Inside his head, a pressure was growing as the Wyrde continued to fail. He'd felt it weaken over the years, though he had no idea why. The pressure increased at every full moon and he could almost feel them pushing, pressing, fighting to get free. It only lasted from the full moon until the new and then it ebbed, until the moon grew full and it began again.
The piteous bleating of the goat stirred him to action, and he opened the door to the barn and made his way inside. Tossing hay into the goat's pen, he looked into the animal's black eyes. “You saw it, didn't you, girl?” he said softly. “You saw our little visitor, hmm?” The goat didn't answer. She was far too busy with the hay and, in truth, she seldom had much to say anyway.
He went about his business in the barn mechanically, feeding the animals and giving them fresh water from the barrel in the corner. It wasn't until he turned to leave that he noticed the knife embedded in the door.
He moved towards it, holding his breath despite himself. It was made from horn, but then it would be. Beautifully carved, with a long curved blade and a hilt fashioned into the shape of intertwined roses, it had been rammed in with terrific force, sticking a full two inches into the thick wood of the door. He touched it briefly with his fingertips and felt the cold suck the heat from his hand. For just the faintest second, he could smell the rich red wine and hear the wild flutes. He tore his hand away, biting down hard onto his lip.
He paced back and forth, ignoring the occasional stares from the animals. “We'd tell someone, wouldn't we?” he asked the goat. “But who is there left to tell?”
Finally, he pushed his way out of the barn and made his way back to the cottage, where he rummaged through cupboards until he found parchment and ink. The ink was solid, of course. It hadn't been touched in a decade. The man swore and poked at the crumbling remnants with the end of a quill for a moment. He sighed and fetched a small bowl and knife, setting them on the table. He made a quick cut in one forearm, hissing at the pain, and held the small wound over the bowl as the blood began to drip. Then, dipping the pen in the fresh blood, he began to write in a tiny, cramped hand.
An hour later, he stood out in the glade once more. His arm freshly bandaged and hanging loosely by his side, as he watched the speck that was all that was visible of the bird fly out over the trees. He sighed a forlorn sigh and made his way over to retrieve the iron staff. Then, with a meticulous care he hadn't shown in years, he began to trace the path around the stones that formed the core of the ritual.
***
Winter passed uneventfully and gave way to an early spring. The ground began to thaw weeks before anyone really expected it. The river rose and lapped teasingly at its banks, but the light snows meant the spring thaw was not enough for it to burst them.
Devin hacked again at the ground with the pick and swore. The ground was still half-frozen and he was having a hard time making much of a dent in it. Hannah had insisted that it be done, however, and so he stood in the vegetable garden, vainly trying to turn the earth. He wasn't, it must be said, trying especially hard. The ground also wasn't, if he was honest, really all that frozen. He wanted to make the point though and he'd felt her eyes on him several times from the windows of the cottage.
It wasn't that he was deliberately deceitful. He just firmly believed that effort ought to be recognised, and if that meant slightly exaggerating the levels of effort required for a task, then that is what he would do. He'd never dream of trying it with Khorin, however. The grizzled farmer would laugh in his face and tell him to stop being so wet. Devin had learned the hard way that, given the choice, a day spent working at Hannah's chores was infinitely preferable to a day spent working with Khorin. Unless it was in the woods, of course. Some things never changed and he would still find any excuse to be under the trees.
He cast the pick aside and took up the spade, stabbing down hard and ramming the blade home with his booted foot, before turning the earth over. The wind was picking up and he decided it was time to start putting some effort in. He stabbed it down into the earth again and then turned, as the voice came over the fieldstone wall.
“What did that patch ever do to you?” Kainen asked. Winter had been good to him and he'd finally started to fill out. His gangly appearance had been muted slightly by the addition of five or six pounds.
“It's not the dirt I'm worried about,” Devin said, with a nod towards the kitchen window.
Kainen nodded in understanding. “Do you think you can sneak away for a time?”
“Sneak?” Devin laughed. “From Hannah? Are you serious?”
“Good point. There's not much chance of it, is there?” Kainen leaned heavily against the wall and looked over the vegetable plot. “It looks like you've a fair amount of work here to do. I hope the soldiers haven't moved on by the time you've finished.”
“Soldiers? What are you talking about?”
“Oh, didn't I mention it?” Kainen said, with feigned innocence. “There's a great troop of soldiers making their way along the road.”
“What would they want to come here for?” Devin looked across the fields towards the village, as if he could see through the slight hill that blocked his view.
“Who knows? But they've got men on horseback, as well as walking troops.”
“You mean infantry and cavalry,” Devin corrected him.
“Whatever.” Kainen dismissed him with a waved hand. “Mounted troops, infantry, and huge carts of tools and stone. Wherever they're going, they're building something big there. In the meantime, though, they're coming here.” He looked meaningfully at the vegetable plot and grinned evilly. “Shame you're tied up here.”
“Bastard,” Devin muttered.
“Well, I can't stand around here talking to you all day.” Kainen gave him a calculating look. “I wanted someone to talk to, but then I'm sure Erinn will be there, alone, looking at all the soldiers. Did I mention she'd be alone?”
Devin cursed and dropped the spade. “A real friend would have just helped me dig the garden out, you know?”
“You're right. You know, you really ought to see if you can find one of those,” Kainen called back over his shoulder, as he walked away. Devin swore again and hopped over the wall.
The soldiers were visible from the top of the small rise near Devin's cottage. Though Widdengate proper was a good twenty minutes away, the line of men and carts was easily visible. Kainen and Devin walked towards the village, speculating about where the troops were heading, and then watched as they established a large camp just outside of the village itself.
Erinn wasn't easy to miss. Her red hair stood out like a beacon against the dark green grass of the freshly born spring. The tall man behind her, with his arms wrapped possessively around her, was also hard to miss but for different reasons.
Devin stopped in his tracks and looked at Kainen. “That's never Artor with her?” His words were both an incredulous question and a disbelieving statement.
“Apparently,” muttered Kainen, busy looking at the soldiers. Devin shook his head silently and began walking again into the village.
“You're not truly still sweet on her?” Kainen gave his friend a calculating look.
“No!” Devin's face coloured as he glowered. “Just don't see what she sees in the dumb lummox.”
“No, I know what you mean. He's not my type either,” Kainen said, shooting a grin at the boy beside him, but the smile dropped from his face when Devin ignored it. “Look, Devin, she made herself clear at Midwinter, didn't she?”
“How's that, then?” Devin replied sourly.
“She's made her choice, is all,” Kainen said with a shrug.
“He's not good enough for her.” Devin said, with a rough edge to his voice.
“Probably not,” Kainen admitted, with an honesty that he wouldn't have shown had there been anyone else there to listen. “I expect he'll fall foul of Harlen soon enough, anyway.”
Devin grinned as he imagined what the barrel-chested smith would do to the arrogant
miller's son if he caught him hurting his only daughter.
The soldiers were dressed in the dark blue and green of Duke Freyton. Devin gawked as they marched past in an orderly fashion. Rank after rank of men clad in hard boiled leather, and shining plate on their arms, legs and chests. A sword or spear, shield and gleaming helm finished off each uniform and Devin couldn't help but be impressed. He watched for a while, as they moved in groups of fifty or so and were directed to a clear area to make camp. He and Kainen ambled closer, looking on as the arriving men quickly stacked their weapons and worked together to erect white tents. Another group of men was busy digging latrines and the boys faltered as they were met with flat, unfriendly stares from the men.
“Hoy, you boys!” a tall man, with a slightly different uniform, called. “Be off with you!”
Turning quickly, the two made their way back to the road where they could gawk in peace.
“None too friendly, are they?” a deep voice rumbled from behind them, and they turned to find Harlen approaching the village green. “I expect they're just busy and don't want curious lads underfoot is all it is, though.”
“Why are they here? Who are they?” Devin asked, glancing back to the road, as a company of cavalry arrived in a flurry of hooves.
“Freyton's men,” Harlen grunted, folding his thick arms over his burn-scarred leather apron. “They're just passing through. I expect Samen would know more. He usually does. Would you two like a closer look, then?” He chuckled at their open mouths. “I ought to go and see if they need any work doing while they're here. You two can tag along, so long as you behave yourselves.” He held their gaze until they both nodded.
They followed in the red-bearded smith's wake, as he made his way through the growing encampment. Harlen led them to the long line of wagons being secured at the edge of the camp, in search of the quartermaster. The man wore a slightly more embellished uniform, with green flashes on his cloak and upper sleeves, to show his higher rank. He stood directing the wagons with one hand, whilst speaking from the corner of his mouth to two sergeants. He broke off as the trio approached and looked at Harlen appraisingly. “You'd be the village smith then,” he said, in greeting. “I'll probably have an order or two for you before the day's through, I expect.”
“Fair enough,” Harlen replied, reasonably. “Just don't leave it to the last minute. I don't like putting other things off, and I don't do rush jobs.”
“A man that does things properly. That's a rare thing, these days,” the quartermaster said, with approval. “Do you have a mayor or village council? The commander's going to want to talk to them later.”
“Not as such,” Harlen replied. “There's a council of sorts, which is the miller, the innkeeper, me, and one or two others. We make any decisions which need to be made. Why?”
“Orders from Freyton.” He pulled the helm from his head and scrubbed a hand through his black hair. Despite his young face, his hair was shot through with grey. “Do you think you could gather your council together for noon-hour?”
“I expect that could be arranged, if it's important enough,” Harlen grunted.
“Good man.” He held out his hand and Harlen engulfed it in his burn-scarred paw. “The name's Danner,” he said, as he gave a firm shake.
“Well met, Danner,” Harlen replied, a rare smile cracking his red-bearded face. “Harlen,” he added.
“Where shall we find you?”
“I reckon the inn's as good a place as any.” Harlen nodded towards the large building. Danner's smile looked odd on his hard-bitten face, as if it wasn't quite at home there. “That's an excuse I can work with. Noon-hour, then.”
“We'll be there. The innkeeper has a back room we can use.” Harlen nodded once and led the boys out of the camp. “Kainen, you go and let your father know we'll be needing his room,” he said, as they stopped by the inn. “Devin, you go down to the mill and let Cedril know what's going on too, would you?” With that the big man was gone without waiting for their replies.
Kainen watched the man walk away and turned to Devin. “Sounds like something major is happening.”
“I'd give a lot to be in this meeting,” Devin agreed, his eyes bright.
“That could be arranged, you know?” The innkeeper's son had a sly glint in his eye as a slow smile grew on his face.
“How?”
“Well, you run down to that mill and see Cedril. Assuming Artor doesn't find another excuse to pound on you, I'll let you know how when you get back.”
“Artor!” Devin's face showed his dismay at the prospect.
“Haven't you two made nice yet?” Kainen spat in disgust. “It's been two months now.”
“I haven't really been around him,” Devin said, trying to hide his embarrassment at being caught in childish behaviour.
“Of course you haven't.” Kainen didn't bother to soften his scathing tone. “It's too easy to sit and hate him from a distance, isn't it? What if he and Erinn end up together? What if they get married? Are you going to hate him then? She's one of your oldest friends, Devin.”
Devin kicked at the ground and tried hard to avoid the gangly man's eyes. “You're right. I know you're right. It's just...”
“Just what?”
“I don't know. It's just...does he have to be such a massive prick?” Devin asked plaintively. Kainen stared at him for a full five seconds before bursting into laughter. “I would recommend you don't mention that if you run into him.”
“I'll bear that in mind,” Devin said, dryly.
The mill was on the far side of the village due to the river. Wide and slow-moving, the waterway provided a strong, steady current, but it had burst its banks during more than one spring thaw. Whilst the mill itself was unlikely to be affected by this, the village was set back a ways from it for this very reason.
The great creaking mill wheel had always been a source of fascination and Devin reflected back on the numerous afternoons the three of them had sat watching it turn ponderously as the current drove it. It took him twenty minutes to walk there, his speed not especially helped by his lack of enthusiasm.
Millers don't tend to be a popular people and Cedril fulfilled every stereotype. Devin found the fat man shaking out sacks beside the set of wooden stairs that led up into the structure. He was drenched in sweat, despite the chill in the air. There was a broad, moist line down the back of the thin shirt he wore and large damp patches under his arms. The cloth was sticking to his skin and the fat pink flesh was clearly visible through the wet fabric. He jumped slightly as Devin approached, and scowled at being surprised.
“You're Khorin's foundling, aren't you? What do you want here, boy?” He scraped his thinning, mousy hair back from his forehead with one hand.
“Harlen sent me, sir,” Devin replied, as politely as he could, whilst trying not to openly grit his teeth.
“And?” The man had a whining, nasal tone to his voice that grated on Devin's nerves. Even if it weren't for his half insults and rude manner, Devin would have found it hard to like the man, based on his voice alone.
“There is a division of soldiers in the village. The commander wants to meet with the council at noon-hour at the inn,” Devin explained, wishing he wasn't quite so close to the sweaty man. “Harlen sent me to fetch you.”
“To fetch me?” Cedril's eyebrows rose. “What am I? A sheep wandered out from pasture? Fetch me indeed!”
“I apologize, sir. It was a poor choice of words on my part,” Devin backtracked. “I meant to say he sent me to let you know.”
“Hmmm,” the fat man frowned, trying to find something wrong with that. “I see. Well, you scurry back and let them know I'll be there.” He stomped his way up the wooden stairs, wheezing with each step.
Devin watched him go. The fat little man had annoyed him so much, he'd almost forgotten Kainen's plan to get them into the council meeting, although he had no idea how he would manage it.
“Devin?” a voice came from the long grass behind him, and h
e turned to see Artor walking towards him from the path to the village. He felt himself flush. Despite the fact that the fight they'd had at Midwinter had not been started by him, he still felt guilty for some reason. “What?” he managed, as evenly as he could.
“Did I hear you say something about a council meeting?”
“You might've done,” he grunted. Where his father was short and fat, Artor was dark and tall with a strong physique. Devin had speculated on his parentage more than once.
“Where are they holding it?” Artor asked, excitement shining in his dark eyes. His enthusiasm was contagious, and Devin forgot his awkwardness and surly attitude as he answered.
“At the inn,” he offered.
“I'd give a lot to be in that.” Artor grunted. “He's not likely to tell me anything.” He nodded towards the mill with a grimace. Devin smiled despite himself.
“I'm sure you'll find out soon enough,” he replied, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.
“What do you know?” Artor asked, suspiciously.
“Nothing,” Devin's face was a picture of innocence.
“Look, Devin, I know I was a bit of a swine to you at Midwinter,” Artor began. “I know we've never been friends really, but...” He walked down the steps to stand in front of Devin. “Erinn really likes you and maybe it's time we just moved past all this, hey?”
Devin looked up at the larger man and bit back a dozen responses. His hands fought to curl into fists. The miller's son was everything he despised. “Don't think I can help you there,” he said meeting Artor's eyes, and walked away towards the inn.
Kainen met him behind the main building of the inn and ushered him over to a quiet corner filled with barrels where the inn met the outbuildings. “They've all gone in already,” he advised, in hushed tones.
“So, what's this big secret then? How are we going to get in?” Devin said, in a hoarse whisper.
“We're not getting in,” Kainen explained. “We're getting under.” He grabbed one of the barrels and rolled it on its rim to move it to one side, motioning to Devin to do likewise. In a few short minutes, a low wooden hatch was revealed.
The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set Page 23