Witch Song

by Amber Argyle

  Senna looked at the horse and then back at Wittin, not really understanding.

  “You two do what you must to keep safe, you hear?”

  “Why would you help me?” Senna blurted.

  Something like anger flashed in his eyes. “Because I know better.”

  His comment was vague and she knew it was meant to be. Then it dawned on her that he’d said “two” and Joshen was readying another horse. “You want to come with me?”

  Joshen and Wittin exchanged incredulous glances.

  “Do you mean to go alone?” Wittin asked.

  “Well, yes.” The two men exchanged glances again and Senna began to think she was missing something.

  Wittin rubbed his jaw. “I don’t think you understand, Brusenna. You’re not just here to pick up a horse. Your mother meant for Joshen to come with you.”

  Senna stared at Joshen in disbelief.

  He stood up straighter. “I’m not a Guardian yet, but I’ve been training for it my whole life. I’m one of the best horsemen around and a right good shot with a musket.”

  Senna shrugged. “I’m not so bad myself.” She immediately regretted her words. She’d never shot a musket in her life. Never even held one.

  Wittin thumbed his nose roughly, no doubt noticing she didn’t actually have a musket. “Now don’t be gettin’ all prideful on me. You’re going to need help before you’re through.”

  “I’ll manage,” she responded. The thought of being alone with any man, even one as friendly as Joshen, seemed oppressive.

  Some silent communication passed between them. Wittin jerked his head “no.” Joshen pursed his lips in frustration.

  “All right then, Senna,” Wittin finally said. “But if you change your mind, we’re here.”

  She rested a nervous hand on Bruke’s head. “Thank you.” With another exchanged glance and a nod her way, the two men brought out squeaky leather tack from a locked room. When Knight was fully outfitted in a soft-hued calfskin saddle, his coat seemed even deeper. Senna stroked his neck appreciatively before turning to the two men. Tomack had been kind to her and she’d seen how much this watch meant to him. She wanted him to have it back, but she didn’t want to deny Wittin his payment. “In addition, I’d like to buy Tomack’s watch back.”

  Wittin pulled the watch from his pocket and caressed the gold back. “Keep it.” He handed it to her and limped back to the house.

  Joshen studied her carefully. “My father and uncle fought over that watch after Grandpa died. Take care of it.”

  With that, he too, strode away. When they were gone, Senna slipped the watch and five gold pieces under the locked tack room door. Then she led Knight outside, stepped into the stirrup and pulled herself up. With a gentle nudge from her, Knight moved eastward.

  7. A TASTE OF FOOLISHNESS

  Fanning herself with a heavily starched piece of cloth, Berlie watched over her honeycakes and bread with half-closed eyes. She had spent the predawn hours in her sweltering kitchen and the remainder of the day at her booth. Cooking wasn’t so bad, but she didn’t enjoy watching her wares spoil in the sun. No one, it seemed, had bought much today. She turned to her young daughter, Dall. “Maybe we should just call it a day.”

  “Do I get to eat some honeycakes?” the child clasped her small hands under her chin and leaned eagerly forward.

  Usually, they only ate the bread that went stale or moldy. Berlie opened her mouth to say no, but stopped at the crestfallen look on Dall’s face. “All right. You may have one now. One more when you finish your supper.”

  Interlocking her fingers, her daughter squealed in delight and bounced from her chair to the honeycakes.

  Berlie started packing up when a voice startled her. She jumped and turned.

  “Oh, I’m sorry ma’am,” a man said.

  He was about Berlie’s age. And oh, he was handsome. She pressed her hand against her chest and took a deep breath. “Oh, that’s alright. What would you like to buy?”

  He shook his head gravely. “Unfortunately, I’m not here to buy. I’m looking for a young girl who may have passed this way.”

  Berlie crossed her arms over her chest. She remembered all too well the thin girl who had devoured her honeycakes as if she’d never tasted one before. “And who might you be?”

  He leaned forward. “She’s a runaway, you know.”

  Berlie knew that look. The look of a man after a girl who had shamed him, not someone he was worried about. “You should’ve never married one so young,” she said through clenched teeth, remembering her own wedding day.

  He quickly backtracked and, she thought, changed tactics. “No, no. She’s not my wife. She’s my sister.”

  Berlie pursed her lips. “I can read a lie on a man’s face as easily as decipher a sign above a shop door. I’ve nothing to sell to you; and if you don’t leave, I’ll summon the sheriff!”

  The man took a menacing step forward, but Bloy, from the booth next to Berlie’s, spoke up, “You alright Berlie?” Bloy wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at the man.

  She gave Bloy a small smile. He was as ugly as a mule, but as gentle as the softest breeze. He’d asked her to marry him more than once. Perhaps next time, she’d say yes.

  With a wide smile, the man turned into an amiable stranger again. “I’ll just be on my way.”

  Wringing her hands to steady their shaking, Berlie nodded appreciatively to Bloy. Her daughter’s sticky face had lost its grin. Bending down, she kissed Dall’s forehead. “It’s alright, sweetie. Let’s go home and get some supper so you can have that other honeycake.”

  That was all it took for Dall to forget the exchange. Berlie finished loading her cart and pulled it up the hill to the poorer side of town.

  When she reached her run-down house, she hauled up the cellar door. She could still sell her wares for half price to her neighbors when they returned from their day’s labors. Descending the ladder, she shut her eyes and took a moment to enjoy the delicious coolness. A sound made her start. She’d half-turned when a hand clamped over her mouth and pulled her down the last two stairs. She bit down hard on a pair of fat fingers.

  “Ow!”

  Berlie rushed for the ladder, but a hand seized her ankle and hauled her back. She cracked her head on a rung. Hot blood ran down her forehead. But she’d been in scuffles before. Her husband had been that kind of man. Rushing her attacker, she buried her knee in his crotch. With a groan, he doubled over.

  Heaving herself out of the cellar, she slammed it shut and gripped the table to pull it over the door. But what she saw stopped her cold. Her beautiful daughter sat wide-eyed on the lap of the man from the market. He took a bite of a honeycake and smiled. “Delicious.”

  Berlie couldn’t move.

  He set the pastry down and roughly stroked Dall’s blonde curls. “I wonder how you would feel if you lost someone you love, all because you wouldn’t tell a man where his sister was?”

  Berlie heard sounds from below. A second later, the fat man pushed open the cellar door. “How come I always get the nasty jobs?” he grumbled as he hobbled up the ladder.

  The man holding her daughter didn’t answer his companion. “Come now. This isn’t hard. Tell me where she went. I’ll tie up you and your daughter. Someone’s bound to come looking for you, eventually.”

  Berlie felt trapped. As trapped as when her father had insisted she marry the “wealthy” baker at fourteen. As trapped as when he’d backed her into a corner and beat her to a bloody pulp. As trapped as when he had died and left her with a new baby to look after at fifteen. “She went to Wittin’s to buy a horse.”

  The man smiled broadly and took another bite of the honeycake. “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  After he’d tied them both up, he patted her shoulder as the other man stuffed a gag in her mouth. “It’s too bad innocent people have to get caught up in this sort of thing. But I assure you, it’s for a good cause.”

  Berlie glared at him as he pick
ed up the last honeycake, lifted it in farewell and shut her door behind him. It took some doing, but she finally managed to break herself free. Poor Dall had fallen asleep with a gag in her mouth. After releasing her, Berlie scooped her up and laid her in her bed. She woke the instant Berlie crossed the threshold. “Mommy, they ate all the honeycakes!”

  Berlie managed a smile. “I’ll make some tomorrow, just for you. How would that be?”

  Dall smacked her lips. “Fresh ones?”

  “Still hot.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Berlie kissed her forehead. “Mommy will send a neighbor to look after you; I need to tell the sheriff about those bad men.”

  Dall’s eyes narrowed. “You tell them, Mommy. He won’t get any honeycakes in jail!”

  Joshen tossed another forkful of hay into the feeder and stepped back to survey his work. All along the barn, the line of horses munched their supper contentedly. Resting the pitchfork against the wall, he picked up some saddle oil and opened the door to the tack room. “What in the …” He bent down and retrieved the gold coins and pocket watch. He shook his head in amazement. “Help a Witch and you’ll be repaid tenfold,” he murmured.

  “What was that?” He heard from the other side of the door. Stuffing the coins and watch in his pocket, Joshen peeked around the door. A stranger, he’d guess in his mid-twenties, stood next to a heavy man. “Be right with you.” He couldn’t understand the sudden urge to lock the tack room door, but he was a believer in instinct. “What can I do for you fellows?” he asked as he turned the lock and slipped the key in his pocket.

  The taller of the two men smiled warmly enough, but it was the smile of a man coming to steal your wife. “I’d like to buy a couple of horses.”

  Joshen gestured for them to walk ahead of him down the row of horses—he’d rather not turn his back on either of them. “Anything in particular?”

  The man stopped to stroke a buckskin’s cheek. “Something with speed and stamina.” He turned to him. “You sold anything like that recently?”

  Why did Joshen get the feeling the man was asking about Senna? “We sell a lot of horses, mister.”

  “Course you do,” the man replied as he continued down the row. He stopped in front of one of Joshen’s best geldings. Opening the stall, the man ran his hands over the bay’s legs and studied his confirmation. “I think I’ll take this one. My friend here, the buckskin I saw earlier.”

  Joshen nodded and reached for a couple halters. He caught both horses and led them to the hitching posts. He started picking their hooves when the man spoke again. “Have you seen a young girl come this way? She would’ve had a big dog with her.”

  Joshen froze, the pick still wedged under a dried bit of manure. Were these the two Hunters after Senna? By the Creators, she was in more trouble than she knew what to do with. He surveyed the men with an expert eye. The fat one, he could take easily. But the other one … he looked like he knew his way around a fight. And between the two of them …

  Joshen didn’t like the odds. Not unarmed, anyway. He released the horse’s hoof and slowly straightened. “I’m sorry, mister. I just realized these horses aren’t for sale.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. The shorter, fatter one leaned in. “We can take him, Wardof.”

  “Garg, I told you not to use my name. Idiot! If I wasn’t stuck with you, I swear, I’d have killed you already.” Wardof took a menacing step forward. “Why do you want to protect her?”

  Joshen thought fast. If he could just get outside the barn, his father would see what was going on. He edged toward the door. “I don’t mean to protect her, but I won’t get involved either. Witches make bad enemies.”

  “I make a worse one.”

  Joshen shook his head. “Can you make it so my land never grows another living thing?”

  Wardof’s voice went low and deadly, “No, but I know someone who can. If you live long enough, that is.”

  Joshen’s palms were slick with sweat and his mouth felt as dry as flour. He’d been in fights before, but not with Hunters. He’d been taught to ignore his pride and do what he had to do to win. “I didn’t see which way she went, but my dad might have. I’ll go get him.”

  Wardof’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “It wouldn’t make much sense for you to even out our numbers, would it?” Joshen tried to twist away, but then the fat fellow gripped his other arm. He was faster than he looked.

  Joshen dropped to the floor, trying to use his weight to throw them off. Both Hunters stumbled. Joshen wrenched his arms free and side-swiped Wardof’s legs out from under him.

  “Jump on him, Garg!”

  Before Joshen could scramble to his feet, Garg threw himself over him. Wardof buried his fist into Joshen’s belly. Joshen doubled over as all the air was forced from his lungs.

  Two sets of hands hauled him up and shoved him roughly into the tack room door. Joshen felt the knob bruise his back.

  “Where is she, boy?”

  Hunched over, he tried to catch his breath. “I’m not telling you dung-lickers anything!” His whole body tensed as they came at him, fists balled. But he wasn’t going down easy. He ducked to the side, trying to create enough space to use his longer reach.

  He didn’t make it very far. They shoved him into the wall and pummeled him. Joshen curled up, his arms raised to protect himself, only occasionally managing to get a jab in. The horses were going crazy, whinnying and kicking in their stalls. Over their racket, he heard a mighty bellow. He looked up as both men were yanked off of him and tossed like bails of hay. His limp barely noticeable, Wittin heaved Wardof up by his shoulders. His meaty fist landed in the man’s pretty face.

  Proud to the point he was almost giddy, Joshen scrambled into action, tackling the fat man just as he reached his feet. They rolled in the hay and dirt until Joshen pinned him.

  Garg tried to wiggle free. “Lemme go! Lemme go!”

  Joshen gripped tighter, wondering what he was going to do with Garg now that he had him in a choke hold.

  Wardof wasn’t doing too well with Joshen’s father. Wittin pummeled him like he was a pillow in need of a good fluffing. Wardof hit the ground and lay still. Wittin stood over him, his breathing ragged and rage still smoldering in his eyes. He turned to Joshen. “All right, son?”

  “Been better.”

  Wittin grunted. In three strides, he had a halter in his hands. His limp more pronounced now, he surveyed the hold Joshen had. “Let’s roll him onto his stomach. Put your knee into his neck. If he tries to move, push down for all you’re worth.”

  Joshen released his grip slightly. The man scrambled. Joshen squeezed again. His father buried his knuckle in the man’s temple. Garg went limp in Joshen’s arms.

  “So much for trying to be gentle-like about the whole thing,” his father said gruffly.

  They hog-tied both men and then dragged them into a corner of the barn. Joshen’s mother, Qarin, came from the house, wiping her flour-white hands on her apron. “What is all this confounded commotion going on down here?”

  Wittin motioned to the two unconscious men. Qarin’s eyes widened.

  “I heard the horses,” his father explained, “and come in from the pasture to see Hunters poundin’ Joshen.”

  The fat man moaned and moved. Wittin jerked his head toward the door. The three left the barn and stood next to the house, where neither man would overhear them.

  “Suppose they were after Senna?” he asked Joshen Gently rubbing his tender abdomen, Joshen nodded.

  His father’s eyes formed a question as they met Qarin’s. “Mother?”

  With tears in her eyes, Qarin nodded. “You’re right. The safety of the Witches is everyone’s responsibility. And if she really is the last, she’s going to need all the help we can give her.”

  His father grunted as he rubbed his bad leg. “We both knew he’d have to take over someday.”

  Joshen glanced suspiciously at his parents. “But, you let her go!” Wittin shrugged. “A
Guardian protects his Witch—even from herself. Brusenna refused to let you go with her. So you’ll follow behind.”

  Excitement surged in Joshen’s chest. Senna had left a couple hours ago. Her trail would still be fresh. And she hadn’t seemed like much of a rider. He would catch up to her easily. He would finally be able to prove himself a Guardian as renowned as his father.

  The sound of rushing hooves brought them around. A dark formation of horses pounded up the path in the growing twilight. As they came closer, Joshen recognized the sheriff and his volunteers. The sheriff nodded a curt greeting as he pulled up his horse. “Berlie, the baker, told us some men tied her and her daughter up before heading this way. You seen them?”

  Wittin jerked his thumb over his shoulder, toward the barn. “They’re tied up in the stables.”

  The sheriff’s eyes widened as he glanced at Wittin’s bum leg and Joshen’s gangly build. “You two took them both?”

  “Course we did!” His father crossed his arms over his chest, clearly insulted.

  The sheriff held up a hand. “Well, all I meant is they seemed like pretty rough men … according to Berlie,” he added quickly.

  “They tried to steal our horses. When Joshen didn’t let them, they started thumping him. I evened out the numbers some. They tumbled pretty easy after that.”

  The sheriff brought out some parchment and scratched furiously as Wittin spoke. Joshen, Wittin and two of his volunteers signed the document as witnesses and rounded up the now-conscious men, slung them over their horse’s backs like sacks of potatoes and waved goodbye.

  Wittin watched them go with a wary eye. “Them two won’t be in prison for long.” His gaze fell on Joshen. “I think it’s time you joined the cause, boy.”

  Wardof tossed his stale bread back on the tray. “We wouldn’t be here if you weren’t such an imbecile.”

  “Wha’d I do?” Garg cried.