Rhenkin considered him for a moment. He nodded. “Get yourself some iron then, lad.”
***
Erinn sat up in her bed as the bells began to ring out across the village. She shook her head to clear away the cobwebs of sleep and swung her feet out onto the floor. If nothing else worked, stepping barefoot onto the stone floor was always guaranteed to wake her up.
Bells, not the attack horn. It was bells and that meant the fae. She felt the excitement rise in her. She’d long since stopped being scared of the creatures. Her small home adjoined the forge anyway, and there was no building in Widdengate more steeped in iron.
She made her way out into the hallway and padded along to the kitchen. Her ears easily picked out the snores of her father and she smiled to herself. The barrel-chested man had always slept the sleep of the dead. She was unlikely to wake him, no matter what she did. She went to the stove, and bent to stir up the coals and coax some fire out of them before lighting the lamp. A cup of tea would be just the thing while she waited.
The pump creaked as she filled the kettle with just enough water for a cup and set it on to boil. She moved across to the window seat and settled down to watch. The pit was invisible in the darkness. It was almost invisible in the day too. The sheet covering the iron doors had been covered in a thin layer of dirt and fallen leaves.
They said that the fae could see as well in the night as people could in broad daylight. Even if that were the case, though, they’d be unlikely to spot the trap unless they could smell the iron, and that was why she’d insisted they put it so close to the forge.
The kettle bubbled and hissed, and she pulled herself away from the window to make her drink. The village had fallen silent after the bells and she sat at the window, sipping tea that was so hot it almost scalded her, as she fought to stay alert.
Devin would have understood. He wouldn’t have agreed with her, but he would have understood. You can’t set a trap and just expect the prey to walk into it. It has to have a reason. There has to be bait.
She set the cup down and grabbed up the flute as she heard the distant sounds of shouting and running. Throwing the blanket from the window seat around her shoulders, she hurried outside, trying to be quiet for now and keeping close to the wall. The gap between it and the edge of the pit measured less than two feet, but she felt confident she had enough room. It would just take a little jump to get past the corner. As long as she didn’t jump too far and hit the wall on the other side, she’d be fine. Erinn didn’t stop to think. If she thought about it, she’d never do it. With three quick steps, she hopped over the edge of the concealed pit and into the wall.
Her arms flew wide as she tried to hold onto the vertical surface and she forced herself up on her tiptoes to try and push her weight forward. There was a moment of pure terror as she felt herself tipping backwards and then she was set. She worked her way around the pit until she was facing the street and set herself.
The nightgown was scandalous. Her father would have thrown a merry fit if he’d seen how she’d altered it. A slit ran almost to her hip on one side and she’d adjusted the bodice to make the most of her small breasts. She looked like a common harlot. On the whole, she was rather proud of it.
It was less an item of clothing than it was decoration at this point. The night was cool and, despite the warmth of the blanket, she soon found herself shivering. Her teeth chattered, almost blocking out the sound of the hooves as they clattered around the corner.
It didn’t see her at first and she froze, abruptly struck by the insanity of what she was trying to do. This was the only chance she’d get though, so she dropped the blanket and pushed her leg out through the slit in the nightgown, adopting a pose she hoped might be seductive as she lifted the flute to her lips.
The satyr’s head shot round as the first note sounded. Its eyes flared bright as it walked slowly towards her. For a moment, her breath faltered and she nearly dropped the flute. She smiled at the satyr, a wicked smile as flirtatious as she could manage, and put the flute back to her lips.
It was suspicious, that much was obvious, but for all its alien nature it had the same instincts as any boy she’d ever met. The right smile and a wink, and they were all flustered and tripping over themselves trying to impress.
Erinn watched as the satyr sniffed at the air, wrinkling its nose, probably at the smell of iron. It looked around, glared at the entrance to the forge and flicked its tongue out, almost seeming to taste the air itself. A lick of its lips and then it took another step towards her, its eyes eager. Erinn lowered the flute and waited, hoping her terror didn’t show. She could feel the edges of something. It was almost as if the shape of the satyr didn’t fit. It was nebulous at best, but she got the impression of a strong physique and dark eyes.
She barely had the time to wonder at the odd sensation before the satyr took its final step towards her. The ground beneath it gave way and it fell into the thin section of wood holding the doors open, crashing through it and tumbling down into the pit, the sheet tangled around it.
Pulled down by the strong springs, the iron grates slammed shut behind the creature as it hit the bottom of the pit and landed on the base of the cage. Blue fire flared and it screamed, a wild and terrible sound. Erinn felt a surge of triumph but it was short-lived, as the satyr threw itself upwards, crashing into the doors to the cage.
She stood, shocked, as it smashed into the grates again and again, each impact resulting in another flare of blue fire as it leapt upwards or landed again. The fire was growing dimmer, she noticed, but the grates were also shaking violently.
The bolts! With a panic, she realised that the heavy locking bolts on top of the grates weren't yet in place. Without them, the only things holding the doors shut were their own weight and the strength of the springs.
The satyr threw itself upwards again and the left-hand grate actually lifted an inch or two before slamming closed again. She looked on in horror as the creature leapt again and grabbed hold of the right-hand grate, close to the join in the middle. Heedless of the fire that spurted around its fingers, it reached out with its other hand and began to force the left side of the cage doors upwards. Without even stopping to think how dangerous or stupid it might be, Erinn jumped down into the pit.
She landed badly. The metal squares were too small for her feet to pass through easily, but she stumbled and fell hard. Her head slammed against the iron and her vision blurred for a moment. The satyr fell as she landed, jarred off the grate by the impact. It hit the base of the cage, spitting and hissing words she couldn’t understand, although venom and fury were clear in its tone. It threw itself upwards again and, this time, there was no flare of blue fire. It didn't fall either. Instead, it hung from the grate with one hand, reaching the other through one of the squares and grabbing for her.
Erinn screamed and rolled away from its flailing hand. She scrambled onto her hands and knees. Where were the bolts? It was so hard to see in the darkness. Looking down at the grate, all she could really make out were the furious eyes of the monster she’d caged.
She clambered over the grate, searching for the bolts, and shrieked as the satyr smashed into the iron doors again. They didn’t move nearly as much as they had before, as if the strength had been drained out of the creature. The whole grate still shook, however, and she fell onto her chest, her hand slipping into the cage through the gaps between the metal bars.
The creature fell on her in a rage, pouncing like a terrier on a rat as it grasped her hand. Its claw-like nails scratched at her wrist and she screamed, long and hard.
The satyr pulled down on her arm, dragging her down hard against the grate, then reached for the knife it had dropped as it fell into the pit. It was the realisation of what it could do if it reached the knife that spurred her on. She forced her free hand under her for leverage and wrenched herself upwards, gasping against the pain as she dragged her knee across the bars of the cage and drew it into her chest.
Erinn fo
rced herself up and yanked the satyr’s arm through the grate, before leaning to the left and bending the limb the wrong way. It howled in rage and then finally fell, clawing at her chest and thighs as it went.
She didn't have much time to find the bolts. She’d come up with the idea for the trap, but hadn’t had anything to do with the design or construction. Harlen had handled that, with the help of his apprentices. Eventually she located them, but her joy quickly turned to dismay as she crouched to examine them. They were long solid bars, clearly designed to be driven home with a hammer. There was no way she would be able to move them with her hands alone.
The cage rocked again and pain lanced through her leg, as the satyr reached through with its knife and sliced deep into her calf. She didn’t scream. The pain stole her breath and the faint sound that came from her lips was the gasped whimper of a wounded animal. Erinn pulled herself to her feet and managed to limp to the corner of the pit, watching as the cage doors slammed upwards again and again, as the satyr fought against the strength of the springs.
The blood ran freely down her leg, but she ignored it and huddled against the wooden braces that held back the earth surrounding the pit. How long she stood there watching the creature slam into the doors, she couldn’t say. Her plan had seemed so simple, almost foolproof. She'd thought that the hardest part would be getting the thing into the pit in the first place. A tear escaped her and, as if the first one had cut a path, the others followed.
The satyr hung from the bars by one gnarled hand, trying to force the cage doors open with the other. The door was giving slowly, only by an inch, but enough to fill her with dread. The creature stared at her with murder in its eyes and forced the door a little further.
“Erinn?” Her father’s voice cut through the darkness. “Are you out there, girl?”
“I’m here.” Her voice was little more than a whisper, too small to reach the top of the pit. She tried again. “Father!”
The satyr hissed, shielding its eyes from the sudden glare of a lantern at the edge of the pit, and dropped to the bottom of the cage.
“Lord of Midnight, Erinn, what are you doing down there?” His voice, so calm and kindly, broke what little of the dam remained and the river of tears became a flood.
Chapter Seven
Obair stood close to the edge of the pit and watched as the soldiers secured ropes to the top of the cage.
“You’re sure the bolts will hold?” one of them asked Harlen, for what seemed like the fifth time. “I don’t want that thing getting loose.”
Harlen gave the man a flat, unfriendly look that told him just what he thought of that question. The soldier wilted, turned away and barked orders at his men. A team of four horses moved forwards and the ground around the pit began to crumble as the cage was torn free.
Obair examined the satyr with interest as the cage rose. It was sprawled in a corner of the trap, one leg thrust out before it, looking more like a tired old man than the tormentor from legend and fable. Its eyes passed over the crowd with disinterest, ignoring them as they gawked at it.
Some of the soldiers reached to steady the cage as it was lowered down on its hoist and the satyr struck in a blur of movement, lashing out with its knife. A man fell back with a cry of pain, clutching at his hand.
“Back away, lads,” a sergeant called. “It might be in a cage but it’s still a vicious little bastard.” He turned to the injured man. “Get that seen to. Then you can come back and guard this thing.”
Obair moved as close as he dared, studying the thing. It glanced up at him and its eyes seemed to widen in recognition before it looked away.
The crowd parted to let Larson through and he sucked a breath in through his teeth as he got a look at the prisoner.
“Nasty looking thing, isn’t it?” Harlen called as he came to meet him.
Larson nodded, his eyes still locked on the beast. “And you say your daughter trapped this thing alone?”
“She did,” Harlen’s voice was filled with a fierce pride.
“I heard she was injured?”
“A cut to the leg. Nasty, but nothing that won’t heal in time.”
“Well, now that we have this thing, where do we put it? I don’t think we can just leave it,” Larson said.
Obair shook his head and strode over to them. “Sorry to interrupt, Sergeant.”
“Lieutenant,” Larson corrected him.
“Oh my goodness, I’m sorry,” Obair said. “Is there much of a difference?”
Larson waved it off, sharing a look with Harlen. “What did you want?”
“Yes, yes, sorry. I don’t think moving it is such a good idea. Certainly not inside, anyway,” Obair explained.
“Oh?”
Obair nodded. “I’ll admit that this is just a suspicion, but I would keep it out of the moonlight as much as possible and make sure the sunlight hits it.”
“I suppose we can do that,” Larson said, confused. “I need to prepare a report for the captain. I would welcome your input when the time comes.”
“Hmm?” Obair tore his gaze away from the satyr. “Oh, yes. Just come and get me when you’re ready.”
He moved around the cage slowly, ignoring the sounds of the soldiers clearing the streets. Despite all the years he’d spent as guardian of the stones, he’d never had as good a look at one of the creatures as he was getting now.
“What do you want with me, Wyrde weaver,” the creature said. Its voice was little more than a whisper, low and filled with malevolence.
He started at that, jumping back slightly, and glancing around at the almost empty street and the guard standing at post.
“What did you call me?” He pitched his voice low.
“Wyrde weaver? Do you think I can’t smell the stench of it on you? The reek of corruption and abuse?”
“Corruption?” Obair rolled the word around in his mouth, not liking the taste.
The satyr pulled itself to its feet, its hooves making a dull clang against the bars that pressed into the dirt. “You know nothing of it, do you? You wove it and held it in place, but you don’t even know what it was or what you did.”
“What do you mean?” Obair asked. He was losing control of the conversation but, at this moment, he didn’t care. “The Wyrde? It was a barrier keeping your kind out of our world.”
“Your world?” The satyr laughed, the sound dry and scathing. “Even if we let that pass for the moment, the abomination you call the Wyrde was far more than just a barrier, you stupid little manling. Were all the weavers so ignorant?”
Obair shook his head in silence, confusion and doubt battling with the desire to know the truth the creature hinted at.
“You think of the Wyrde as a wall, blocking the entryway into your world.” It curled its lip as Obair gave a barely perceptible nod. “It did more than just block entry. It closed the passage!”
“I don’t understand,” Obair admitted.
“Bah! This language. How do you cope with it?” the satyr spat. “It’s like a song without music. These dead words are like stones in my mouth!” It met his eyes again. “Try to understand, if your feeble mind can. This world and mine, they are joined.” It clenched its fists, clashing them together and then holding them apart. “Anyone with enough of Our Lady's grace and the required knowledge may pass between, from one to the other.”
“Yes, yes, this I understand, but…”
“Cease your jabbering, defiler!” The satyr's tone was as harsh as its words, as it slammed against the sides of the cage.
“The way is not a single step, as if through a gateway. It is along a passage. Your sick Wyrde closed it.” The hate burned in its eyes, hot and accusing.
“I still don’t…”
“It closed both sides, meddler, locking us in the passage. In the Outside.” The satyr turned away, curling into a ball on the far side of the cage.
“You mean you were locked in the middle? Trapped in the space between your world and ours?” Obair's voice t
railed into a whisper, his horror at the notion robbing the strength from his speech.
“For three ages, we were locked in the cold. In the Outside,” the satyr said. It carried on speaking, but its words were drowned out by the blast of horns sounding through the village, as soldiers heard the signal and passed it on, sounding their own horns. The Bjornmen were attacking.
***
Obair rushed to the walls, more because everyone else was doing it than for any other reason. The sun was just a fiery sliver, edging its way above the horizon, and fires still burned in the Bjornman camp. The invaders were moving forward, though not in the orderly ranks he would have expected. Instead, most of their men stood watching as wooden structures were wheeled into place. He looked down over the palisade and noted Rhenkin had similar devices stationed on the ground before the walls. As he watched, one of the devices hurled a loosely wrapped bundle of arrows into the sky. The cloth fell from around the bundle as it flew towards the Bjornmen and the arrows rained down on them.
He grimaced at the distant screams while men shouted orders and the devices all began firing. The Bjornmen split into two groups, either hanging back out of range or clustering around their devices in a tight formation with their shields raised. Obair looked around and, spotted Rhenkin further along the platform and began to work his way past the men lining the walls.
The man seemed to be surrounded by chaos as he barked orders left and right, the ever-present Larson at his side. Obair glanced out at the distant Bjornmen and froze as he caught sight of the flames licking up from the large bonfires that had been lit beside each of the wooden contraptions.
“What are they doing?”
“Loading their catapults with flaming pitch, if I’m any judge,” Rhenkin’s voice came from behind him.
Obair spun to face him. “But that could burn the whole village down!”
Rhenkin gave a bitter laugh. “I think that’s the general idea, yes.” He continued along the walkway, heading for the watchtower built into the corner of the wall as Obair followed him.
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