by Robert Beers
“We be turnin’ left here next to the Millery. Hi, Mr. Sandalwood. He be one of Da's best friends. Da buys his Barley there.”
“Down there be the Sorrows. We be going the opposite way. Folks what wind up there be needing a heap o’ help, that's for sure. Some of Da's friends be sending food an’ such sometimes ‘cause of the sickness an’ fever, you know.”
“There be Mr. Hersh's shop. I can always tell when he be working in the back ‘cause of the smell, like he is now.”
Adam and Charity decided Willard must have developed a partial immunity to the odor that hit them when they turned that last corner. It carried a muskiness not unlike that of an irritated Skunk, but with a sweetish overtone that somehow made the smell even more obnoxious than mere skunk alone.
Charity gasped and held her hand over her nose and mouth. “Is it always like this?”
Willard shrugged. “Naw, Mr. Hersh, he only renders once a week or so. He says he don't want it sittn’ around like, and stinkin’ up the place.”
Adam held down a gag. “That's very considerate of him.”
“He's a very considerate man, is Mr. Hersh.” Willard missed the irony entirely.
Charity started toward the steps leading into the Butcher Shop. Adam caught her by the tunic. “You're not going in there?”
She turned to him. “Of course I am. You remember what you said about feeling things? About when something felt right?” He nodded once, slowly. “Well, this is one of those times. You can stay out here if you want; I'm going in.” She tugged loose of his hold, and went up the steps and into the door.
Adam stood there at the base of the steps for a moment. Willard saw him bow his head, and then throw up his hands as if in resignation, and then take them two at a time.
Willard stood watching the door for a few minutes waiting to see if anything more exciting was going to happen. When the door remained dully quiet, he sighed and then headed back to the Inn, kicking a round stone ahead of him.
A pleasant-looking, heavyset young man looked up as the door to the shop opened. He turned his head, and called out. “Pa. Those two you said might show are here.”
Hersh appeared, filling the doorway to the rear of the shop with his bulk. He beamed an ear-to-ear smile at the twins. “So! You decided to give old Hersh a try, eh? Well, don't just be standing there like stumps; let me show you my place.”
The smell inside was considerably less obnoxious than what had hit them outside. They made their way around the front counter, which held a variety of meats cut into different sized slabs and sections depending upon whether it was fish, fowl, game or livestock. Hersh introduced the young man as his youngest son, Ornette, and then led them back into the workroom of his butcher shop. Ornette's eyes followed Charity as she passed him. He continued to look in her direction until she turned a corner and passed out of his line of sight. He stayed that way for a few seconds, and then returned to his task of wiping down the counter, with a small grin playing across his face.
“What do you think of my shop? Nice, eh?” Hersh indicated his possession with a broad swipe of his hand. The workroom was quite large, with a high ceiling that held a heavy beam. Connected to the beam was a very sturdy-looking pulley system that sported a thick rope. Attached to the rope hung a series of hooks. A few of the hooks supported carcasses of oxen. At the end of the pulley, a heavy door stood ajar. A cold fog rolled out of the gap between the door and its frame. A massive cutting table took up the center of the room. Part of an ox carcass lay on the table, with a pile of packages wrapped in wax paper stacked next to it. Open barrels lined the long wall to the left of the door. In some of them was an assortment of bones, in others lay scrapes and chunks of fat for rendering.
“It's ... very nice, Mr. Hersh.” Charity looked around her. Adam busied himself looking at the knives on the cutting table.
“Just Hersh, missy. I be a simple butcher not a lord.”
“That's what Bustlebun used to say, remember Charity?” Adam tested the edge of a cleaver, and then picked up a nearby stone. He began stroking the edge of the cleaver with it, using long smooth movements of his arm to push the stone.
Hersh watched Adam out of the corner of his eye while he explained to Charity the reason for the barrels. When he finished, he turned and looked at Adam, resting his hands on his hips. He raised an eyebrow in question. “Who taught you to use a stone, laddie?”
“Lately it seems I get asked that question whenever I do something in front of someone.” Adam put down the stone and the cleaver.
“You sharpen blades a lot, eh?” Hersh smiled.
Adam shook his head, “No, That's not what I mean.”
Charity broke in. “What he means is that we've had people ask us questions about where we learned to do something before. The last time wasn't too long ago.”
Hersh's smile dimmed. “Hey, now, I mean nothing by asking. I just be asking. You use that stone like you know what you're doing. Whoever taught you did the job right.”
Adam looked up at Hersh. “That's part of it. Nobody taught me. I just knew.”
Hersh's eyes widened. “You just knew? By Bardoc, that be amazing.” He tossed a joint of oxen onto the table in front of Adam. “Show me what you do with this.”
After Adam finished with the joint, Hersh stood there shaking his head. “You may know blades, lad, but you need someone to show you the way around a joint that be for sure.”
“I'm sorry I ruined it, Hersh.”
“It's all right, lad. We just turn it into stew meat, that's all. Something funny, missy?” Hersh turned at Charity's muffled snickering.
She took her hand away from her mouth. “After seeing him be so sure of himself for all this time...” She giggled again “You don't know what...” She covered her mouth and turned away, her shoulders shaking as she laughed.
Adam stood over the ruined joint, and glowered at his sister. “Do you want to have a go?” He held up the butcher knife.
Hersh took the knife away from him, and laid it back onto the cutting table. “Naw, laddie. She be learning another job if she wants it. The one my daughter had before she left. You practice on that other joint. Come,” He headed to a door on the back wall of the work area.” I'll show you my sausage maker.”
Charity felt misgivings brewing in her stomach as Hersh led her out of the workroom to an outbuilding separated by a small courtyard from the main shop.
Inside, the building was unremarkable. It had a counter that lined one wall with a deep sink at its near end. The other wall contained a strange device that had a crank handle sticking out its side like that one would see at the top of a well. The device had a funnel top and a round middle. A nozzle poked out of the middle perpendicular from the handle. Beneath the nozzle sat a large bowl. It gleamed as if freshly cleaned. A box sat on the counter behind the device. Hersh strode over to it, and reached into the box.
“This be my sausage maker, missy. Watch this.” He pulled some meat out of the box. It had been diced into small chunks, and was coated with strong-smelling herbs and spices. He filled the funnel with some of the meat. From a small pail behind the box with the meat, he pulled a glistening translucent tube, shook off the water, and fit one end of it onto the nozzle. As he turned the crank, the tube began to fill with the finely minced meat mixture. He continued to turn the handle until the mixture no longer came out of the nozzle.
“Now we make the links.” He moved the stuffed tube to the counter, and laid it out in a line next to a roll of string. He pulled a length of string off the roll, and tied off one end of the tube. He repeated the process at the other end, and then tied a loop tightly around the tube at a point roughly six inches down the length.
He turned and handed the string to Charity. “Here, you make some.”
Charity took the string, and tied off more links trying to equal the size of the one Hersh made. When she was done, there was a link sausage lying on the counter ready for boiling.
Hersh inspected the
links, looking at the knots in the ties closely. He set the links back down onto the counter, and grunted. “You've a deft hand, missy. My daughter had one, too. Want me to show you how we mix the meat?”
“I think I did better with the second joint. I took my time, and I also took a close look at some of the cuts up front. At least Hersh didn't yell at me, all he did was pat me on the shoulder, and say, ‘Better, lad, better. Not good, but better.” Adam sat on the edge of one of the beds in their room.
Charity leaned back in her chair. “I had it a little better than that. All I had to do with the meat was chop it into little chunks, and mix in the spices. The problem was in mixing the spices; they had to be done just right, otherwise they wouldn't have been Hersh's sausages.”
“At least he seems patient.” Adam lay back on the bed, and yawned. “I wish I could feel the cuts the way I can the edge of a blade. Do you smell something?”
Charity wrinkled her nose. “No” she said quickly. “It must be leftovers from the rendering. I've got to use the jakes. I'll be back soon.”
“G'night.” His breathing began to slow.
* * * *
Cloutier balanced the savory morsel on a wedge of toast, and conveyed it to his mouth. The cook had done well. The kidneys were perfect, warmed through but still quite rare, so that the flavor of the urine wasn't eliminated entirely from the complex. A buxom maid leaned forward, exposing a generous expanse of breast, and poured him some more tea. He sipped the bitter brew, and sighed. What did the peasantry see in that horrid tisane?
He picked up the small crystal bell to his left, and rang it once. The staff had learned to respond upon the first ring. If one did not, the second ring was the last thing they ever heard.
His manservant, Youch, appeared at the door. “Yes, Milord?”
“Are our, shall we say, guests? Resting comfortably as per my instructions?” Cloutier sipped some more tea, smiling inwardly at Youch's shudder. The lower classes superstitiously believed tea to cause impotence.
“Yes, Milord. They are in separate areas of the dungeon. They each believe they are prisoners of the other's city. The torture is proceeding as you deemed.”
Cloutier speared another kidney. “Good, good. Allow them to enjoy our hospitality for the winter, and then deposit them unconscious outside of their own city gates.” He placed the kidney on another toast wedge. “And Youch.”
“Milord?”
“They had best be alive enough to tell their stories, or you know...”
Youch shuddered again, but this time it wasn't over his Lord's choice of beverage.
Cloutier chewed the kidney and toast reflectively. The master would be pleased. Soon, the two he spoke of would find themselves caught in a war between Spu and Avern, cities that had been friends for centuries. Delicious.
* * * *
Milward opened the ancient volume with care. As gentle as he was, a small crack still appeared in the tender vellum upon which the prophecy was inscribed. A gasp came from the cleric standing at his elbow.
“Oh, pipe down. It's not ruined.” Milward snapped. The cleric swallowed any further exclamations. One did not upset a cranky wizard unless one had an affinity for lily pads.
Milward studied the crabbed script. He cursed inwardly the obsessiveness clerics had towards exacting authenticity. Legend claimed Labad wrote his prophecy in his own blood using a dagger. The copier must have used a similar instrument; some of the letters were nearly indecipherable. He rubbed his eyes, and began reading the prophecy again from the top.
“The two shall come from the outside, through Emerald and Dragon Fire they come. Sword and bow will be their sign. Unequaled in prowess though light in years. Brother and sister from another world, born of the blood of Labad.
“Destiny will push them and terror will stalk them, but yet they persevere.
War will divide them when friends fight to the death. One, to the North and one to the South.
Emperor's champion becomes the bow, and the sword becomes King.
Through his power the destroyer is born, through his power only will it die.
Foe of wolf and dragon, master of steel. Through these you will know him.
Guide to Elven Chance, master of warriors, Earl's doom. Through these shall you know her.
The wise will feel the growth of power and know the time is here.
Without guidance the Two shall fail and fall into great tribulation, but guidance sometimes comes in strange guise.
Son will kill fathe,r but pay the price of pride's severing.
Creation will hang in the balance when the shadow comes. Only the promised ones may prevent its destruction.
All this I have seen. All this I have written. Labad, Philosopher King, Lord of the Western Lands."
Milward closed the volume with trembling hands. He'd forgotten how terrifying Labad's vision was. It was all well and good for an academic discussion over brandy when all that was being discussed was a view of a possibility. This was happening now, and he needed to be with the twins now. His gut twisted with anxiety and he brushed past the cleric in his haste to get back to the road. This was no time for a leisurely stroll through the woods, he had to use the quickest method possible, and that meant that he needed a lot of room for what he intended to do.
The Clerics watched the Wizard scuttle out of their Monastery without a word being said on either side. Milward had too much on his mind, and the Clerics wanted to keep their diet free of flies.
Milward walked away from the Monastery until he had a good half league between himself and its door. Holding his arms out at his side, he began turning in a counterclockwise direction. A close observer would have seen small static discharges sparking off his eyebrows and his hair. He built up the speed of his turn until he was merely a blur. The static discharges increased with the speed of his spin until they resembled lightning strikes. Huge slabs of earth were blown apart as the bolts grounded into the soil. A vortex formed over the blur that was the wizard, and then, abruptly, he shot up into it and vanished. A clap of thunder boomed out from where the vortex had been, and rolled over the open field, disturbing napping wildlife and scaring the Clerics back into the Monastery.
* * * *
The wolf pack watched the Wizard's departure from a knoll that extended out beyond an Alder grove above the field where he'd worked his shaping.
The Alpha wolf turned to his mate.” Our friend couldn't wait for us. We will go to the wood across from this place. The young will grow fat there.” Wolves, unlike men never bothered themselves with wondering why. Wolves never looked back.
She sniffed the air. The two-legs departure left a stink. “Do the three agree?”
He looked at his mate contritely. “We shall find out, my mate. Come.”
* * * *
Cloutier considered his guests. “Are you quite sure they'll live?”
Youch swallowed the lump in his throat. He looked at the prisoners Cloutier called his guests. The winter had been less than kind on both of them. They looked to be more skeleton than man, and open sores in their skin festered, attracting flies. They were unconscious now, being fed a potion of tisane laced with Foxweed juice. They would be out for several hours, yet. If they died before being able to relate what they believed to their respective cities ... He shook off the horrifying mind picture, and turned to his Lord the Earl of Berggren.
“Be assured, milord, they will live to start your war. I have arranged for them to be ministered to on the journey and by separate physics outside of each city to ensure they do so. The physics will corroborate each tale. A nice touch, I believe, milord?”
Cloutier fingered the loose skin on one of his guest's arms, being careful to avoid touching the sores. He dropped the arm, and wiped his hand on a silken cloth. “Satisfactory, Youch. Most satisfactory.”
* * * *
“Where did you find him?” The Baron wiped his hands on a clean cloth.
“Just outside the city gate, milord.” The gu
ard held the cup of water so the injured man could drink.
The subject of the Baron's question was drinking greedily at the water. He was the eldest son of one of Spu's more prominent families. His parents had nearly driven the Baron insane with their constant pleas for aid when he'd turned up missing. Now that he'd been found outside the city gate, emaciated, dehydrated and covered with half-healed wounds and weeping sores, the Baron intended to find who to repay for this insult to his city.
* * * *
“Find out where he's been.” The Duke snapped at the Physics tending his cousin. The early watch had discovered the boy as they opened the gates for morning freight to enter Avern's market square.
“That will take some time, milord.” The older of the two tending the boy said cautiously. “At least until the fever breaks, and he is no longer delirious.”
“Hmmm.” The Duke was not pleased, but he knew better than to push the Physics too hard. “Patience is a virtue for those born with it", he thought. “Well, let me know when he begins to come out of it, not after.” He emphasized the word begins.
“Yes, milord.”
“Whoever is responsible for this is going to learn that some of us haven't forgotten the old way of exacting our revenge.” The Duke thought, as he stalked back to his office. A small stack of papers demanded attention, but his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of quartering, impaling, and other forms of artistic expression.
* * * *
“That's it, lad. You may have made stewmeat out of that first joint, but by Labad you've learned quick. That's a deft touch you have, or my name isn't Hersh.”
Adam wiped the sweat away from his brow with the back of his sleeve. Hersh had continuously tossed him joints and sections of ox, swine, mutton, and various game animals all day, testing him on the different cuts one could make out of them. His tunic was soaked through with sweat, and his hands ached from gripping the knives and the bone saw. A cloth was wrapped around his left hand where a slip with one of the razor sharp fillet knives had removed a slice of knuckle. In spite of his discomfort, he did feel a swell of pride at his accomplishment. Whatever force, or destiny, was driving him seemed to also affect his ability with blades in Hersh's world as well as Ethan's. Each hunk of meat Hersh tossed in front of him seemed to be just another step up until he could almost see where the blade needed to go, where the saw needed to be laid.