The Yarnsworld Collection: A fantasy boxset

by Benedict Patrick

  Alfrond tutted, allowing a shadow of anger to cross his face. “It seems we shall not come to an agreement over this matter. Such a shame that such a simple thing causes our great kingdoms to argue. I call into effect the ancient laws forged between our peoples when they first met. See here, the roots of this oak tree,” and with his right hand Alfrond indicated the closest tree to the body. “This is the last tree before my grasslands. The laws of both of our kingdoms dictate that where the oak’s roots end, so too does your domain. You can well observe that this man’s feet lie at least a pace beyond the border. Thus, I claim this body for the Mice.”

  Lips pursed, Artemis studied the scene. “Very well,” he eventually relented, “I cannot debate this matter further with you.” Alfrond reached down to grab the water skin, but Artemis placed his foot on the precious artifact.

  “Ah, I cannot allow that,” Artemis chided apologetically. “You may observe that this water skin is carefully balanced between two knotted oak roots. That is, as you already clearly stated, well within the limits of my kingdom. Although I do regret that I shall not be able to return this body to his rightful home, I claim this skin and its contents for the Magpies.”

  With that, Artemis took the water skin from the dirt and emptied its contents into his stomach in front of vanquished Alfrond, who could only grit his teeth at the sight of the clear liquid splashing down his enemy’s cheeks. The two of them bowed and went on their way, although only one had the promise of surviving for another day.

  Alfrond did endure, although that is a story that I myself do not know. If you speak to any of the Muridae of this tale, they shall swear until their whiskers fall out that it was Alfrond who ultimately deceived Artemis, forcing him to slink back to the forest unsatisfied.

  But now you know the truth.

  Lonan’s eyes fluttered open. He sat up in bed, now fully convinced his dream visions were true. There is hope, then, if we can just hold out until Adahy succeeds. He glanced upwards at the cellar door, still ajar. He mounted the stairs to find Harlow rocking away by the fire, but Mother Ogma was nowhere to be seen. Peering out of the window, he saw an unusually large gathering of people on the village green.

  Panicking about another attack tonight, as well they should. I wonder what kind of defences they came up with while I slept?

  However, when he opened the door to go to join the crowd, he realised something was wrong. Most of the village was there, gathered to listen to the speaker who was standing elevated in the middle of the green. This was a common way for the villagers to commune together when the occasion demanded it. What was unusual about this particular gathering was that Lonan had never seen the speaker before in his life.

  “...forty-three sheep and nine horses.”

  “We don’t even keep any bloody horses anymore, damn you, how are we supposed to pay that?” one of the Tumulty boys bellowed at the speaker.

  “Now Niall, calm down before you do yourself harm,” came Old Man Tumulty’s gruff voice from below the speaker.

  “I hope I do not need to remind you yet again the penalty that will result for interrupting me in my royal duties?” the stranger shot back at Niall. The speaker was in his late thirties, early forties, and had very little meat on his bones. The man’s hair was smoothed close to his head, jet black except for a dusting of grey around his temples. His skin was an almost-unnatural white, clearly the result of very little contact with the sun. From this distance his eyes seemed to match his hair and skin colour - dark black dots framed by brilliant whites. His garment was a long, hooded purple robe with golden embroidering at the neck, wrists and hem. He spoke with a superior air, expelling his words almost violently towards their targets.

  “Next, the Anvils. You have been sent a number of unfulfilled requests over the years, much to my Lord’s displeasure. I have here a detailed list of his numerous orders, and a demand they be fulfilled.”

  “I’m sorry,” Lonan raised his hand, shoving his way to the front of the crowd. “Sorry, only just got here. Needed a bit of a lie-in, my apologies.”

  Having made his way to the front, he pointed his finger firmly towards the visitor. “Now, just who in Artemis’ name do you think you are?”

  He had not meant to be as confrontational out of the gate, but Lonan knew that deep down, he was irritated by this man. Irritated by the fact that Lonan should currently be basking in the gratitude of the village, of Branwen, for his heroics last night. He was certain that his deeds would still have been the talk of the village if not for the arrival of this stranger, and part of him blamed this unusual man for taking his due away from him.

  Also, Lonan could not help but feel a slow sense of dread building at the coincidence of an outsider arriving so soon after the previous night’s incident.

  As if by clockwork, Jarleth took this moment to step out of the crowd. “Watch your tongue, Anvil. Inteus here is from the Magpie King.” Turning to the newcomer, Quarry continued, “You will have to forgive the man. He’s something of an oddity around here, the closest we have to a village idiot. Also, your information is a bit out of date, I’m afraid. The Anvils have not been smiths in this village for quite a few years now. That would be my role,” Jarleth continued, puffing his chest out in pride. “I’m sure you will agree I can’t be expected to honour somebody else’s debt.” Lonan did not have to see Jarleth’s eyes to realise his Knack was being brought into play. “But I’m certain we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

  Lonan had not really reacted to the ‘village idiot’ jibe. He was too busy reeling from the suggestion that this Inteus had come from the Eyrie. Lonan backed away from the centre, searching for a familiar face while Jarleth began negotiations. Lonan found Mother Ogma at the back of the circle of people, a look of bemusement playing on her face.

  “With all of these friends you’ve been making recently, it’s no wonder poor Mrs Cutter had to wait so long to get her medicine.”

  “You’re going to have to fill me in. Where did this guy come from?”

  Mother Ogma shrugged. “He turned up this afternoon. Just trotted in on a donkey, of all animals, and set up shop in the centre of the green, making all kinds of demands. You can imagine the commotion the sight of him caused.”

  “Demands?”

  “Yes. We are all in very serious arrears, apparently. I myself owe several carts full of ointments and poultices.” The smile on her face grew even bigger.

  “Did he say when he left the Eyrie?” Lonan urged.

  “Well, he’d have to have left this morning, wouldn’t he? Otherwise he’d have been out in the dark, and I don’t know any kind of fool who would spend the night under the stars.” She cast her eyes pointedly at Lonan, who just flat ignored her.

  “He’s lying. The Magpie King is dead, Mother, I’m certain of it. Something is very wrong here.”

  If Mother Ogma was sceptical of Lonan’s claims, she kept this to herself. “Well, he’s certainly playing with us anyway. It must be obvious there is no way anyone here can fulfil the demands he is making. He’s softening everyone up right now - we’ll find out what he really wants soon enough.”

  Lonan watched as the messenger referred to a long scroll again, reading out another family’s name and their dues. “He knows who we are?”

  “He’s from the Magpie King,” was Mother Ogma’s reply. “This is how we used to pay our taxes. They know our families and their trades.”

  Old Tumulty’s voice rang out across the green, interrupting the multitude of hushed conversations that were taking place. “The sun is getting low, Mister Inteus. Might I suggest we get under cover for now, and continue this tomorrow?”

  The tax man sharply nodded his approval.

  “We’ll take the ass in with the rest of our animals. Is there anyone with room for Mister Inteus tonight?”

  Slowly, all eyes turned towards Mother Ogma and Lonan cursed softly under his breath. Mother Ogma had a reputation for taking in strays, currently evidenced by her housin
g of Harlow and Lonan. The only other stranger that Lonan had ever seen in his life, an escaped thief from a neighbouring town, had also housed with her for a number of weeks before it was decided to put him to death to honour the judgement of their neighbours. This had been shortly after Lonan had started to stay with Mother Ogma, and he had bonded with the witty young man, often chatting well past the bells in the darkness of the cellar. His loss had been a blow to the already angry boy, but he had appreciated Mother Ogma’s kindness towards the man in the final days of his life. He only wished the rest of the village would not take advantage of that kindness, especially now when Lonan wished to speak with her in private.

  “I have room,” Mother Ogma relented to the accusing stares, “if you can stand the smell of dried herbs and flowers.”

  Inteus wrinkled his nose, but replied, “Well, it is better than the alternative.” He picked up his small pieces of baggage and marched across to the building that Lonan had emerged from not minutes earlier. Disgruntled at having to return to the cellar after spending most of the day in it, Lonan hurried after Mother Ogma. He entered the cottage to find Inteus staring at Harlow.

  “Had I not demanded that all villagers meet at the central green to share their skills with me? Is this another who seeks to avoid paying fealty to the Magpie King? And what is your trade, old man?”

  “Unless the Magpie King is particularly interested in farts and dribbles, I think you could leave Harlow off of your list,” Lonan said, helping Mother Ogma heft the old man down the stairs.

  “He is an invalid?” Inteus queried.

  “Either that or the best liar I’ve ever met.”

  “Your husband?”

  “Ha,” Mother Ogma grunted, lowering the old man into bed. “Just a poor soul that needs someone to look after him.”

  “You have quite a collection of those already,” the man shot back, eyes firmly fixed on Lonan.

  “Do you need the candle on, or were you planning on sleeping straight away?” his host questioned, ignoring the inference in the previous statement.

  Inteus was aghast at the question. “It must not even be eight o’clock. How could you possibly contemplate going to sleep now?”

  “Life here is very different from what you’re used to, I gather,” Mother Ogma explained. “Our day starts and ends with the sun. It allows us to work and keeps us safe.”

  Inteus shook his head in disgust. “I understand the concept, but to lose so much of your day... Still, if it allows you to make best use of your talents for the kingdom. Healing and… foraging, was it?”

  Lonan grimaced at the suggestion. “I’ve no Knack for it. I just do it to help out.”

  “Oh? Well, where do your talents lie then? Another healer?”

  Lonan looked increasingly uncomfortable. Mother Ogma answered for him, “Lonan hasn’t discovered his Knack yet. He is helping me in return for room and board.”

  Inteus scoffed in response. “Yet? Look at him - well past his twentieth year already, isn’t he? No Knack will come to him now. That is what comes of laziness and lack of application.”

  These were all accusations Lonan had heard before. The development of a young person’s Knack was cause for great celebration in the family, as this strong talent would support the future of that bloodline. Lonan’s failure to develop his father’s Knack for metalworking was seen as a lack of respect for his father, his father’s ghost punishing him from beyond the grave, or Lonan just simply not working hard enough at it.

  “Dreams,” came the unexpected response from Mother Ogma. “I’m beginning to think that dreams are Lonan’s Knack.”

  Lonan gave the old woman a warning look, but it was too late - the snake had bitten. At Mother Ogma’s offhand remark, Inteus’ head had shot up, fixing Lonan with a penetrating stare.

  “Great, thanks,” Lonan replied sarcastically to the old woman, attempting to put Inteus off his scent. “She’s always accusing me of sitting and watching the clouds and day dreaming, instead of hunting out herbs and flowers for her.”

  “Well, how else do you explain my lack of damned primroses then? Poor Mrs Cutter is going to explode before I am able to unblock her innards, and all because you keep chasing squirrels in the sky.” Luckily Mother Ogma had recognised Lonan’s attempts to keep the dreams quiet.

  “I suspect she is correct, young man,” the messenger chided him, turning to his paper and ink quills. “Otherwise, you would have developed a Knack many years ago. Even the lowliest of talents let us provide for the kingdom. Excuse me while I put my own Knack to use.” With that, the tax man turned his back on the others and began scribbling frantic notes on his parchment.

  Lonan signalled his thanks to Mother Ogma by raising his eyebrows, a gesture that she wished away with a wave of her hands.

  A thought came to him. “You know,” he began, shooting a knowing glance at Mother Ogma, “you’ve got it wrong. I wasn’t watching squirrels the other day. I was chasing stories.”

  “Oh, that is much more productive, I do apologise.”

  “I was following the Tumulty boys. They were telling each other tales while they worked the fields. I couldn’t quite catch one of them that sounded particularly interesting. The Pale Lady - have you heard of her?”

  Mother Ogma looked puzzled, throwing a questioning glance at Lonan. He simply shrugged his shoulders to indicate that it was a genuine question.

  “Well,” she began, still a bit unsure, “she does not really have much of a story attached to her, to be honest. She is old, I remember that. Been in the forest before any of us, before even the Magpie King, they say. There is a house, deep in the woods, where nobody else would be able to survive on their own. You shall know it is hers because of the crescent moon that hangs above it. Her power is of the moon. She is a woman, and thus lives in the moon’s cycle. She is of the night, and her deeds are best performed in darkness. She is of changing mood, and just as the moon waxes and ebbs so does her hospitality. She is waiting for you, young Lonan. She stands forever at her window, awaiting her next visitor. Those who seek her out are always seeking aid. They are also desperate. If she chooses to help, then they will certainly succeed in their task, but not before leaving a piece of themselves behind with her. If her mood is not hospitable…” Mother Ogma ended the tale there, watching Lonan expectantly.

  “Well?” he questioned after a few seconds had passed.

  “I do not have the answer to that query, I am afraid, as none who have witnessed her displeasure have returned to tell that tale.” She gave a grin of triumph as she finished on that line. Lonan gave a grin too, appreciating the trap that had been woven into the story.

  “But, that’s it?” he pressed. “No other stories? No other characters met her, like Artemis or the Magpie King?”

  She shook her head. “That is all, I’m afraid. It is an odd one for you to ask for, if I’m being honest. Normally it is a tale for women. For girls, really. The only enquiries I have ever had after her have been from girls in trouble. Not much call for that recently.”

  He nodded, his brow creased. So he knew very little about what Adahy was walking into. What he did know did not suggest a situation Lonan was envious of. He bade the room goodnight and lay down on his bed, willing himself to slip back into sleep. He did not fear the Wolves at the village doors tonight, he knew they had more important prey to seek.

  Gallowglass had been hit hard before Adahy and Maedoc had arrived there. They had spent most of the previous night running downstream, desperate to keep moving and not leave any tracks. Both of them were very aware that they had no chance of surviving any possible attacks, so their only option had been to keep moving. Morning had greeted them not with cockcrows and people rising peacefully from their beds, but with screams and lamenting wails. Three cellars in Gallowglass had been breached last night and the villagers were dealing with the loss in the way that villagers did - fear and anger. They were not at all interested in a young boy who claimed to be a son of the man who was
supposed to stop all of this from happening, and when Adahy felt that this fear and anger was in danger of being directed at the two new faces, he suggested that Maedoc and himself should quickly continue on their journey. They had walked for half an hour more, with the Eyrie to their back at all times, as suggested by the woodcarving map in the shrine, and then they climbed a tree to get some sleep.

  “The Lady is of the night,” Adahy explained. “My father was very clear about that fact. I would not want to wander right past her because we were travelling at the wrong time of day.”

  “All of this seems crazy,” was Maedoc’s reply, “but I’m not going to argue with the suggestion of sleep. Even if I have to do it up a tree, in the middle of the day.”

  When night fell, they continued, and it was not long before a clearing with a single cottage in it broke the monotony of the undergrowth they were stumbling through. The building was simple in its design, but a few key features made it stand out from those they had seen in Gallowglass earlier. Where the village buildings had been constructed of stone and thatch, this cottage was made entirely from wood, with cut planks forming the walls and in place of slates on the roof. This cottage was dominated by the gnarled tree that stood behind it, dead branches twisting like a clenched fist. From where he stood, Adahy could not tell if the tree was simply close to the house, or if the house was actually built into the thick trunk of the tree. The twin windows on the front of the building reached up high, arching at the top like those back at the shrine. The door seemed normal enough, but a simple crescent moon carved from wood hung over it. As expected, there was a pale face standing at one of the windows, waiting.