There were still several hours until daybreak, when they could get a closer look at the damage. Until then, Fox simply wanted to curl up by the fireplace and sleep. But he couldn’t, not yet. They still had to deal with the Desolata corpse, which Fox happily left to Neil. The older boy shoved the body out with the blunt edge of his sword, and then began sealing up the hole it had made with the ripped up floorboards. Fox wasn’t much help there either. His muscles screamed with every pound of the hammer, and Neil ended up doing most of the work himself. Finally, they both lay down again, trying to sleep, and ignore the anguished cries of the wounded still echoing through the woods.
It was then that the wolves came.
Fox had been taught his entire life to fear wolves. Father always said, “I spend all summer hunting them. But when winter sets in, rest assured, they start hunting me.” But as Fox had lain warm and safe in his nook so many winter nights, listening to them howling at the edges of the valley, he’d always found it hard to believe that something that made such a beautiful sound could be bad. Their songs had always comforted and thrilled him, rather than frightening him.
And now, their songs were filling the woods. Echoing through the icy trees and intermingling eerily with the pained shrieks of the Desolata. It sounded like more than a dozen of them. An entire pack, and a big one at that. The Desolata began to scream louder, each of them struggling to free themselves from their traps. And then, their cries turned into something else. They were the cries of a prey fighting with all their might to escape. Snarling growls punctuated the wolfsong, and Fox knew once again without seeing what was happening outside the cabin walls.
“They’re attacking,” he whispered. “They’re attacking the Desolata.”
A quick and vicious battle raged outside, and then one by one the barbaric raiders were silenced. But the wolves remained, pacing around the perimeter of the cabin, throwing their victory song to the sky.
“Do you have wolves, where you’re from?” asked Fox.
“No,” said Neil. “I’ve heard them, some nights. In places we’ve traveled. But never so many, or so close.” He shifted, seemingly trying to get comfortable enough to catch some sleep. “I thank them for taking care of our little friends out there, but I hope they’re gone by morning. It would be a shame to survive tonight only to be picked off by a bunch of dogs.”
But as Fox settled in himself, adjusting on his thin sleeping mat, he couldn’t bring himself to fear the wolves. Their beautiful voices still held a sense of comfort for him. And for the first time in three nights, Fox went to sleep feeling perfectly safe.
Chapter Ten
The Mudlock
They packed quickly the next morning. Fox in particular was eager to leave the battlefield behind him, and was ready and waiting before Neil had even laced his boots. Finally, as Neil threw his cloak over his shoulders, Fox wrenched open the cabin door and let in a flood of bright, cold sunlight.
It was as though the devastation of the storm had been perfectly frozen. Shattered tree trunks were blanketed in snow, and tree limbs hung low with ice. It was as though some great beast had come through the forest, taking whole bites out of the landscape.
Fox tried not to look at the Desolata corpse just outside the door, but he couldn’t avoid it. And once he looked, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. At first glance, he might have just been a man, with an arrow shot clean through his throat. But the longer Fox looked, the more the Desolata simply seemed ... wrong. His limbs were oddly stretched, like the bones had started to grow longer than the skin would allow. His joints seemed to be trying to escape from his very body, and Fox couldn’t imagine what daily pain that kind of bone structure would cause. He was bald, but ragged scars criss-crossed along his scalp. He wore nothing but a pair of frayed, short breeches, and Fox was amazed that every inch of his skin wasn’t black with frostbite.
“No shoes,” said Neil. “No coat, or even a shirt. How do they live like that?”
Fox shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. He turned his back to the cabin, and the corpse, and headed down the path. He kept his gaze away from the other Desolata, dead in their traps. He would let Father take care of them. That was a man’s job, and Fox felt he had spent enough time playing at being a man lately. For now, he just wanted to be home, warm and safe in Thicca Valley. Whatever might be left of it.
The wolves followed them all the way, keeping just out of sight. But Fox knew they were there. He kept it to himself, not wanting to worry Neil. Instead, he smiled a little to himself. Father was right about many things, but it seemed he was wrong about wolves.
Fox had no idea how they made it back to the valley so quickly. But soon enough, he could smell the familiar scents of the outlying farms. And then, quite suddenly, he stopped, scared to step through the treeline. Terrified of what he might see. His plan had been built on guesses, and he had no way of knowing if all of the Desolata had been drawn away. The storm had probably taken its toll as well, and while he couldn’t be held responsible for the weather, it was his fault that the Desolata had come this way in the first place.
Neil seemed to know his thoughts. He placed a comforting hand on Fox’s shoulder and said quietly, “What’s done is done. We survived, and that’s the important thing. Take everything else one step at a time.”
Fox could smell smoke, and blood. And fear. He wanted to turn, to run back into the forest and live with the wolves. But instead, he took a deep breath and made himself stand a little taller. It seemed he wasn’t quite done being a man yet. And with one shaky step after another, he led the way out of the trees, leaving their silent guards behind.
The late afternoon sun washed over the valley, making the snow shine red as if with blood, and casting a harsh light on the valley’s destruction. Whole sides ripped from houses, doors torn from their hinges, and broken glass like jagged teeth growling from the windows. A haze of smoke had settled over the western end of town, and the smell of death hung in the air. Numbly, Fox let his feet take him forward, down into the heart of the valley. He passed newfallen trees and broken fences as he went, until finally he reached the main road, and the valley square.
Here, women and children were cleaning rubble from the streets and wading through hip-deep snow to retrieve scraps of wood and stone. Men were shoveling great heaps of snow, cutting an easier pathway through town. It might have been his imagination, but Fox thought the Thiccans were looking at him differently. They mostly kept their eyes on their work, but every so often their gazes would briefly shift to him and then back, as though they were trying too hard not to look at him. Trying not to notice, Fox kept moving until he came to the Five Sides.
The common room was empty and dark, but the quiet thud of a knife on wood told Fox that someone was in the kitchen. There, he found Picck, slowly and deliberately chopping vegetables. Not just enough for a crock of stew, it seemed, but every vegetable in the valley. Potatoes, mushrooms, carrots ... the kitchen was filled with heaps of them, spilling over the countertops and onto the floor, and some towers reaching up even past Fox’s shoulder. It was like a mountain range of food, and when Fox looked closer, he realized they weren’t all vegetables. Herbs and smoked meats had made their way into the piles, as well as what seemed to be several loaves of bread.
“What happened?” asked Fox quietly.
Picck looked up. His eyes said he hadn’t slept in days. The smile that always seemed to play around the edges of his mouth was gone, and for a moment he stared at Fox as though he was looking right through him. Then he blinked, and finally looked as though he could actually see the two boys in the doorway. “Oh,” he said dully. “Hello. I see you’re alive. Good, that’s good.” And he turned back to his chopping.
“Picck?” said Fox, taking a careful step farther into the room. “Picck, are you alright?”
The chopping continued, but slower now. Finally, after about a minute, Picck spoke. “I can’t fight, you know,” he said. “I’m not a strong man. I’ve n
ever entered the contests. But ... I didn’t want to go into the mines. I didn’t want to hide, while my family was defending the valley. I begged them to let me stay.” He spoke as though he had to fight to remember how. As though every word was a struggle. “It was Uncle Borric who convinced the men to find a place for me. And since headquarters was here, everyone agreed that I should just stay in the kitchen. With the extra supplies and food, everything that wasn’t moved into the mines.”
He looked up, turning haunted eyes onto Fox. “That was my only job. Watch the back door. And I did, and the storm picked up, and I could hear the goats crying from the stable. So I went out to bring them in.” It was then that Fox noticed the goat curled up in the corner of the room. Fermia, her head down, looking just as melancholy as Picck.
“What happened to Aly?” asked Fox.
Picck went back to chopping his vegetables. “Radda had this idea,” he said. “Something to do with his magic. He said he could hide the valley. Make it disappear, to anyone who was looking for it. Or appear as something else, a target that wouldn’t be as appealing to the
Desolata. But it was a powerful magic he said, and he would need to focus. So we let him be. He sat for two days, in the corner by the fire, playing his music with barely a pause. Sometimes we could hear it over the storm, and sometimes we could just hear the wind. But it was beautiful. And we all stayed quiet, keeping out of his way. And if people needed to talk, they brought their conversations in here.
“And then Aly started going stir-crazy. Two days into the storm, she started trying to beat down the door, and I couldn’t calm her. She was making so much racket that Emmend Fisher came into the kitchen and told me to silence her or else ... and that’s when they came.”
“How many?” asked Neil.
“Only four,” said Picck. “We got lucky, I suppose ... but four was enough. Four was even too much. Of the twenty-eight men we had here, we lost twelve.” He looked up again, a tortured expression twisting his face. “They’re just so fast, Fox! And they wouldn’t die! And they were tall, and horrible. And they have no mercy.”
Fox didn’t know whether he wanted to throw up or just sit down until his legs stopped shaking. Twelve dead, and all because of him.
“It’s not your fault,” said Neil. But he wasn’t speaking to Fox, he was speaking to Picck.
“I broke Radda’s concentration,” said Picck. “I let them find us. And Emmend was the first to die ... one of the Desolata came in through the kitchen window while we were trying to get that cursed goat to shut up.”
“Shavid magic is powerful but flighty,” said Neil. “Just like the wind herself. You don’t know that Radda would have been able to keep it going much longer. You can’t blame yourself. Every man here chose to stay behind and fight, just as you did. And even you did your part.”
“He did more than his part,” said a quiet voice from the doorway. Borric had slipped in unnoticed. “He killed one of them. And he saved my life.” He strode over and grasped his nephew in a tight, fierce hug. “We will bury the dead. The widows will mourn. And then, we will begin to rebuild. There is nothing to be ashamed of.” He pulled away and took Picck by the shoulders. “Now, hold your head high. And be proud. You saw battle and came out a new man. You survived. And because of you, some of us can live another day.” And with that, Borric was gone. Fox wanted to follow him, to ask about the rest of the valley. His parents. Lai. He cast a worried look at Picck, who had gone back to silently chopping vegetables. Then he and Neil exchanged a quick, wordless glance, and Fox knew that Neil would take care of him. He turned and hurried out of the kitchen, catching up with Borric as he made his way down to the storage rooms.
“You’ve been a busy little mite,” said Borric when he caught sight of Fox.
“Yes sir,” said Fox.
“How many came after you?” asked Borric.
Fox didn’t wonder that Borric seemed to know the whole plan. Father would have told him for sure. “Nine.”
“Spirit’s Shackles,” said Borric, running a massive hand across his forehead. “It’s a miracle you survived at all, let alone in such good condition.”
“Sometimes there’s more damage than just wounds,” said Fox, thinking of Picck.
“You know you saved the valley, Fox,” said Borric seriously. “With the number we lost as it is ... if more had come for us? They would have torn us apart. Yes, there were casualties. But just as they’re not Picck’s fault, they’re also not yours.”
Fox nodded, but didn’t say anything. He knew Borric was trying to help, but nothing anyone could say would rid him of the gnawing guilt. After all, he was still the reason the Desolata came.
“Go home,” said Borric finally. “See your mother, let her know you’re safe.”
“What about —” Fox started to ask, but Borric answered before he could even finish.
“Your dad is out taking care of the Desolata corpses with some of the other men. Radda is upstairs, sleeping off the exhaustion of keeping so much magic up for so long. And Lai is with Picck’s family. I’ll be sure to tell her you’re alright.” He sighed heavily and sent Fox on his way, calling after him, “Funeral’s tonight. She’ll be wanting to see you.”
✽ ✽ ✽
When Fox walked into his family’s kitchen, Mother shrieked and hugged him so tightly he began to cough. She began tearing off his outer layers, wet from the snow, and sat him down at the fire pit with a hot bowl of broth. Within minutes he was wearing fresh, dry socks and had a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. His boots and cloak were hanging on a rack by the fire to dry, and Mother was talking his ear off. Half scolding, half thanking all the gods that he was alright. Finally, when she’d calmed down, Fox was able to tell her the whole story. Or most of it, at any rate. He left out the details of the Desolata leader’s attack, thinking that she might never let him out of the house again if he told her. Finally, she kissed him on the forehead and said, “It sounds like my little man is all grown up.” She smoothed his hair back and took his now empty bowl. Then she sent him up to bed, promising to wake him at nightfall.
He slept fitfully, and all too soon Mother’s voice floated up the stairs, calling for him to get up. He groggily pulled his spare boots from their shelf and began to tie them on. Father wouldn’t be joining the funeral proceedings, he knew. Then, he slid easily down his ladder and went to the window, looking out at the valley.
Every window was dark. No fires burned in their grates during a funeral. Instead, little pockets of soft, green light could be seen gathering like fireflies, making their way out to the mines. Here and there a handful of glowing lights would appear out of a darkened building, and join the larger group. When Fox finally joined Mother downstairs, dressed for warmth, she silently handed him his own softly glowing stone. A lymstone.
Lymstones were the rarest and most mysterious gems that came from the Highborn mines. When held in the hand, they glowed green. Casting light but no heat. But when worn around the neck, they gave light only to the wearer. They allowed miners to see even in the deepest trenches, and women to sew even during the darkest of Deep Winter. When used too much, however, they caused headaches and dizzy spells, and some who wore them too often started to lose the power of speech. But for every funeral, they lit up the valley streets as the only light in town.
Fox and Mother made their way silently to the center of town, their glowing stones joining the larger group. No one spoke. Even the wind was silent, leaving the valley in deadly hush. They followed the glow of lymstones all the way up into the mountains. But where the miners would normally turn right to head off to work, everyone turned left. Down a rarely-used path, winding between high walls of pale grey stone. And then, the path opened up into a stone clearing, and the men began to sing.
Those who had been carrying the bodies of the fallen were in front. As the crowd parted, spreading themselves around the clearing in a wide circle, Fox could see the twelve corpses being laid out in a row. He ticked off th
eir names in his head, making note of everyone he had killed, every life that had been lost because of him. As the song swelled, magnified by the rock, the dead mens’ widows came forward. Some with their children, some alone. Fox could see their faces, streaked with tears or else numbly blank, and he knew he could never forget a one of them.
They each said their last goodbyes, and then slipped back into the crowd.
Someone’s hand found his, and squeezed. He didn’t need to look to know that it was Lai. He always knew when it was her. Together, they watched as the funeral pyre was lit, glowing green with lymstone powder. Emerald flames swelled and enveloped the bodies, illuminating the high stone walls and dappling them with stretched shadows. For several minutes, the valley stood watching the fire grow, throwing its sparks to the heavens like green stars. Finally, as the last verse of the funeral melody began, one by one the Thiccans stepped forward. Each took a branch from the fire, flaming like a torch, to respark their own homefires. Tonight, every fire in the valley would burn green.
As Fox turned his back on the fire, starting to follow Mother home with her green torch leading the way, Lai still didn’t let go of his hand. All the way back up the path, out of the side of the mountain and back down into the valley. And as they went, Fox caught another light out of the corner of his eye. Far out, across the fields and near the distant treeline, a solitary red fire flickered. Tonight, the Desolata were burned without honor. With no songs to guide them into the After Realms. Their souls would wander forever, unable to rest, stuck between worlds. But Fox, thinking back on the harsh angles of their bones and the pain it must have caused, wondered if it would even matter. For a cursed life, any death would be a welcome relief. Wouldn’t it?
Windswept (The Mapweaver Chronicles Book 1) Page 13