He signalled to the youth he still didn't know the name of. 'You, in the hole. The head should be in there somewhere.' He smirked somewhat. 'Watch out for the murderous badgers.'
The boy blinked in disbelief. 'You want me to go in there?'
Thom eyed him with the same hard glare as before, if that didn't do the trick then easing Skullcleaver from his back should. The huge two-handed sword was almost as effective at intimidating as it was killing.
'That was a command, not a suggestion, now get to it.' Thom added, as if it were in any doubt. The boy did seem a bit thick even if he was afraid so he might have needed the extra instruction.
Five minutes later they had the head, and while the boy had been searching through the hole Thom had been scouting out for tracks left behind. On this marshy ground it should have been easy to detect a stray set of footprints, especially if they had to leave in a panic upon encountering the boy.
It was an odd decision that stuck out as sorely as the poor dissection. Why did he let the boy live after sighting the murder? Why not simply chop him up too and throw them both in the hole?
The lack of footprints indicated an individual who was simultaneously terrible at butchery and superb at navigating forests unseen. This narrowed it down to someone who had a grudge against Solomon that spent a lot of time in the forests.
What if it had been the boy?
Thom whirled about and caught the scrawny youth retching at the edge of the river, the severed head of Solomon lying next to him.
No, the boy clearly had no stomach for murder, nor would he implicate himself so obviously.
He watched the clenched fists of the boy as he continued to dry heave at the water's edge. The boy was holding something.
'What have you got in your hand, boy?' Solomon asked.
The young man stared up at him with frightened eyes. 'This? It's a piece of the man's jerkin. I thought I gave it to you earlier?'
Thom sighed, this youth definitely wasn't the sharpest tool in the box.
That was when the idea came to him. With no murder weapon, no footprints and no suspects, he now found a way of making his next visit productive instead of painful.
'Give me the piece of jerkin, boy. I have a bad-tempered bastard I need to visit tomorrow morning.'
14
Thom
The sun blazed overhead as if mocking him for venturing out during the previous night, unfortunately it did nothing for the pungency of the corpse he had in the back which, in spite of the stench, was still better company than the boy who found it had been the previous night.
The great thing about corpses was that they didn't talk back, they didn't ask stupid fucking questions and they helped an investigation rather than hindering it. This wasn't the first dead body that had stained his old cart and it certainly wouldn't be the last.
As he made his way through the lane the few people he bumped into went from curiosity to strenuous ignorance as soon as the smell hit them. The smell of rotting flesh was always a great deterrent, yet another benefit of the dead over the living.
Harvester's plantation was not his favourite place in the world, and he had purposely ignored the large gathering the man had held there for fear of coming to blows with him or some drunk that thought he could take on the law. Besides, the man was that used to dealing with criminals that he barely had to police the place. It was like a small village outside of the general hamlet, separate from Escana yet a part of it all the same, ruled by Harvester with an iron fist as volatile as his temperament.
The dog at the gate howled, and the gate keeper had taken some persuading to let him in but there was no denying the law, especially given the cargo. The beast had bounded off ahead of him after sniffing the contents, presumably to warn its master and the others that trouble was trundling its way up to the homestead.
By the time he arrived his small cart had four snarling hounds tracking it. He wasn't particularly looking forward to this encounter, he just hoped that the mad bastard would stay his hand long enough that he didn't have to slay him outright. Why Garth had insisted on befriending him was a mystery to him, but then the smith always had been a bit of a gentle giant when it came to accepting others.
He had been expecting the cuts to be clinical, the precise strokes of an expert killer that would take him months if not years to track down. Instead they had been using a blunted knife edge like a saw blade as if they had never heard of a spinal cord before.
Having been dragged out of the warmth of the tavern and into the pissing rain at such a time in the night had been a sobering reminder of just how boring most of these disputes were. He didn't wish death upon this small community but it certainly made his job more interesting. Half his time these days seemed to be spent twisting the arms of drunks and playing peacemaker with disputes over land and women. Part of him actually hoped that the killer would give him a good chase in spite of the shoddy work dissecting the corpse.
He had always liked Solomon. The boy worked hard and drank harder, had his head on his shoulders and had solid if crude sense of humour. He admired him for putting up with Harvester and his daughter and had looked forward to dealing with him directly instead of the old coot when he finally took charge. Now he had to risk life and limb just to further his investigation.
He missed the city, but the opportunity to gain the title of Warden and return to Escana was too good an opportunity to pass up. For all his contacts in Daelovia he had none that he would consider friends. After everything they had been through, only Garth and Gooseman had earned that title.
The door warily creaked open and a heavy-set man with fiery hair limped out with a loaded crossbow pointed directly at Thom's throat. 'What are you doing on my property, you son of a bitch?'
Cheery as always then, this was going to be fun.
Thom carefully stemmed his reflexes and avoided reaching for his sword. 'Call off your dogs, before they spook the horse,' he said, keeping his tone firmly even.
Simon Harvester smirked as one of his beasts pulled at the horse's fetlock, another snapped at Thom's heel.
'Call off your dogs,' Thom repeated his demand through gritted teeth, as the animals began to form a circle around him, amber eyes fixed upon his.
Hackles raised, they began to close in on him, snarling, several of them slavering in anticipation. Thom remained unmoved at this. 'This is your last chance, call off the dogs.'
Harvester gave a low whistle and they backed off reluctantly. One prowled towards the cart and leaped onto it, investigating its load. It stiffened then growled, its kinsmen went over to join it, several of them whining.
Harvester hobbled out from the doorway towards the cart, the bolt constantly trained at Thom. 'What the fuck is spooking my dogs...' He fell silent upon seeing the body.
Thom dismounted from the horse and strode over to the cart, Harvester seemed too distracted to show any more anger at him.
'One of your young boys found him being disposed of near the falls, I dug this out from a hole in the ground. Figured you were as close to a father as he had so I'd take him here. I had fuck all to do with it, I'm trying to figure out what bastard did.' He was fixed with a cold glare but noticed the bolt had dipped.
'Nobody ever had a problem with Solomon, he was a good man, he...' Simon began to rasp, but Thom waved away the protestations.
'Not you, I didn't come here to see you, it's your dogs I'm after.'
Suspicion crept into the farmer's watery eyes. 'What the fuck do you want my dogs for?' The bolt quickly rose again.
'You said yourself, they can pick up any scent. Even the cold ones like that bastard Murray's back not three seasons ago. I need them to...' The dogs had got down from the cart and were advancing on him again, murder in their eyes. Thom snarled back at them.
Reaching inside his shirt pocket, he pulled out a scrap of cloth and threw it to Harvester. 'Your boy woke with a lump of this in his fist, seems the attacker was in too much of a hurry to realise.'
/> The man called his dogs off with another whistle, then held up the cloth for them to sample the scent. As they started to howl, Thom couldn't help but smile.
He heard a choking sound and stared at the man as he blubbered into his beard, it was clear that Solomon had been like a son to him and it was widely accepted that he was the heir to the plantation in all but writing.
A mean-spirited part of him was pleased to see the man finally come upon hard times. He was the sort to get angry and everyone and everything in his way until they submitted to his will, however misguided it was. Men like that were impossible to reason with, Thom had dealt with his fair share of them over the years.
The dogs had completely forgotten about him now, streaking off toward the gate as if the plantation had been set ablaze. He had been left alone with this despairing shell of a man and the body of his would-be son in law.
'It looks like the dogs know who they're after,' he observed, reassuring his skittish horse.
Harvester looked up at him in disbelief. 'I've just lost my only son and you're fucking worrying about your horse?'
Thom was fully aware that even without the dogs, the crossbow was loaded and the bolt could still cause him problems. There was no sense in kicking this man while he was down, however tempting it was.
'You want a hug or would you rather I brought you the head of the man that did this to your boy?' he asked, knowing he was pushing it. 'Life is hard, people die. Deal with it.'
From the blaze in the man's eyes he thought he had said too much, then the farmer caught himself, as if realising for the first time the uncharacteristic tears that streaked his face. 'Yeah,' he sniffed. 'Bring back the bastard that did this. Then I never want to see your face around these parts again.' He straightened up as if nothing had happened, gaining some of his former authority. 'We can handle our own business in these parts. Don't need no Warden interfering in our affairs.'
Thom let him have it, he wasn't one to acquiesce to any man but it was preferable to an argument that led to a grief-stricken quarrel in his guts.
'I'll find the bastard and bring you his head. After that you'll not hear from me nor see me again outside of the Flagon,' he said.
Harvester nodded. 'See that you do, and bring my dogs back safely. Now get out of my sight, I have a burial to tend to.'
Thom made his way back to the cart, but the farmer's voice called out to him again, forcing him to turn round.
'What?' he asked, his patience starting to thin. As soon as he saw the resolute look in the man's eye he knew what was coming.
'Can't trust you with these dogs, might get hungry tracking the killer and eat one of 'em. Looks like I'll have to come with you and see that you don't.'
Thom shrugged, he'd have better control over the animals if their original owner was present. Not to mention use of his far superior custom-built cart that had been freshly repaired. He might loathe the man but there was little practical reason not to put up with him while he found the killer.
'Fine, you're with me. Just don't get in the way of my job and we'll be fine.'
The farmer nodded, deciding not to pick a quarrel with the harsh tone. At his signal, the men made their way into Harvester's barn and began making plans.
15
Jimmy
He woke to the sounds of splintered wood and uproar, something interesting was afoot.
After dunking his curly head in a bucket of water he quickly threw on his work clothes. Taking the stairs at a run, he was just in time to see what looked to be Thom disappearing out front with a number of stouter men.
'Solomon is dead,' Garth muttered.
Jimmy missed a step in shock and stumbled the rest of the way down. 'What? How did this happen?'
'They don't know yet, no doubt Thom will get to the bottom of it. The kid that found him said there were pieces of him near the Gray falls.' He was trying hopelessly to reconstruct a shattered table, the great smith often forgot his own strength when provoked.
Garth shook his head, finally giving up on it and reaching for his coin purse. He set a healthy sum of money on the bar. 'That's for the table, should cover it,'he said, motioning toward the pile of coins and starting to make for the door.
'Where did you get the money from?' Jimmy asked.
This brought a weary grin. 'Haven't you heard? It's war! Business is booming! I get cartloads of stuff from the frontier wars as there are repair crews from here to Levanin and beyond with overflowing queues.' He made his way to the door with Jimmy close on his heels, that grin was entirely false.
'How can so much be carted out to you? Surely there are other smiths that need the work?'
His bushy brows frowned in annoyance at that. 'I told you just yesterday, every smithy is busy with the same sort of work, there's nobody I can dump it off to. I have to get this done.'
Jimmy cracked a smile and trailed him down the winding path into the morning sun. 'Have to? You're Garth the smith, no one tells you when things are to be done!'
'Go home, Jimmy,' he muttered deeply under his beard, purposefully lengthening his stride.
That wasn't the response he expected at all from the usually genial smith, it stung him more than he expected. 'Are they going to do something if you don't meet their quota?' he said quietly to the smith's back, his annoyance getting the better of him.
Garth spun round, eyes ablaze and fist raised as if to strike, then he seemed to catch himself, as if sudden awareness of what he was doing came to him.
'Go home,' he rumbled between gritted teeth. Jimmy didn't need a second warning and fled back toward the Chipped Flagon.
Breathlessly flinging the door open he made for the stairs but ended up face to face with his father. The older man calmly beckoned him behind the bar and started handing him dirty plates without another word.
His father was a lean man of unimposing build, the exact opposite of the many portly, vociferous barmen throughout the land. His hooked nose and cavernous eyes were defining features Jimmy was happy not to have inherited.
His heart had just started to calm itself when Gooseman finally spoke.
'Garth is best left alone at the moment, he is sorely tested.' He let the silence hang at the end of the words, waiting for Jimmy to voice his grievances. Too many questions were eating at him not to.
'I don't understand. Why is he so hard pressed if we are winning the war?'
Gooseman smirked under his hooked nose. 'Ever the optimist. I'm sure your young friends would tell you that casualties are inevitable in the final push for victory. Not this many.' He gestured over the bar expansively with his hand. 'Have you not been listening to the word that comes in from travellers day by day?'
Jimmy scoffed. 'You'll never see such a sorry lot of doom mongers. What about the soldiers that come to rally men to their cause?'
His father sighed at this. 'Is that what you think they are? Tell me, if they are soldiers, why are they nowhere near the war? Why do they need more men to fight if they're winning as comfortably as you say?'
It was strange that such a simple question hadn't occurred to Jimmy before, such matters seemed beyond him. 'What of Garth? What happens if he doesn't meet the quota?'
His bald head shook sadly at that question. 'Then they will come for him.'
'Who will come? Thom wouldn't stand for it. He's just one smith in a small hamlet anyway, why would it concern anyone from afar?'
Gooseman put his face in his hands as if desperately tired. 'I always thought that living here in the inn with me would compensate for your relative isolation from the world. When I hear you come out with questions like that, I in turn question the wisdom of my decision.'
Jimmy sensed another inevitable lecture.
'I just don't see why it matters so much to them.'
The innkeeper's hands slid through the thinning hair past his temples, revealing him deep in thought.
'Think of the war like a big machine,' he finally said. 'Every big machine has smaller parts. You can
take some parts out of machines and they will still function to an extent. With others the slightest piece out of alignment or absent will render the whole device useless. Garth's job is a small but integral part in a machine that is stretched to its absolute limits trying to cope with providing for the war.'
It was a push, but Jimmy could see the sense of the analogy. It wasn't the first time his father sounded nothing like a bartender when speaking to him alone.
'So why would they take him out if he's functioning inefficiently?' he asked. 'Isn't some repairing better than none at all?'
'And there you come to the crux of the matter. Garth is not valued, he is but a small piece in a larger scheme. They have plenty of people willing to work, but very flew places left to send them. Garth's departure would be seamless. His replacement would be en-route with those who seek to remove him.'
It was then that Jimmy realised the magnitude of Garth's task. He wasn't willingly taking outside contracts or being patriotic and helping with the war, he had been forced into doing this.
'Why doesn't he quit then? He could work the fields.' He knew the stupidity of the statement as soon as he has asked it.
Gooseman chose to ignore everything but the question. 'Garth has his own reasons. He is a proud and stubborn man, he refuses to take on any apprentice, deeming them all unworthy. This has only made things worse for him. If he quits, they will take everything he owns and throw him in a prison, accusing him of treason. They'd make Thom do it.'
He couldn't imagine the man Garth called his best friend arresting him for treason. Nor could he picture Thom being strong-armed into it by the powers that be. No wonder Garth battled on, he must have known exactly what would happen if he didn't.
'What you have to realise is that the figures you see before you in your life are very small in the scale of events. Thom has to defer to command just as Garth would, however unlikely it may seem to you. There are many powers greater in this world than those you see exercised in Escana. Even the Urian Council is but a small bunch of local bureaucrats, the real power comes from the centre of the land. Levanin. There, the great leaders and thinkers of our time strive to knit the future of the world in a way that pleases them. Perhaps if you travel to the capital you will someday understand.'
Escana Page 10