The Longsword Chronicles: Book 06 - Elayeen

by GJ Kelly

  Within, it was warm, and the wondrous, mouth-watering smell of home baking filled the air. Tilda, an energetic woman in her mid-thirties, beamed happily, and drew seats out from under the kitchen table, hurrying to add to the bread, cheese, milk, pies and preserves already on the rough-hewn board.

  “Sit yourselves down now, and make yourselves at home, the breakfast wine’s warming, though there’s warm ale in the barrel if you’d prefer?”

  “No, thank you, though warm wine on a cold day will be most welcome.”

  Pahdreg settled into a chair at the head of the table, and folded his hands on its well-worn top. “Trigo may be a while, he’s out with his goats, and he’s not as young as he once was. A good hunter though, and long enough at it to be a good tracker. Far better than I, which is why I took him four years ago when the newsrider’s horse limped in, and again when Harald’s boy, Gillane, went missing at New Year.”

  “Tilly provided a brief account,” Valin declared, “But I suspect there is more to be learned from yourself and the huntsman?”

  Pahdreg nodded. “He and me’ll give you the details of what we found. And Trigo being more than twice my years knows more of the history of the place too. He knows things we tend not to learn much about these days, younger folk being far too busy to set and listen to the old ones.”

  Elayeen smiled, though sadly. “Much is forgotten in all lands, it seems, and much of that should not have been.”

  “Still, if you don’t mind waiting on Trigo, in the meantime, please, there’s food aplenty and more where that came from.”

  Tilda poured the spiced wine, and after the chill of the morning and so far from Merrin’s table in Tarn, it was indeed welcome, and had a rich, earthy tang that Threlland’s beverages did not. Elayeen liked it immediately, and said so.

  “It’s been made by Harald’s family for ages,” Tilda explained, “All of them are good winemakers, and the barrels are well-seasoned now.”

  “Everyone here has more than one occupation,” Pahdreg smiled. “Tilda here is Fourfield’s healer as well as mother and farmer’s wife, not to mention pie-maker for most of the village.”

  “Tilly says your chicken and mushroom pies are famous,” Meeya asked, eyeing the four large and golden-crusted pies cooling on the table.

  “You must judge for yourself, friend Ranger,” Tilda beamed, moving the pies so that one was directly in front of Meeya, before cutting into it with a knife.

  The aroma that seemed to explode from the steaming pie when the crust was cut instantly set mouths watering so much that Elayeen thought her face would crack, and the next fifteen minutes were spent mostly in silence while the chicken and mushroom pie met a swift end. It was while the plates were being cleared and the meal washed down with fresh wine that a knock on the door announced the arrival of Trigo, and Pahdreg showed the wizened old man into the kitchen.

  Trigo was short and lean, and though he wore grubby clothes that seemed a size too large for his frame, his eyes shone and possessed the kind of depth and serenity that seemed to be shared by those who spent much if not all of their time alone in nature’s realm. He stepped into the kitchen, clutching a faded, floppy-brimmed hat, nodded a greeting to Tilda, and then bobbed his head at the three elves.

  “Marnin’ to ye,” he drawled quietly, as though to speak any louder might startle them.

  “Good morning, and well met,” Elayeen greeted the elderly man respectfully, “And honour to you, Trigo of Fourfields.”

  “Come, set your bones at table, old friend, and here’s hot wine. Our friends the Rangers would know about Croptop, and what we found there, and what we didn’t.”

  “Aye, so young Luka done told me,” Trigo hooked his hat on the corner of the chair’s back and settled down, moving gracefully for man of his obvious years.

  He sipped his wine and studied the three elves over the rim of his beaker while Pahdreg began to relate the events from four years previously.

  “It was in the early hours of the morning when the newsrider’s horse came in, a gash in its hindquarters, bleeding, though not badly. The beast survived its ordeal and when recovered, was returned to Fourbanks. When it arrived here that day, in the small hours, it bore no saddle, just the bridle. Night watchman at the time, young lad working the fields that season, raised the alarm when he saw the blood, and recognised the guild-mark on the animal’s flank.”

  “Guild-mark?” Meeya frowned.

  “Aye, a brand to show the horse belonged to the newsriders.” Pahdreg exchanged a surprised glance with Trigo, and seeing the confusion still on the elves’ faces, continued: “Villages and smaller places like Fourfields are scattered far and wide. Bigger towns and places along the river learn what goes on in the world from the bargemen and river folk who carry the word clear across the land from Juria and Threlland all the way to the sea. But out here, we depend on the newsriders. They’re important to all our lives, and the mark of their guild affords them respect and protection accordingly. It’s why we took the horse back to Fourbanks after it was healed, instead of keeping it for our own use.”

  “Thank you,” Meeya acknowledged.

  “Please forgive our lack of understanding of Mornland’s ways,” Elayeen explained, “We are strangers to life here in the east, there is much we do not know.”

  “Aye, well, you probably know a lot more about us than we do about you, friend Ranger. We don’t even know what to call you, and are hoping we haven’t caused offence already with our ignorance?”

  Again, Elayeen smiled her reassurance. “Friend Ranger is honour enough, for we are certainly both.”

  Pahdreg smiled gratefully, and nodded, and continued his tale.

  “When the alarm was raised and the horse examined it became clear that something untoward had befallen the rider, at best he was on foot in the wilderness, at worst, well... It was Trigo here who examined the wound in the horse’s flank.”

  “Aye,” the old man announced softly, gazing into his wine. Then his eyes lifted, and fixed upon Elayeen’s. “And it weren’t made by steel. It were more gouge than cut, shallow at the ends, deeper in the middle. Like the swipe of a single claw. Or a talon, mebbe. High up on the right ‘indquarter. Weren’t a mark on the beast elsewhere, jess sweat from the run it’d made.”

  “How tall did the horse stand?”

  “Thirteen, fourteen ‘ands?”

  Pahdreg nodded his agreement. “When Trigo told me the horse had been slashed by a claw or talon, and the wound being that high up on the beast, I became alarmed. There’s nothing hereabouts can do that, afoot or on the wing.”

  “Nope,” Trigo asserted. “Not o’ nature’s making anyhow, not with jess one claw. Only thing o’ nature’s creation could do it might be a bear down from the slopes o’ Threlland, but I ain’t never heard of a bear with jess one nail on its paw.”

  “And we’ve never seen a bear in this region at all. There’s plenty of food for them in the highlands. The horse was in a lather, whatever it was attacked it, scared it half to death. We didn’t have to wait too long for sunrise, then Trigo and me back-tracked the horse’s path through the woodlands.”

  “Weren’t ‘ard,” Trigo shrugged. “What with the bleeding and all. What was ‘ard was seeing where it come from that marnin’.”

  “Aye. The trail led straight to the hill we call Croptop, which Tilly told you about.”

  “Weren’t always called Croptop, didn’t have no name when I were a boy. But folk in Fourbanks’ve always known somethin’s up there. See, even when Fourfields sprang up, folk would avoid going that way fer getting here. Riders and such always go the easterly way, ‘round the bottom of the woods, not followin’ the stream through ‘em like you did this marnin’.”

  “It’s true. When the horse had recovered and we took it back to Fourbanks, we learned that the newsrider was a new lad who’d joined the guild in Princetown Harbour and been posted by them up this way after his training. It was his first duty post. He didn’t know about the
old taboos.”

  “Aye. Poor bugger.”

  “Then the taboo regarding the hill is one of long standing?”

  Pahdreg nodded and flicked a glance at Trigo to expand upon his earlier explanations. The old man took the hint.

  “Some of the old tales have it that even afore Fourbanks became as big as it be now, folk knew to avoid the region due north o’ the fork in the Shasstin. Back in the old days, the trows from Princetown Harbour sailed up the West Shasstin to the fork and landed there in the spit between the East and West rivers. Used to take fish and olives and fruit nor’west up to the border with Juria and Threlland, and bring goods and metals back downstream, sometimes goin’ down the East Shasstin and towns there, sometimes the West back to Princetown.”

  “Even in those days,” Pahdreg added, “The dwarves of Threlland paid well to have their iron and other metals taken down the river to Princetown Harbour, and then taken by ship south to Arrun and Callodon. Gems too. Quicker and safer than carrying it overland.”

  Elayeen nodded, Rak’s books still fresh in her mind. For centuries, the River Shasstin had been a valuable shortcut for shipping Threlland’s exports to southern lands, and for carrying Mornland’s exports north.

  “Now, though,” Trigo stretched his shoulders back and sipped his wine, “Fourbanks has spread, and the biggest part of it is in the vee ‘twixt the Shasstin and its eastern fork. More room there, see, to grow. Got all o’ north Mornland to grow in if’n they’d wanted to.”

  “And some of them did,” Pahdreg offered a plate of sweet biscuits around the table. “They first started pushing north over two hundred years ago, looking for land suitable for farming, long before Fourfields was settled.”

  “Aye, and some of them folk who went out a-looking never come back. That’s when the stories started, and mostly they’re all the same. People jess gone, without a trace. Sometimes, empty camp might be found on the ‘illside, sometimes not. Sometimes, ‘orses gone too. How long it’s been like that, no-one knows. My old grampa told a story that one time, a gang o’ blokes marched out from Fourbanks, armed to the teeth with all manner o’ sharp steel. Bound and determined they were, to scour the trees atop that hill, and all them woods in the surrounds too.”

  The old man paused, and took a sip of his wine.

  “What became of them, Serre Trigo?” Valin prompted.

  “Nought. They all come back, said nought were found atop the hill, save a sheep, a badger, and a wolf.”

  The three elves blinked, and exchanged a puzzled look, and Elayeen felt a strange uneasiness in the pit of her stomach which had nothing to do with their breakfast nor the excellent pie and wine they’d consumed at Pahdreg’s table.

  “Aye,” Trigo smiled knowingly, “Thought ye’d see the nonsense in that. See, the men had formed a line, each within sight and sound of another, and walked up the one side, through the copse, down the other. One man said he seen the wolf early on. Another the badger later on. Then, nearing the end of copse on the downslope, a third saw the sheep.

  “But not one of ‘em were a huntsman. Rivermen all, see? Bargemen, trowmen, docksiders, loaders, fishermen. When I were a boy I meself thought nought wrong with the tale neither, not ‘til I got older, ‘til I took me leave o’ Fourbanks in me youth, and got to know the wilds hereabouts and the ways of beasts.”

  “Nonsense indeed,” Elayeen agreed.

  “But that’s the story, and they swore that’s all they seen, and found nought else, not a trace of those lost ‘round there.”

  Pahdreg leaned back in his chair, and the front door banged, Tilly hurrying excitedly into the kitchen.

  “Borbo’s happy, Da.”

  “Away with you then,” Pahdreg commanded softly, “About your work, it’s Monday, not a day of rest.”

  “But Da…”

  “About your work, child,” Tilda insisted, ushering the girl out of the kitchen and closing the door behind them as they went.

  “Four years ago, when me and Trigo got to Croptop, we could see where the newsrider had settled for the night. Saddle was there, bedroll, everything left neat as when the lad had laid it out.”

  “Aye, up near the tree line. Boy didn’t know the taboo. We did. Sun was well up though, day bright and dry, so with our ‘earts in our pants, up the slope we went, following the blood-trail the ‘orse had left.”

  “It’s an expression we use,” Pahdreg explained, noting the elves’ arched eyebrows. “It means we were scared. And Trigo’s right, our hearts were in our pants every step of the way. But being mayor means I have a duty, and that duty meant we had to go up, in case the newsrider was there, and needed help.”

  “He didn’t,” Trigo confirmed softly. “We seen the trail o’ the horse, deep going up, weight of the lad in the saddle. Shallow and blood-marked coming down. No sign of ought else. Near to the camp, we could see where the lad had settled, even where he’d took a piss before laying down fer the night.”

  Pahdreg smiled, rather grimly. “Trigo is being kind. I’m a farmer, thatcher, and waggoner, not a tracker or a huntsman. It was he saw all these things, not me. All I saw was the blood.”

  “Aye, and plenty o’ that there was too. Too much for a man to have lived after the losin’ of it.”

  “We kept it from the younger ones. But, after what happened to Harald’s boy around New Year’s, we’ve been thinking it might’ve been a mistake not to have spoken of it.”

  “From the amount o’ blood we seen all around the ground at the camp, lad must’ve been ripped open. You were at the war in the north?”

  “Yes,” Elayeen agreed, feeling the butterflies in her stomach spreading their wings again. Worms, Gawain had called them. She finally understood why.

  “Then ye’ll know what a mess can be made should a body be laid open.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well,” Pahdreg sighed. “There was nothing else to be seen. A large mess of blood, and with Trigo’s assurance it wasn’t the wounded horse’s, and that no man could live with so much of his blood on the ground, there was nothing more to be done.”

  “Couldn’t see no traces on the ground of anything else but the horse, and the rider. No other spoor.” Trigo leaned forward, his visage stern, and grim. “And I mean, nought. That much blood, should’ve been a trail o’ bloody footprints, drag-marks, all manner o’ signs and traces. Weren’t nought.”

  “Duty compelled me to go further, up to the trees themselves. Trigo here, may fortune bless him all of his days, agreed to go with me. All the way up we went, right to the edge of the trees. And found nothing. Not a drop of blood, high or low. Nothing at all. Though, I didn’t have the courage to go into the trees.”

  “For which I are indeed blessed by great good fortune,” Trigo muttered, and Pahdreg laughed, venting the rising tension provoked by the dreadful memories.

  “We’re not much when it comes to fighting, we Mornlanders, as you doubtless know from the war. I got a crossbow, though the prods are spotted with rust and it’s rarely used. Trigo has one too for hunting and shepherding, sometimes we get the occasional timber wolf down from the highlands. Long knife, axe for wood-cutting... We’re simple folk, not warriors. So when we found nothing to warrant venturing into the copse, well…”

  “It were as though the lad had been ripped asunder then swallowed whole, or something. Couldn’t see what else there was fer us to do, in truth. See, if he’d been carried off by some monster on the wing, there’d be a trail to follow, blood drippin’ from the carcass and all. Whatever did for him, did ‘im quick, and I reckon he didn’t see it coming.”

  “Or if he did, he wasn’t afraid. He had a crossbow too, laying on the ground by his saddle.”

  “Aye. Still cocked and bolted. Untouched.”

  “And then four weeks or so ago there was Harald’s boy, Gillane.”

  “Buckin’ clodwit,” Trigo muttered.

  Pahdreg cast an apologetic look towards Elayeen, then shrugged. “Sadly it’s true, the boy was known
as hay-for-brains...”

  “For good reason. Once, we was out mending fences, heard him cry out in pain. Me and his pa Harald rushed up to him and there he was sucking his thumb. What did ye do? Harald asks. Whacked me buckin’ thumb with the buckin’ ‘ammer! the boy replies. How in the hills did ye do that? asks his old man. Like this… says the idiot, and puts his thumb on the post by the nail and whacks it again with the ‘ammer… buckin’ clodwit.”

  Pahdreg sighed. “It’s just one of many such stories. The boy was slow to learn and quick to act. Stupid and rash, a dangerous combination. From what I gleaned after his death, he’d filched a few bottles of wine from his uncle’s cellars, and the younger folk had something of a party out in the plough-shed by Borbo’s corral. He got drunk, and when they began telling tales to scare each other with, someone spoke of Croptop.”

  “And the clodwit decides to be the hero.”

  “Aye. With courage from the bottle and his own home-made shortbow, off he goes, with a boastful word or two for the girls. They said he had wine, food in a satchel, a pork pie and a lump of cheese, but beyond that and one of the blankets they’d taken to the shed against the cold of the winter’s night, not much else.”

  “It’s a long walk in the dark and the cold, from here to there,” Trigo sighed. “He’d a-been sober long afore he could see the ‘ill, much less climb it and camp there, if hadn’t kept his courage topped up from a bottle along the way.”

  “Aye, that’s true. But stupid is as stupid does and climb the hill he did, and camp there he did. Trigo reckons he even took wood from the tree line to build the fire we found, ashes and embers still warm.”

  Trigo nodded. “And it were near noon when we found it, too.”

  “It was a big fire, and must’ve burned all night. The walk there taking as long as it would for Gillane to have reached Croptop, and setting out late when he did, it would’ve been two hours before dawn when he made camp, three at the most. In all likelihood, once he got the fire going, he fell asleep, or passed out from the drink and hike through the cold.”

  “Thirty yard from the tree line to the fire. Hay-fer-brains weren’t so stupid as to camp right by the trees. Had some sense at the end at least, much good it did him.”