The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  Nutmeg stuttered in fear, unable to get a word out. Grace leaned her face to the other’s. “Get to the river!”

  “The road is wide. They’ll be catching us easier.”

  “Just get to the river.” She had no plan, no thought but fear coursing through her veins and the need for the river.

  Acorn found the nimbleness of his youth. He leaped fallen branches and skirted trees that sent the pursuers behind them off their course momentarily, and Nutmeg turned him to the river. At its edge, Grace jumped down and pulled Nutmeg with her. She tore the bridle off, slapping Acorn on his flanks. The pony let out a sharp grunt and took to his heels, tail flipping, as he disappeared into the gloom. She knotted her fist in the bridle. “Come with me.” Without waiting for answer, she hauled Nutmeg behind her, and slipped into the cold, icy waters of the river. She remembered the other Bolger hunt, but this time, fear ran in her veins instead of blood. They were dead if those things and the Bolgers found them. She knew that. Dead as if black nothingness claimed them forever, forever cold, forever unable to touch the sunlight or the still river or warm flesh. Dead.

  Nutmeg sputtered. “Grace! We’ll die in here. We’ll freeze.”

  Rivergrace shook her head. “No. Trust me.” She wrapped part of the bridle about her wrist and tied the end off to a tree root hanging from the bank. “Do you trust me?”

  Nutmeg tried to inhale and couldn’t. She stared, the pale moon reflecting in her face, and shivered. Grace held her arms out and took her sister into them, and sank both of them into the water, rolling so that only part of their faces stayed above, and let the current carry them into an eddying cove. She breathed slow and still, feeling Nutmeg in her arms do the same. She let herself go to the river. Its waters warmed gently about them, till the chill left them. She drifted low into the water until only her nostrils were above it.

  The river muffled the noise, but they could hear the search on the river road and bank. Nutmeg quivered in her hold. Grace tightened it, giving comfort. The river would hold them safe. She knew that. It would hide their warmth and their scent and whatever it was the others might use to track them, unless they could smell their very souls. If that were true, there was nothing could save them.

  The waters rocked them gently. Grace could feel her heartbeat slow, quieter and quieter; her ears caught the noise of hoofbeats and shouts moving down the road, the anger and menace and sheer evil of the things after them. Nutmeg relaxed in her arms and only the leather ties of the anchoring bridle kept them from drifting gently out of the small cove into the river’s main current and away.

  They stayed even when it grew quiet. Then came a hubbub, a great shouting, and thundering of hooves, and fiery torches streaking the air, and Grace opened her eyes to watch it through the water, breathing with the same slow measure.

  Hosmer led the force as they galloped by. Grace shook Nutmeg slightly and sat up in the waters, the icy air immediately sweeping over them. She hauled them back to the bank, hand over hand on the bridle, emerging from the river as if being birthed, a kind of lassitude coming over her.

  Nutmeg erupted from the water behind her. She clawed up the muddy bank, yelling and screaming. Rivergrace followed quietly, water streaming down her, the warmth cascading away into a freezing chill, and her teeth began to chatter. The small cavalry wheeled about as Nutmeg bobbed up and down in the rutted lane, hollering and waving her arms. It was Tolby who got off his horse first, who grabbed the girls up.

  “I’ll be taking the belt to your hides later,” he cried, and held them tightly, and it sounded as if he wept as he kissed their heads.

  Hosmer stayed aboard his horse, one of the wagon horses, almost as shaggy as Acorn but blowing steam and pawing fiercely at the ground. “Sign up the road shows they were beating the brush, hunting for something. They gave up without a fight, though.”

  “Did you see them?” Garner asked as he got down, peeling off his coat, and throwing it over the two of them. Nutmeg stammered and stuttered out the tale of the Bolgers and the things with them.

  Tolby choked and pulled the girls near. “Ravers,” he managed, finally. “They rode off when we hit the road. Noise and bluster was all we had to throw at them, but it was enough, this time.”

  “Tree’s blood,” cursed Garner and Hosmer together.

  “We’ll have to get the beacon finished, and patrols up,” Hosmer managed to add. The moonlight paled his face.

  “Aye, no doubt of that.” Tolby closed his arms tighter around his girls.

  But Rivergrace went stiff in Tolby’s hug, finding no comfort. It was not the blood of the trees that had been hunted.

  It had been her blood.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IN THE BARNYARD Tolby dropped his hand on Hosmer’s shoulder. His son turned about, and Tolby noticed for the first time that their gazes no longer met; he had to look up a bit to reach Hosmer’s stare. His throat closed a bit at the realization.

  “What is it, Da?”

  “You’ll be taking Banner. He’s a cart horse, I know, but he’s also the best rider we have, and if the militia takes you, you’ll need y’r own. So Banner will be doing double duty. I trust you to not overwork him, eh?”

  “I won’t.” An expression of joy passed over Hosmer’s face, quickly replaced by one of solemn duty. “Thanks, Da.”

  “Think nothin’ of it. And when you’re gallivanting about, at the Barrels and Stonesend and such, you might be finding a pouch of good toback for me, right?” The small town and outpost held many luxuries the isolated farms and ranches did not.

  “Right.” Hosmer grinned, before turning away to finish his chores.

  So it was that Hosmer joined the Silverwing Valley militia as soon as they got the beacon finished, riding with leathery old men of long experience and young boys filled with hot eagerness. Banner grew leaner and gained stamina with all the work, as did his rider, but neither complained. The duty seemed to make them thrive.

  And it was then that Rivergrace learned the river had a name, the Silverwing, for its graceful flow down out of the mountain snows. They had always just referred to it as the river, as if there were only one, and there could be no other name for it. Brooklets and creeks and such abounded through the valley, but there was only one river. Knowing its name did not change her feelings for it. During the day when she and Nutmeg had free time, precious little now, for although Lily did not punish them openly, she saw to it they had many, many new tasks about the farm, Grace would go down to the river’s banks and sit and watch the waters tumble past. Evening forays no longer seemed wise or possible.

  The Farbranch holdings sat back from the river quite a bit, and Tolby told her why one morning when he whistled to fetch her up to take care of the goats. “It floods, lass, during rain and the melt off. Some years the Silverwing is treacherous and canna be trusted.” He showed her the high water marks and silted areas where the river had crept out over the land from its bed. “I’m no fool, so I built back, even though it’s a trial now and then.” He chewed his pipe stem. “We’ve never been washed out.” He opened the goat gate to let her through, and latched it behind her, leaving her wondering a bit over his words. It had never occurred to her that the river might be dangerous.

  The first night of true, black frost brought a morning where the land held the chill, and she awoke to ground that crackled when she stepped upon it, and the wash water held a thin layer of ice. Grace snugged herself into her coat and visited the convenience as quickly as she could, and stood outside to wash up with Nutmeg who danced on first one leg and then the other, a dance that she assured Grace would drive away the cold.

  Garner came down from the beacon ridge, both he and his mount looking red-nosed from the frost. He stayed in the saddle. “Where’s Da?”

  “Around somewhere. He needs to wash up,” Nutmeg told her brother sagely. She eyed him. He had two bundles tied to the back of the saddle, one his bedding and the other unknown. “Wotcha got?”

  “Not
hing for you.”

  Nutmeg jostled Grace’s elbow when she took a step back. Her brother’s normal teasing manner had fled, replaced by a frown. She looked at Grace and shrugged, before grabbing the washrag and cleaning behind her ears vigorously. Then the two made their way to the warm house and breakfast while Garner’s horse gave off a low chuff of unrest.

  “Something’s wrong,” Nutmeg told her confidently.

  Grace squeeze her sister’s hand. “Enough trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t hafta snoop if they’d just tell us,” Nutmeg countered. They heard Tolby’s hail from around the corner, and both turned as one to go back and see.

  Grace laughed softly at that, but she froze solid in place as they emerged, and Garner opened up his bundle, throwing it upon the ground, and a grizzly hide fell free. It tumbled open, bloody and ragged-edged, a green pelt with the head still attached, dead eyes glaring at them.

  “Blood and shit.” Tolby stared at it. “Where did this come from?”

  “I took it, Da. I skinned it this morning.”

  “You killed it?!”

  Garner shook his head as he began to unsaddle his horse. “No. I heard the row last night. Fighting, something fierce. I rode down soon as the dawn cleared, thinking maybe the militia had run into trouble. This is what I found. More than this, but I’m gonna take this to Stonesend. Maybe even Calcort.”

  Grace drew Nutmeg to her side, unable to tear her gaze away from the gruesome pelt. Tolby frowned at them. Garner threw the saddle onto the fence post and then squatted by the skin. “See this?” he pointed to heavy scarring on each cheekbone. “Never seen that on a Bolger afore. There were two groups, and they fought. Don’t know why, Bolgers don’t fight among themselves, usually. Not like this. So we have our cider mill-raiding Bolgers and we have . . . these.” Garner stabbed a finger at the pelt. “Raver pack with Bolger hounds, or some such.”

  “Keen eyes.” Tolby looked at Garner. “Any Raver sign?”

  “Part of one of the forearms, I think. Hard to tell. Carapaced, like a beetle or something, Da. I’ve got it in the other bundle. Never seen a Raver before, but this doesn’t look like any wraith or haunt, like the tales.”

  “Best you get Hosmer and take it to Stonesend, then. They’ll be needing to know. Don’t tarry there, son. I could need you back here.”

  “I won’t. We’ll head out as soon as Hos has rested.”

  Tolby pointed at the ground. “And get that thing put away afore your mother sees it. She doesn’t need the shock.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He reached out and grabbed each girl by the ear, tugging them away from the wash stands. “You’ll not be telling your mother either.”

  “N-no, sir,” Nutmeg got out, squirming away from the tight pinch on her earlobe. “We won’t.”

  Silent, Grace let her sister talk for her while her thoughts flew away on the wind. Strange blood. Hunters beyond the ridge. She tried not to feel afraid.

  Lily bustled about the dining table with fluffy omelettes and fresh biscuits. She raised an eyebrow as Nutmeg only took one flaky biscuit and picked apart her eggs before eating. She watched closely as Grace set to her breakfast, Rivergrace noticed through the fringes of her soft auburn hair, and Lily turned away, satisfied as she ate most of her eggs and applesauce without noticing that Grace swept half of it into the napkin on her lap. The thought of what Garner had unfurled outside made her sick to her stomach. Nutmeg traded glances with her over the table, before looking down at her plate and picking over the food listlessly.

  Tolby came in and pitched into the breakfast with his usual vigor and Lily stood back, a little smile playing across her mouth, her eyes sparkling with fondness at her husband. Both girls stood up to slip away, but Tolby cleared his throat, and stared them back into their seats. He put both his work-worn hands on the table. “I’ve made a decision.”

  Wiping her hands on her apron, Lily sat down. Decisions seldom came around the Farbranch household without both Tolby and Lily discussing it beforehand. She looked at him curiously.

  “There’ll be no fair for us this year. Roads are too chancy, and we’ve Grace to think of, as well. I know it’ll disappoint you, but I think it be best.”

  “And that’s that?” asked Lily faintly.

  His mouth worked. “The boys will take the last of the goods to market and come home. We’ve missed a fair before.”

  “Only when the river washed out the bridge.”

  “And,” he added gently, “the year Keldan was late in arriving.”

  She flushed a bit at that. “You think this best?”

  He nodded. “I’m not out to spoil the fun, my love, you know that of me.”

  “I do. I can’t say I’m happy about it, but we will abide. There’ll be another fair.”

  “Two,” burst out Nutmeg. “Spring and Harvest.”

  “We only go to Harvest,” Tolby reminded her. “When we have goods to sell and buy.”

  Nutmeg’s mouth knotted up but she didn’t say anything else. Tolby rocked his chair back on two feet. “ ’Course,” he said to no one in particular, “when my daughters get a bit older, I can’t see the harm in a Spring fair. Just for fun, you know.”

  Nutmeg leaped up and threw herself at her father, hugging him tightly. Then she yelled, “Chore time!” at Rivergrace, and Grace raced off after her, tugging her coat off the hooks by the back door.

  Lily reached over and caught Tolby’s hand. “I don’t know why you’re not liking the Spring fair,” she said softly. “After all, that’s where I met you for the first time, and picked you out of a great city full of suitors.”

  He grumbled as the back door banged shut. “And you think I’m wanting to take my girls there, so they can meet a husband someday, eh? Bah.” He pushed his chair out and walked off, grumbling, and Lily did not dare let out a soft laugh till he had stomped out of the house as well.

  And so they lived, more or less as they expected to, for a handful of years.

  Chapter Fifteen

  733 AE, Planting Month

  “I MUST HAVE BEEN addled,” Tolby muttered, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

  “We’ve promised them for years, and we can’t hold them back any longer, dear.” Lily touched her head to his shoulder as they picked their way along village streets, bustling with activity and feeling far too crowded for Tolby.

  “They’re too young, both of them.”

  “Not for beginning. They need to see the world, and who might be waiting for them, that’s what the Spring fair is all about. Nutmeg is certainly ready,” and Lily eyed her bosomy daughter walking along the lane in front of them, her skirts swirling with the rhythmic movement of her hips, her glossy hair tied back with a ribbon. “As for Grace, well, I don’t know. Sometimes Grace still seems the child we pulled from the Silverwing and others . . . other times I think she is older than all of us.”

  Rivergrace moved alongside Nutmeg, her tall slender form bent as she leaned on her sister’s shoulder, a dark, hooded robe hiding her youth and her body, her walk imitating the hesitant and crippled movement of a many-years-aged woman. Beneath the robes and hood, a wrapper headband held back her glossy chestnut hair and conveniently hid her ears as well, the fabric gaily beaded and spangled in a festive way. The brands had faded and moved to mid-forearm as she’d grown, but they’d never healed entirely, never gone away. She stood head and shoulders taller than Nutmeg now and seemed likely to get taller still, in the way of the Vaelinars. A light breeze whirled about them, swirling Nutmeg’s long skirts and teasing at her hair, and the sun had chosen this day to shine brightly. Their daughters’ talk and chatter drifted back to Tolby and Lily and, as usual, Grace seemed content to let Nutmeg do most of the babbling. Her head turned back and forth though, absorbing in the sights of all those gathering for a Spring fair. It hurt him to see her guised, and yet they had all agreed that it would be best.

  “Next year would have been better,” Tolby stated.

  “I thin
k it’s high time they met someone besides the Barrel boys,” said Lily firmly.

  “And what be wrong with the Barrels?”

  “They’re good honest people, and nothing is wrong,” Lily answered, increasing her steps to keep the girls from getting so far ahead of them. “But I like a man with book learning, and the Barrels are as homegrown as they can get. There’s more to the world, Tolby Farbranch, than grass and roots.”

  “I’ve got book learning.”

  “Of course you do. That’s what I mean. They deserve a man as good as their father.”

  Tolby’s rough cheeks reddened at that, and he looked as if he wanted to say another word, but then wisely took out his pipe and clamped his teeth shut on the stem. Lily hooked her arm through his and patted his hand, concealing a slight smile. As they moved down the paved walkways, a fine and brisk breeze snapped the many banners out and brought a waft of toback on the air, fine Dweller toback. He lifted his chin to it. She patted his arm, saying, “I want to visit the dress shop. Have a smoke and visit with the lads, why don’t you?”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Mind? And have you fussing about while I’m trying to look at weaves and cuts and patterns and mayhap try on a few hats?” Lily nudged him. “Go on.”

  “I suppose it’s possible. The lads are horse-trading, looking for a new horse for Hosmer.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll give a whistle later.” Tolby winked at her, his eyebrow canting rakishly.

  She blushed. He’d often called for her that way when they first began courting. “I’ll be waiting, then.” She kicked aside the hem of her skirt, with a few swift strides to take the girls in hand, and walk briskly up the street toward her goal. He watched them go for a few moments, noting even Nutmeg now stood taller than Lily. How time flew and yet . . . and yet . . . the young girl he’d first loved followed Lily about like a shadow, never tarnishing, only adding to the fine woman she’d become. Smiling, he ducked into the toback parlor.