Well of Sorrows

by Benjamin Tate

  Colin shuddered, and thoughts of Cutter suddenly made him wonder where Walter was. He scanned those nearest to the depression in the ground, then turned toward the wagons.

  Walter and Jackson were both standing in front of the wagons, hands raised to shade their eyes from the sun as they watched the activity, the two isolated from the rest of the members of the expedition by a significant distance. Jackson pulled something from his satchel, then sat down in the grass, scribbling madly. Walter pulled a waterskin out and drank, his gaze turning from where Arten and the others had begun to cut into the herd toward where Colin and the rest waited.

  He caught sight of Colin and lowered his waterskin with a grimace, as if the water had suddenly taken on a bitter taste.

  Colin jerked his attention back to the hunt, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. He spat to one side, but the acridness in the back of his throat, like bile, didn’t go away. His hand kneaded the leather pocket of his sling, the ties biting into his forearm as he flexed the muscles, and he forced himself to stop with effort.

  On the plains, a purple arc of lightning flashed from cloud to cloud in the far off storm, and a whistle pierced the air. Arten’s group cut sharply to the left, angling into the herd of beasts. As soon as they shifted direction, the sentinel deer snorted and stamped their feet.

  Nearly every head in the herd rose, ears and tails flicking.

  Arten’s group didn’t falter. They bore down on the herd fast, the hooves of their horses a low, grumbling thunder.

  Before they’d covered half the distance to the herd, the lead animals bolted. The herd hesitated half a breath, maybe less, and then every creature in it turned and sprinted away from the horses.

  Directly toward where the workhorses stood.

  One of the men waiting in the depression began to whoop and holler, and Colin turned to glare at him, saw the man nearest motion him to be quiet. The noise of Arten’s group was drowned out in the sudden thunder of thousands of hooves as the strange deer picked up momentum, charging toward Colin’s position, their sleek forms bounding forward, leaping hidden stones, small ridges, heads laid back and straining forward. Colin tensed, slid a rock from his pocket into the sling, held it ready as the deer closed in on the wedge of workhorses.

  At the last moment, something startled the deer in front—movement from one of the workhorses, or the wild barking of the dogs who’d been tied up at the wagons—and with a flash of their white tails, the charging herd banked, streaked hides glistening. Arten cut sharply to the right, trying to cut them off, but the majority of the herd rumbled past the mouth of the funnel, tearing their way out toward the center of the plains.

  But not all of them. A large group at the rear of the herd split off, thundering through the wedge of workhorses. The riders began shouting, slapping their horses’ flanks, the deer shying away from the sounds, bolting toward the other side of the wedge, where the second line whooped and roared, sending them back. Panicked, the deer raced down the center, heading straight for the safety of the gap in the two banks, down into the depression where Colin and the rest stood. Everyone was yelling, bellowing at the top of their lungs, swinging their shirts or their blankets overhead, slapping their sticks into the ground or their hands to their thighs. Colin cupped one hand over his mouth and shouted out nonsense words, then began laughing, his heart pounding in his chest, an echoing roar to the sound of the hooves, to the feel of their movement through his feet, the ground around him shaking. The strange deer skittered away from the noise, and he began swinging the sling overhead, still laughing, tried to pick out a single deer in the mass of bodies, found it impossible with all of them moving so fast, the tans and whites blending into each other. He realized their colorations were a form of protection, that he couldn’t pick out individuals in the crowd—

  And then the first arrows shot down into the depression. The deer had made it to the gap, were within the archers’ range. He couldn’t hear the twang of the bowstrings above the roar of the herd—

  But he heard the first animal scream. A raw, terrified sound that made him wince back, that made his stomach twist inside him. The sound was repeated as more arrows struck into the heart of the herd. Colin cringed beneath the sound, felt it grating along his spine, and he let the swing of his sling lapse.

  Then he smelled blood.

  Before he could react, the entire herd shifted. Near their center, where the arrows had struck, the herd shuddered as individual deer twisted and bolted every which way, trying to escape. They veered away from the scent, from the screams of their brethren dying, chaos erupting as some stumbled in their fright, falling in their haste. With an action too swift to follow, Colin saw the main group of animals split, turning at what Colin thought would be an impossible angle—impossible for a horse anyway—

  And suddenly half the captured herd was headed directly toward him. The lead animals were beyond panic, beyond reason, their large brown eyes rimmed white, their mouths flecked with foam, their hides slicked with sweat.

  Colin choked on his own spit. Reflexively, he raised the sling again, whipped it around once, twice, then let the ball of the sling free, felt the cords snap as the stone flew. Eyes widening, he saw the stone vanish into the onrushing stampede. He couldn’t tell if it struck one of the deer or not. They didn’t slow, didn’t even flinch from the motion.

  He roared as they bore down on him. At the last moment, he covered his face and head with both arms and dropped down into a crouch, making himself as small a target as possible. He heard the animals thunder past, felt their bodies to either side, wind pulling at his shirt, his hair, his sling, the ground beneath him shuddering. He risked a quick glance, saw one of the animals leap over him as if he were a stone, dirt and sod raining down on his arms. Another and another leaped from the grass as the entire herd streaked past, flashes of brown and white, nothing more, their musky scent strong, almost overwhelming.

  And as suddenly as they were on him, they were gone.

  He shot upward, heart shuddering, and turned to see the group racing toward the wagons. Walter and Jackson saw them coming, bolted toward the nearest wagon, Jackson leaving his satchel and notebooks on the ground behind. Shouts rose, and women ducked behind wagons, some tossing children before them. Walter ducked under the bed of a wagon, Jackson on his heels, and then the hundreds of deer were on them, swirling around the wagons like water around stone, re- forming into a dense group on the far side.

  Colin watched as they turned to the south once they were past the wagons. He stepped forward, intent on those around the wagon, until he saw Karen, staring off after the animals. He gave a whoop of excitement, unable to contain himself, unable to stop grinning, his arms tingling; then he turned to look into the depression behind.

  Four animals were down, three dead, the fourth still moving, although its horrible screams had died down into pitiable huffing grunts. One of the men approached it carefully, wary of the strange but deadly looking horns, a wicked dagger in one hand, a look of distaste on his face. Colin watched as he seized one of the long, pointed horns in one hand, wrenched the animal’s head to the side so the horns were out of the way, and slit the deer’s throat. On the far side of the depression, the other half of the group of deer that had been caught in the wedge had angled southward as well, heading back toward the main herd, now a dark splotch on the plains, like a shadow. Arten and the workhorses were galloping toward the kills. Men on all sides were yipping and calling out in elation, everyone converging on the bodies, on the scent of blood.

  Then someone roared, “Look!”

  The warning in the voice sliced through the elation like a blade.

  Colin spun and saw someone pointing toward the northeast. His gaze flicked in that direction, focused on the black-purple storm in the distance first. He frowned in annoyance, ready to call out in derision that it was just a storm—

  And then his eyes settled on one of the hillocks between them and the storm, the highest hillock.


  There, in full sunlight, easily visible, stood a group of men.

  “Who are they?” someone asked as Colin scrambled up the slope to join his father and most of the men as they gathered on the far bank. The rest remained below, beginning the processing of the strange deer. The scent of blood became thick and cloying in the heavy air, to the point where Colin began breathing through his mouth so he wouldn’t have to smell it.

  “I don’t know,” his father responded. “People from one of the previous expeditions?”

  “Something’s wrong with them,” Sam said, his eyes squinted. “They’re . . . too big to be men, too tall.”

  “How can you tell at this distance?”

  Sam shrugged. “I can’t. But something about them isn’t quite right.”

  “Didn’t Cutter and Beth say that the people they saw were shorter?”

  “Yes.”

  No one said anything to that, but Tom frowned. “How many are there?”

  “I can see five . . . no, six. There’s someone standing mostly below the hillock they’re on.”

  “It looks like one of the men in front is carrying some kind of spear,” Colin said. “He’s got it angled out away from his body. And now he’s pointing it toward us.”

  The men around him shifted nervously.

  Arten had pulled his group of horses up about a hundred paces away, facing the unknown figures, but now he spun his horse about and trotted up to Tom, dismounting smoothly. “Send some of the men back to get our swords and any other weapons they can carry.”

  Tom’s brow creased. “They’re too far away to do anything. We don’t even know if they’re a threat.”

  “The other wagon trains never returned, right?”

  Tom turned to order a group back to the wagons to retrieve the swords.

  “We’ve gotten rather lax with the sentries and other defenses,” Arten continued, terse and all business. “I’ll double the Armory in the guard at night. You might want to do the same with the men from Lean-to.” He considered for a moment, not taking his eyes off of the distant group. Then he swore. “I guess it was too much to assume that this land would be completely uninhabited.”

  “Tom,” Sam said, his voice layered with warning. He’d shifted his gaze back to the wagons, where the men were gathering the weapons, their motions a little panicked. He motioned to where Walter and Jackson were climbing the bank. “Here comes Walter.”

  Walter arrived before Tom could answer. Most of the others from the expedition drifted away, shooting Walter and Jackson dark glances.

  “Who are they?” Walter demanded.

  “We don’t know. They’re too distant to make out clearly.”

  “Then send someone out to meet them! If they’re from another Company, if they think they’re going to lay claim to this land—”

  Arten broke through the beginning tirade, his voice calm but hard. “I don’t think they’re from another Company. I don’t even think they’re men.”

  That brought Walter up short. He glared at Arten uncertainly, to see whether he was serious, then snapped his fingers at Jackson. “Jackson, the spyglass.”

  Jackson slid a cylindrical case from behind his back, the strap across one shoulder, and opened it, withdrawing another compact cylinder, handing it over without a word. The Company representative’s face was set, jaw slightly clenched, lips pressed together. He glanced toward Colin as Walter took the spyglass, his eyes a deep green. He held Colin’s gaze a moment, then turned away dismissively, running one hand through his dirty blond hair before shifting his attention back to Walter, who had extended the spyglass and raised it to one eye.

  Walter’s body suddenly stiffened.

  After a moment, he lowered the spyglass.

  “May I?” Tom asked, one hand held out.

  Walter considered briefly, then handed over the spyglass without a word.

  Tom raised it to his eye, frowned as he peered through it, adjusting it slightly.

  And then he grew still as well.

  He lowered the glass slowly, eyes flashing toward Arten. “They look somewhat like us, but they certainly aren’t from Andover. Set as many guardsmen as you want. We’ll circle the wagons around the kills. It will take time to butcher the animals and prepare the meat and hides. We’ll camp here tonight, set up some defenses in case those . . . people decide to come closer.”

  Walter bristled. “I’m the Proprietor. I’ll decide where we’ll camp and what we’ll do.”

  Colin’s father met Walter’s gaze, his eyes full of withheld fury. “You lost those rights back at the Bluff, at the burial.”

  As he spoke, one of the men still watching the distance gasped.

  Everyone turned sharply, the Armory reaching toward weapons that they didn’t have yet, the rest drawing knives or daggers.

  “They’re gone,” the man who’d gasped said with a swallow. “They were there one moment, and then the next . . .”

  Uneasy murmurs arose, the group unconsciously pulling in tighter to one another. Colin suppressed a frustrated shudder. He’d desperately wanted to look through the spyglass, had willed his father to hand it to him, but now it didn’t matter.

  Instead, his father handed the spyglass back to Jackson.

  “You can’t do this,” Walter spat. “This is my expedition, given to me by my father—”

  “This isn’t Portstown,” Tom said, anger creeping into his voice. Anger Colin realized he’d held for days, since they’d left the Bluff. He turned to Arten, ignoring Walter. “Circle the wagons and set up the defenses.”

  “No,” Walter said. “We’ll butcher the animals, but we’ll move on after that. Arten, go tell the others.”

  Arten didn’t move.

  Walter spun. “Do it! You work for the Carrente Family! You work for me!”

  Arten shook his head. “Not any more. Not since we left Carrente lands.”

  Walter turned, caught the black expressions on everyone’s faces, all except Jackson’s. Rage filled his eyes, smothering the shocked disbelief. He drew himself upright, fuming.

  His gaze fell on Colin, jaw clenched, a moment before he stormed down the bank, back toward the wagons. Frowning, Jackson followed.

  Colin’s father let out a long, heavy sigh.

  “It needed to be done,” Arten said as the men carrying the Armory’s swords and other assorted weapons arrived. “The rest of the expedition would never follow him, not after what he said at the Bluff.”

  “I know. But I was hoping he’d change.”

  Arten snorted, strapping his sword around his waist. “No one changes. Not that drastically anyway.”

  Colin had finished passing out some of the cooked deer meat to the guards on sentry duty and was headed back toward the camp when Walter found him. He never even saw the Proprietor’s son or Jackson. Darkness had settled, the last of the light fading from the sky to the west. As he stepped into the shadows thrown by the wagons and the campfires of the expedition inside their protective circle, a hand reached around his neck from behind and clamped tight to his mouth, fingers digging in with bruising force. An arm reached across his chest from the opposite side, jerking him backward, bringing him up tight against his assailant’s chest a moment before their two bodies hit the side of the wagon. Colin’s eyes flew wide, thoughts of the strange men they’d seen on the plains flaring bright into his mind—

  And then, in a hoarse whisper right next to his ear, breath hot against his neck, he heard Walter mutter, “So your father thinks he owns this little wagon train, does he?”

  All of Colin’s fear—all of the prickling terror that had flooded down through his arms and legs and gut, making them fluid and rubbery—vanished. The rage that he’d buried, that had sat locked inside since his day in the penance lock, burned forth, searing through his chest.

  He lashed out, kicking, body writhing beneath Walter’s hold, realizing as he did so that he wasn’t as small as he used to be, that he and Walter were nearly the same height now. Walter
cursed, his grip tightening, fingers digging even deeper into Colin’s cheek, into his side. Still kicking, Colin reached up and back with his hands, went for Walter’s face, for his hair. He felt Walter’s head jerk backward, heard it thud into the side of the wagon, but Walter’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, he hissed, “Punch him! Punch him, you pissant Company bastard!”

  He sensed more than saw Jackson move, the shadows too deep—

  And then the fist landed in his stomach, awkwardly, but with enough force to double Colin over, Walter dragged down with him before the Proprietor’s son caught his balance and jerked him back upright.

  “Again!” Walter barked. “Harder!”

  The second blow drove the wind from him. He gasped, breathed in and out through his nose, nostrils flaring, as Walter chuckled.

  Before he’d recovered, Walter spun and shoved him face first into the wagon. The Proprietor’s son leaned hard into his back. One of Colin’s arms was trapped between his chest and the wagon at a painful angle. Colin slammed his other hand into the side of the wagon, tried to push himself away, but Walter had his full weight behind him.

  “You’d better hope that your father wises up, or I’m going to make your life miserable,” Walter said through clenched teeth.

  “I’m not afraid of you anymore, Walter,” Colin gasped.

  He grunted. “We’ll see. I don’t have my father holding me back anymore. I’ll find some way to hurt you. And out here . . . no one’s safe out here.”

  Then he pushed back, the pressure against Colin gone.

  Colin spun, back against the wagon, but he couldn’t see anything except the flicker of firelight from behind the wagons and the stars and moonlight farther out on the plains. In the lee of the wagon, there was nothing.

  He thought he was alone until another voice, soft and low, said, “Your father must realize that the Company will never accept this.”

  Colin sucked in a sharp breath, the Company representative’s cold, implacable voice slicing through his rage with a thin blade of fear. But then he heard the rustle of grass as Jackson retreated, and the silence of the night descended again.