Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1)

by Kaitlin Bellamy

  Merrick’s eye fell on the half-eaten roll in Fox’s hand. “You gonna eat that?”

  Fox tossed the unfinished piece to Merrick and stretched out on the ground by the breakfast fire, staring up at the sky. His muscles were sore from the training Neil was putting him through, but it was a comfortable kind of pain. One that the cold ground eased somewhat. He’d discovered that the morning practice sessions were the only thing that truly relaxed him and kept his mind off its worries. And so he pushed himself harder, begging to learn something new every day.

  He closed his eyes, half-listening to the musician’s continued ramblings. He let his mind wander, thinking about the chores he had to do that day, and how much he’d rather be at the Shavid camp. The more time he spent with them, the harder it was to tear himself away to everyday life. He found himself humming Radda’s songs as he worked, always eager to get back to the camp for their songs and performances at sundown. How lucky Neil was, to be allowed to wander with them. For a moment, Fox breathed deep, taking in the exotic smells of the camp. Saddle polish and ink, new spices. A clean, sharp scent that might have been soap. The strings of the Shavid instruments, even the paint on the wagons smelled of adventure and a thousand different places.

  And then, just as Fox started to take another breath, an unwelcome but frighteningly familiar scent hit him, making him sit straight up and cough wildly. His eyes watered, but he ignored them, waving off Merrick’s worried “Are you alright?” Instead, he scanned the horizon. Somewhere, a messenger bird was flying in from the burned city. He could smell it, and almost feel the beat of its wings against his face.

  There. A flash of color, a fabric scrap tied around the leg of a bird winging its way toward the Five Sides. It was bigger and darker than most Thiccan messenger birds, and it was drawing attention from the Shavid. As it flapped even closer, Fox was nearly drowning in its smell on the wind. A smell of charcoal and smoke. A smell of fear.

  He stood, watching as the bird dropped low behind the tavern and disappeared. He turned to catch Merrick’s eye, and found the musician already staring at him. He looked perplexed, eyeing Fox like a puzzle he was trying to work out. Finally, he said quietly, “You could smell it, couldn’t you?”

  Fox hesitated, then nodded slowly.

  Merrick stared at him for a moment, eyes growing wider by the second. Then he scrambled to his feet, mouthing silently, for once at a loss for words.

  “I do that, sometimes,” said Fox quietly. “Father calls it a hunter’s instincts. But he’s a hunter himself, and I’ve got a better nose even then him. I smelled you all coming ... and I smelled the fire. The one that bird’s come to warn us about.”

  The valley bells began to toll, ringing three times in succession and then pausing for several moments before starting up again. A Council Call, summoning the most influential and aged Thiccans to the Five Sides. Whatever message the bird had brought, it wasn’t good news.

  Fox kept talking. It seemed that now he’d started to spill his secret, his mouth wouldn’t be still. “It’s stronger sometimes than others, and I don’t know how it works exactly. But I’ve been able to do it all my life. Only now, recently ... sometimes I even smell things I’m not trying to. Like the fire. I knew about it days ago. It’s somewhere to the north ...”

  “Spirit’s Mercy,” whispered Merrick. “You knew for days?”

  Fox nodded, suddenly very aware of how dry his tongue was. He swallowed, and the valley bells fell silent. For a moment, the two boys simply stared at each other. Then Merrick took a step back, then another. And then he turned and ran through the camp, shouting for Radda.

  Fox didn’t wait to see what would happen next. He was already running in the opposite direction, heading straight for the Five Sides. At the start of the main road, he turned and darted around the backs of the buildings, finally leaping over the low courtyard wall and coming to a halt just inside the back door. As he leaned against the doorframe, catching his breath, he could hear the deep hum of a dozen male voices in the common room. He crept to the kitchen doorway, careful not to make a sound. There, he edged his way into the common room, just enough to hear more clearly and see who was there. He’d only just started scanning the room, picking out the faces of those who’d deemed themselves important enough to answer the Council Call, when a sharp tug on the hem of his breeches made him drop to his knees. He found himself face-to-face with Lai, crouched on all fours and gesturing to him to stay silent. She beckoned with her head and he followed her. They crawled along behind the bar, just as they used to when they were younger and wanted to listen to stories long after they’d been sent to bed. Now, the sounds filling the common room were not those of fireside tales and songs, but what sounded instead like the beginnings of an argument. As Lai and Fox stationed themselves at the far end of the bar, just beside the wall, they could hear someone say, “I don’t understand what he’s doing here.”

  It was dark by the wall, and Fox and Lai were able to see the whole common room without being discovered. The “he” in question appeared to be Moss, who growled from his usual table, “He has got just as much right to be here as any, you fat-fed tub of worm’s waste. And more right than some!”

  The man who’d spoken first stood, gripping the head of the ore-pick on his belt. Fox recognized him as Armac Flint, quarrymaster and head of the miners’ guild. He prided himself on being part of the only “pure” family in Thicca Valley. From the very first of his ancestors, all the way down to his own sons, the Flint family were miners. No one changed professions, and no one married outside the mining community. Consequently, he was the undisputed leader of the valley miners, though from what Fox had heard, Armac had let the power go to his head in the last few years.

  Borric raised his hands, stepping forward to intercept the miner before he and Moss came to blows. “There’s more important things to worry about now. We’re all friends here, but whoever raises a hand against another member of this council will be asked to leave.” For a moment he and Armac stared each other down. Armac was big, but Borric was much bigger. Finally, grudgingly, Armac sat heavily back at his table, crossing his arms over his chest. The tension in the room released somewhat, replaced instead by the fidgeting of restless men.

  “What are we still waiting for, Borric?” asked one of the farmers. “We answered the call. We’re all here, now what’s this about?”

  “Not all,” said Borric. “This news is bigger than us. I’ve sent Picck out to fetch the last member of our group. When he arrives, then we’ll talk.”

  The common room filled with an uncomfortable buzzing again, but no one spoke out against Borric. Fox shifted slightly, making sure to stay as hidden as possible, and Lai whispered in his ear.

  “Father had me take the bird out to the hut, and let it rest with the others. But it was so agitated, it sent all the other birds and even the goats into a frenzy. I had to sing them all quiet, and by the time I got back everyone was here.”

  “You don’t know what the note said?” whispered Fox.

  She shook her head.

  “I’ve been trying to talk to you for days,” said Fox, dropping his voice even lower. “Something happened, on the last night of the Contests. I left early, remember?”

  Lai nodded and frowned. “You were sick.”

  And just as Fox opened his mouth to finally tell her all of it, about the strange fits of cold and shivers, about the fire to the north, about Merrick’s strange reaction to his gift, the door opened and the common room fell silent.

  Picck had returned. Fox’s vision was partially obscured by the forest of chair and table legs, and for a moment he could only see several pairs of boots in the doorway. Then the party stepped over the threshold, and Fox shrank back into the side of the bar, trying to make himself inseparable from the wood. It was Radda, along with Otter and two more Shavid that Fox hadn’t met. He knew the tall one was called Donlan, and he was one of the Players. And the other stranger was a woman. Fox recognized her as one
of the dancers, and he was fairly certain she was married to someone else in the company. He didn’t know her name, but he was shocked that Radda had brought her. The Council was a man’s duty, he must have known that.

  Some of the men seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Talk grew louder, until the farmer who’d spoken earlier raised his voice above everyone else’s. “This is no place for strangers. And it’s certainly no place for a woman.”

  “And a dancer’s private tent is no place for a man,” the woman said calmly. “But you had no problem drunkenly stumbling in there two nights past.”

  A smattering of chuckles danced through the room, and Lai whispered, “I like her!”

  “Enough,” said Borric before the farmer could reply. “There’s things on the horizon that affect us all, strangers and Shavid included. I invited Radda Southwick to join us, and whomever he chooses to join him in council is his business.” He gestured to a nearby table, and

  Radda and his company sat, while Picck made his way back to the kitchen. Just before the door, Borric caught his nephew by the arm and said, so quietly that Fox and Lai could barely catch it, “Take the day with your pretty lady. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Picck looked uneasily confused, but nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. When he’d gone, Borric turned and took his place at the head of the room, with his back to the fireplace.

  Fox and Lai shrank back even farther into their hiding place, and the room fell silent.

  For a moment Borric didn’t speak. He pulled the scrap of parchment message out of his pocket and smoothed it between his fingers. Finally, he said, “There’s been a fire. In Hammon, only a few days northwest of us. It’s not a big town, but it was prosperous. Now, it’s scarcely more than rubble and ash.”

  “That’s all very tragic,” growled Armac. “But what’s it got to do with us?”

  Borric worried the edges of the message over and over again with his fingertips. The more Fox watched, the more he realized that Borric’s face was lined with an emotion that Fox had never seen on him before: fear. Big, laughing Borric was afraid of something. And that, more than anything else, terrified Fox.

  “The fire,” said Borric after a moment, “is not the problem. The fire is the outcome. The result. The end of a gruesome and bloody raid, at the hands of the Desolata.”

  What little sound that had filled the room vanished. Breathing was muted, shuffling feet were stilled all at once. Even the merry and comforting crackling of the fire seemed to be swallowed in the abrupt and terrible silence that swept over the tavern.

  Nobody spoke. There was simply nothing to say. After a few moments, Borric continued, and even his low and quiet voice seemed far too loud in the empty air. “The survivors are few, and scattered. Seeking refuge in the neighboring towns and valleys. Should some of them make it this far, we should be prepared to take them in. There is no obligation to any of you, of course. Times are tough for all, but I ask you to think on how you’d like to be treated under such a crisis.”

  “Does this mean they’re on the move?” asked one of the waresmen. His voice was barely above a whisper, but it could be clearly heard across the entire room.

  “Yes,” said Borric simply. It was just one word, but it brought despair to the faces of every man in the room. Except the Shavid.

  “Not to intrude,” said Radda, “but might I ask ... who are they? These Desolata?”

  “They’re men,” said Borric. “They live to the far west —”

  “They’re not men,” rumbled Moss. All eyes turned to him, hunched over his cold soup at his table. “They used to be. Hundreds of years ago, before the curse, they were. Then Sovesta’s wealth and beauty were taken from her. We became a barren wasteland in most parts, and the worst of it was the Avet Region in the west, now called the Desolate. Once a series of beautiful farmlands. But fruit began to rot on the trees, and calves died in their mothers’ wombs. The region tore itself apart from the inside out, but somehow the survivors grew stronger. And they strengthened with each generation. Now, they are the Desolata. The Desolate bandits.”

  A collective shudder went around the room. Even Fox had known from a very young age about the Desolate, and the wild men that lived there. It was because of them that the caravan had to leave when it did every year. Too late in the season, and the Tessoc Pass would have closed with snow. Other than that, the only other open road led straight through the Desolate.

  “They’re not men,” Moss repeated. “Men have mercy. Men have souls. Men can be brought down by the stinging cold of a harsh winter, but they survive it in scarcely more than rags and bare skin. They feel no pain, and have no fear. And they feast on the flesh of their victims.”

  “And now,” said Borric, “they’re moving. They’ve never come this far east before. Usually they stay confined to the ruins of the Desolate, preying on travelers. Sometimes we get a report from the towns nearest the Desolate that they’ve started raiding, but it’s always over quickly. They never stray far from their homeland.”

  “So what’s different now?” asked Radda.

  “Does it matter?” said Borric. “The point is, this affects all of Sovesta. And that includes you and your company. No one is safe, least of all those who wander the road as you do, so take heed. I don’t know when you plan to leave us, but until then I encourage you to seek shelter within friendly houses here, instead of sleeping in your tents outside. I can offer you a handful of rooms at the inn, if you’re interested.”

  Radda waved off the suggestion. “We can discuss lodging later. What about the survivors of the raided town, and the people here? What protection can we offer?”

  “We need none of your protection,” said Armac, apparently no longer content with sitting quietly. “We survive the bitterest winters here, and we are men of strength and survival in this valley.”

  “Every able man can help,” said Farmer Bracken. “We’ve never had to defend ourselves from any invasion in Thicca.”

  “What of the survivors?” said another miner. “Those who will come here seeking aid? How many can we truly take in before we run out of food ourselves?”

  Every man had his opinion, and now they seemed determined to have them heard. Half in turn, half shouting over each other, each of them voiced his own concerns or ideas about this new threat. Someone wanted to set guards out around the valley perimeters, but what farmer could spare an able-bodied young man? Especially around this time of year? Others wanted to barricade the whole valley’s population within the mines and wait out the raids. Armac spoke out emphatically against this one, saying that while the mines were certainly safer than the open air, they had no way of knowing how long the Desolata would be on the move. Work could not be disrupted for any lengthy period of time. And besides, who knew if the Desolata would even come this way?

  “There’s nothing for them here,” Armac said.

  “Nothing for them?” spat back Moss. “There’s human flesh and houses to burn. They care nothing for wealth or goods. Any town, valley, or city is a target, no matter how small.”

  “So,” said Armac, his voice raising again. “What do you suggest? We live our lives in fear, waiting for an attack that may or may not come? And hide away from the work that must be done for our valley to survive?”

  “Easy for you to say,” broke in one of the younger farmers. “You and your people are safe in the mountain! But us? We who work in the open fields?”

  “Ha,” said Armac. “A pansy profession anyway, farming.”

  Every farmer in the room stood at that point, half of them starting in toward the miner, who gripped his ore pick again and pulled it free.

  “Enough!” shouted Borric, in a voice that set the rafters shaking. “If you want to attack each other, you do it on your own time! Not under my roof!” He seemed to have grown even taller in his anger. “This is a threat to all of us! Farmers, miners, waresmen ... all of us! And our wives and children! And if one faction of Thiccan life goes down, we a
ll do.” He glared around the room at them, and even Fox, hidden as he was, could feel the heat of his gaze and shrank away from it. “Fighting in a Council. Grown men, acting like a bunch of boys with winter fever.”

  Slowly, and looking ashamed with themselves, the men sat back in their places, avoiding eye contact with Borric. In the uncomfortable quiet that filled the common room, they could hear the wind picking up outside, rattling the windows. Finally, Borric spoke again, the quiet in his voice almost more frightening than the rage.

  “We have no right to demand anything of each other. But our valley has survived this long with family and community strong at its heart. Whether you choose to take in the wandering survivors or barricade yourselves in your homes, this inn and tavern will do as it’s always done. My doors will be open.”

  The wind outside was growing stronger. Fox could hear it whistling through the frozen grasses outside, sharp and icy. He shivered. Talk in the Five Sides picked up again as the council started discussing strategies and plans, but to Fox they sounded as though their voices came from a great distance. It was growing colder, despite the roaring fire mere feet from him. He watched the mouths of the council men moving and talking, but every time he tried to hear what they said it seemed that their words were torn away from him on the wind. He shivered again.

  The Desolata were on the move. They hadn’t stayed long in the ruins of their latest conquest. Now, smelling of charcoal and dried blood, they were heading south. Tracking the survivors of Hammon Town. They would catch up with the injured first, and then ...

  The injured. Three collapsed near the river road but not dead. Hidden away by the tall grasses and terrified. One more almost frozen to death in the woods, pressed up against an ancient tree. And somewhere, the last storm of winter was gathering strength to strike. It would rip apart the survivors and tear its way through the mountain valleys. A panic filled the air. The sick, reckless fear brought on by hopelessness.