setday services, unlike our good priest.” He nodded towards the door Trallen had so recently stormed out of. “They spent their time, instead, in the study of all things, and of the secret workings of the world. The unseen flows of power that turn the seasons and lift the tides. Some say they succeeded in finding answers. Some say they discovered dark and terrible things, and this is how they shattered the moon.”
“You've seen how the moon changes its face as it moves across the skies?” He smiled as the children nodded as one. All traces of the sour-faced old man had been wiped away by the telling of the story. “Only for the shortest time each month does the moon hold itself together. Too soon, do its parts fall away and drift, all unseen, into the darkness. This is the legacy of the droos, of a magics gone so terribly awry that they destroyed the face of their own silvery mistress. For, you see, they loved and revered the moon. Some say that was where they drew their power from and, when this disaster happened, then they were left as helpless as a child in the snow on a winter's night. So there they were, this wise and ancient order, suddenly as powerless as the lowliest peasant.”
He stopped for a second to take the full glass of wine from Owen, who had picked his way silently through the crowd. Nodding his thanks, he took a sip and cradled the glass to his chest.
“So, where now were they to draw their power? The order crumbled and splintered. Many simply faded away, living simple lives the same as anyone here. Others, though, they clung to their lost power like drowning man clings to a plank of wood. They travelled the lands and sought out new ways to draw it to themselves. They constructed circles of stone and carved their dark runes into the cold slabs, even as they hunted down those who had a fire in their blood. A fire that shone through to the very roots of their hair,” Samen stopped and looked pointedly at Daisy, smiling a cold smile as realisation dawned, and her hand flew to her red hair as the other covered her mouth in shock.
“Have you never wondered why there are so few people with hair like yours, Daisy?” The girl let loose a terrified sob and she fled to the comfort of her mother at a nearby table. The woman shot a look like daggers at the cackling old man, but Samen had been on the receiving end of far worse than a mother's glare over the years.
“So they hunted for those with the most fiery hair and dragged them screaming across the altar stones of their circles. Children were highly prized and yielded the most power. And, for a time, their power grew and they became a force close to what they had once been.” He trailed off and stared into the fire for a
time, as if reliving painful memories, his old face twisted into a grimace. Despite the silence, no child complained. No conversations struck up in the shadowed corners. The inn waited, almost holding its breath.
“This was a time before the empire had fallen, almost before it had risen. Feldane was just a collection of squabbling duchies and Anlan, our fair land,” he said the last with a sarcastic lilt, “was a tiny fraction of what it is today. The man who would become our first emperor was a vicious-minded wastrel by the name of Caltus. Whatever else you might hear about Caltus is almost certainly wrong. The man was little more than a thug who happened to be in the right place at the right time. However, he managed it. Caltus became a force and took it upon himself to oppose the droos. These were not two nations at war, though. The droos never built fortresses or cities. They lived solitary lives, coming together in the light of their wounded moon to work their magics and feed the runes of their stones. Warring with a group like this was like trying to fight the wind. They were here and then gone, striking a village in the night and then vanishing, leaving little trace of their passing. No, the greatest victory Caltus could claim was in raising the people against the very idea of the droos, driving them even further into the shadows. It was probably this common cause that allowed him to seize power the way he did and build the foundations of the empire.
Caltus became Emperor Caltus the First, also known as Caltus the Bloody-Handed, Caltus the Red-Eyed, and Caltus the Priest-Killer. It's said that Caltus became completely obsessed with the droos and this eventually tipped him over the edge into madness. Some say the droos cursed him with his madness, but I think it's more likely that he was just terrified by them. He saw them in every shadowed corner, every quiet room. His very name Caltus the Red-Eyed comes from the fact that he was too terrified to sleep. This fear drove him to madness. He was convinced that the droos were behind all religion, that they controlled all of them from the shadows, and so he declared war on every one within his reach. For ten years, churches burned from one end of the empire to the other. Priests were hunted down with as much glee as the droos had been themselves.
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