Crier’s Knife
Neal F. Litherland
Copyright © 2018 Neal Litherland
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Jack Holliday
Cover formatting and design by Tyler Machtemes
ISBN:
ISBN-13:
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my grandfather Neal R. McGinty. He always told me I should write Westerns.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank all of my beta readers who helped me refine this book. I’d like to thank everyone who listened to me draw out the Crier family tree for hours on end. A big thanks to Tyler Machtemes for her work on the cover. And lastly, I’d like to thank you for choosing to open this book, and go on a journey with me.
Chapter One
The night was wet, and it sat across his shoulders like a sodden cape. The heat from the day squatted beneath the trees like a trapped animal, unable to escape into the darkness beyond. Dew dripped from the leaves, spattering him as he shuffled beneath them. It mixed with the sweat running in rivulets down his neck and back, making his filthy shirt cling to him. He collapsed against a tree, panting, trying to keep his breath quiet as he sucked air over his teeth.
He'd escaped the black temple, and managed to evade both the forgotten highway and the white-clad hunters who'd dogged his trail for more than two days. The stars had been as good as a compass for a time, but now they were hidden behind summer storm clouds. He had no idea where he was going. Without the bobbing torches and pounding hooves of the searchers, he couldn't even choose his direction by fleeing his pursuers.
Water burbled somewhere nearby, and he moved toward the sound. Every few paces he stopped, and listened. There was more than men to fear in the woods, and without so much as a knife the last thing he wanted to do was put his foot in a badger den, or run afoul of a rooting hog. He found the stream with his right boot, and clamped his teeth shut on a curse. He pulled his foot out slowly so there was no splash to give him away.
He dropped to his knees, and cupped his hands in the slow current. The water was cold as a mountain's heart, and his skin prickled with the chill. He raised his hands to his face, and sniffed. The stream had the no-scent smell clean water was supposed to have. He drank. The water soothed his burning throat, and eased the knot in his guts. He drank again, then a third time. He'd barely swallowed his third mouthful when his stomach clenched. He coughed, and pressed his palms into the muck of the bank. Hot tears burned his eyes as he tried to keep his gorge down. He succeeded, but just barely. He spat thick phlegm into the weeds, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
When some of his strength returned, he pulled off his boots, and rolled his pants to his knees. He held his boots in one hand, gritted his teeth, and stepped into the stream. It was too chill for snakes or lizards in the brook, and he couldn't leave footprints in water. He did his best to erase where he'd entered, and started walking with the current. He walked with his head down, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other without making any sound. The muck clung to him, and river weeds pulled at his legs, trying to make him stay. It didn't take long before he could no longer feel them, though. All he felt was a numbness at odds with the sultry summer he wandered through.
The root came out of nowhere. It slipped around his ankle, drawing tight as a noose. He snapped out of his half-sleep, and twisted away from it on instinct. He felt something give way in his numb leg; a sickening pop, followed by a muted heat. There was no pain yet, not with the chill that had seeped into his bones, but he knew that wouldn't last long. He stood in the stream like a drunken crane, reaching down with his one free hand to pull at the root. His ankle twinged, but it bent well enough as he slid it free of the woody, brown snare that had captured him. When he put his weight down on the leg, though, it buckled beneath him.
He gasped, flailing his arms as he fell. His shoulders dug a groove into the sodden bank, and water rushed over him to his chest. His boots flew out of his hand, bouncing off into the darkness. He lay there, staring up at the sky, waiting for the world to stop pitching and yawing around him. He closed his eyes, and focused on taking one breath after another. He listened. He heard a breeze in the trees. He heard skittering in the underbrush. He heard water lapping over his body. He heard his heartbeat slow as the blood stopped rushing in his ears. He did not hear the hunters, though. Once a minute had passed, he put his hands down in the thick mud, and slithered his way out of the water. He ran his hands down his leg, trying to see with his fingers what he'd done to himself.
His ankle was swollen, and tender to the touch. He couldn't see the color, but it felt like a hot coal had sparked to life beneath his skin. He stripped his shirt off over his head, dunked it in the stream, then tied it tightly around the injured limb. His breath whistled through his nose as he cinched the cloth, but his hands never faltered in their task. When he was finished, he collapsed, waiting for the fire in his leg to die down. When it had, he sat up again. He put his thumb in his mouth. He ran the soft pad over his teeth, turned, and bit. Pain sparked, and he tasted blood.
“Better a repentant fool than a dead one,” he croaked into the night.
He pressed his thumb to the stone he wore around his neck. He lowered his head, and spoke the incantation his grandmother had taught him when she'd first tied the omen round his throat all those seasons past. The last word had barely left his lips when the stone cracked. A whisper slid from within, whipping across the back of his wrist before it was gone into the night. The two halves of the stone crumbled to dust, spattering his chest with harsh grit. He tugged at the leather cord, yanking it off over his head before throwing it in the stream. He crawled to the nearest tree, and felt along the ground. He had neither the time nor the light to find his boots, but that wasn't what he was searching for. He grunted a curse, and that was when his fingers brushed a fallen branch. He gripped it with both hands, and took its measure in the darkness. It was shorter than he would have liked, and bowed in the middle, but it would serve. Or so he hoped.
He levered himself to his feet, with one hand on the tree trunk, and the other on his impromptu crutch. He almost lost his balance in the muck, but with a final heave he was upright again. He wiped his palm across his face, smearing his greasy sweat instead of wiping it away, and started limping downstream. He'd gone too far astray in his journey, and left too few tracks, to be found easily by whoever came looking for him. So, better to try heading south, and hope he met aid on the road coming north.
“I just had to take that gods damned pearl,” he huffed as he shuffled toward wherever it was the stream was so eager to get to. “Just keep walking... Just keep walking...”
He walked with one hand out in front of him, feeling for low-hanging branches. He splashed through the water from time to time, grunting as he corrected his course. He bent three more times to drink, each time rising a little more slowly. As morning began to peer over the hills, and the night crawlers ceased their mating cries, he raised his head, and stared about himself. Gray wind caressed him, raising gooseflesh in the milky light. He shivered, and wiped his nose. Then he blinked, and frowned at the countryside. Near the stream, there was a beaten path. Not quite a road, but clearly a place where hooves and heels had left their marks over the years. Off to his right, he saw a shadow that wasn't a shadow. A black obelisk erupted from the soil like a giant's finger bone, pointing at the morning sky as if it had something to declare. He tilted his head back, and sniffed. Beneath the thick smell of untouched green, was a further, fainter scent; wood smoke. His split lips parted in a painful smile. He knew where he was, which meant he knew where he had to go from here.
He limped a little faster, his bare feet whispering through the tall g
rass. He focused on his breathing, sucking air in through his nose, and blowing it out through his mouth. He had nearly reached the standing stone when a shadow fell over him. He stared at it dumbly, his forehead furrowing. He raised his head, looking at the lightening sky, and that was when something wrapped around his throat. He gasped, his windpipe closing. He struck out with his crutch, but he was weak, and the blows had little force behind them. Someone ripped the branch from his grip, flinging it aside. He scrabbled at his neck, clawing as he tried to pry the hand away. He may as well have tried to topple the obelisk with his bare hands. As his vision grew hazy, and the air turned hot and empty in his chest, he felt his smile growing wider.
Someone would come for him. And when they did, Lanissara would learn why the mountain folks said only dead men cross a Crier.
Chapter Two
The place was a sanctuary of green. Copses of elm and ash swayed in the cool breeze, their movements mirrored by the thick grass below the branches. A stream meandered through the verge like a lazy serpent, its ripples flashing like slick scales in the sunlight. Crickets chirped from the shadows along the banks as they hid from reach rooks, and the small-mouthed silverfish that swam through the waters. A high wall of curved, natural granite sheltered the clearing, and beyond the verdant growth to the east, the ground fell away sharply. Beyond the drop there was nothing but the wind, a hundred yards of sheer cliff face, and a sky that stretched all the way to eternity.
Dirk Crier had never seen the place before, and that surprised him. He'd been born on Ben Morgh, raised as much by the mountain's haints and hallows as by his clan. His calloused feet knew every game trail and goat path along the mountainsides, and he'd slept beneath her sheltering boughs more deeply than he ever had beneath his parents' own roof. He'd listened to her songs as she combed her windy fingers through his thick mane, and he'd grown to manhood climbing to the tips of her peaks. Ben Morgh had taught him many lessons, but even now he knew the mountain still held secrets. Secrets like this simple, perfect glade he'd found through a hitherto unnoticed crack hidden behind a mulberry bush along the western switchback trail. A trail he'd walked a hundred times a season since he'd been knee-high, but whose treasure he'd never even suspected till that morning.
There was a hush as Dirk stepped into the high grass. The birds paused in their squabbles over branches and berries, staring at the interloper with measuring gazes. Wary eyes peered around pale trunks, or watched from burrows beneath the roots. The sequestered animals took the measure of the man in their midst. Dirk stood still, his arms at his sides. He watched the beasts as they watched him, his eyes panning across the small, hidden refuge he'd stumbled upon. There were no roars from the thickets. No wild-eyed predators charged from the trees to drive him away. After a few moments, the ebb tide turned, and the animals resumed the business of their lives.
Dirk roamed the patch, the worn-down heels of his boots making few marks and nearly no sound to testify to his passing. He stepped into the trees, and wove between the trunks. Beneath the shelter of the canopy, he found deer tracks and fox fur. He also found scars along the bark left from rooting hogs. There were badger holes, rabbit warrens, and both bears and pumas had left their mark on the trees. It didn't look like any of them had been there for at least a season or two, though, judging from how well the wood had healed and the lack of spoor.
He walked the length of the rock wall, and found several hollows and caves carved into the granite. Only one was large enough for a man to stand in, and though it was musty inside, there was no animal musk to speak of. There weren't any marks made by men, either. He found no clefts in the rock from iron tools, no char from campfires, and not so much as a scratch on the dark stones. Most importantly, there was no sign that any of his kin had laid claim to this place before he'd discovered it.
Dirk stepped out of the shallow cavern, and cast his gaze over the glade again. He nodded once, as if he'd decided something, and began gathering kindling. There was plenty of dead wood to be had, and once he had an armful, Dirk crouched near the lone ash tree that grew alongside the crack in the wall that led back to the mountain trail. He laid the sticks in a crisscross pattern just as his mother had taught him, careful to keep to the hard, stony ground where a fire couldn't spread. He crumbled some dry leaves, and took a fire piston from his waist pouch. In moments he had a fire going. Dirk hunkered, pressed a rock near the flames, and laid his knife atop it.
The knife was old steel with a simple, wooden grip wound with leather cord. It was no stranger to work, and it didn't take long for the blade to suck in the heat of the fire. Dirk wrapped his kerchief around his hand, then grasped the hilt. He stepped around the blaze, and drew a long, vertical line down the ash's pale bark with the smoldering point. He added a second, horizontal line, making a simple cross. Then he singed a circle at the top of the vertical line to create a pommel, and added two more lines to make a downward-facing blade. He stepped back to admire his handiwork. Now if anyone stumbled on this place the way he had, it would be impossible for them to miss his mark.
A twig snapped behind Dirk, and there was a soft, wet, crunch. Dirk turned, shifting his weight and bringing up his weapon hand. The greymalkin sat in the center of the path, watching him. A headless squirrel lay at her feet, blood still pumping from its neck stump. The malk's luminous green eyes held his for a moment, then she lifted a fore paw to lap at the speckles of blood marring her misty coat.
“Did you want something?” Dirk asked the malk, lowering his knife. The cat ignored him, grooming away the evidence of her kill. “Or did gran ask you to fetch me?”
The malk stretched, kneading the dirt. She yawned hugely, then batted the headless squirrel toward Dirk. Dirk knelt, picked up the corpse, and retreated to the stream. He quenched the remaining heat from his knife, then set the squirrel on its belly in the grass. He made two quick cuts to either side of the tail. Once it was cut, Dirk put his foot down on the body, and slid his fingers under the hide. He pulled it carefully, grunting as blood spurted from the neck while he skinned the animal. Then, once he had the meat out, he made a slow slit from the crotch to the crown. He swept his fingers through the body cavity, and spilled out the guts. Dirk slit the thin sack holding the entrails together, and poked through until he found the heart, and the liver. Their color was good, which meant the meat was safe to eat. He returned to his little campfire, spitted the meat, and offered the organs to the malk. She lazed in the grass, her belly turned toward the fire, but she quickly snapped up the offering. Dirk let the squirrel cook as he rinsed his knife, his hands, and cleaned the skin as best he could. By the time that was done, the little animal was ready to eat.
Dirk lifted the spit from the flames, and checked the meat. Once he was satisfied it was cooked all the way through, he tore into it with his teeth. It was juicy, crisp, and gamy, which was exactly how he preferred it. He picked the bones clean, tossing them into the high grass for the other beasts to fight over. Almost as soon as he finished eating, the malk was back on her feet, swishing her tail. Dirk kicked dirt over what was left of his fire, and when he turned the cat was gone. She'd left no tracks, but that didn't matter. Dirk knew where she'd gone, and where he had to follow.
He stepped through the narrow crack, edged past the woody bush that stood sentinel before the entrance, and started walking. The day was hotter away from the wind, and the switchback was long. By the time Dirk reached the top of it, sweat darkened his hair, and dripped in beads from his forehead. Rather than continuing along the winding ridge, Dirk cut his trail toward a shadowy deer path that wound through a steep ravine. He splashed through a runoff creek, and clambered along a set of natural stone stairs that spiraled round a rise. At the top he followed a goat track that was little more than a rocky spur jutting through the trees. Half a mile of narrow stone later, the spur opened up, and re-joined the curving footpath that led up the mountain. He took a moment to orient himself, glancing over the cliff and back at the sun to check his bearings. Onc
e he was sure where he was, he started climbing again.
The town folk called the path that straddled the mountain's shoulder the Witch's Way. It was steep, but Dirk's pace barely slowed as he took the angle in his stride. He passed an occasional winter lean-to, where pilgrims built fires and sometimes slept during cold or rainy climbs. They looked ramshackle in the late summer light, but he knew that people who lived in the foothills would climb up in the fall to make repairs to the little cabins. They always did. After all, if one of their friends or neighbors had to make that ascent, they wanted to be sure there was shelter along the way. No one wanted to spend the night in the lair of the White Woman. Dirk didn't understand why, but he'd learned over his years that flat landers had strange fears.
The trail ended at the front walk of a small cottage. It was low and round, crouching near a pool of mountain runoff. With its mossy roof, and circular front windows, and wide front door, it looked like a toad that had frozen just before letting out a croak. Two apple trees grew near the fence, and vegetables had been staked out where the sun was most likely to hit them. The verge was thick, close-cropped, and flat, white stones led from the front gate to the shade of the porch. The door was ajar, and even from the path Dirk could see firelight flickering within.
Dirk crossed the lawn, his feet finding the stones from memory. He paused outside the door, scraping the dirt from the bottom of his boots on the iron stirrup to announce his presence. A white goat trotted around the edge of the house, and bounded onto the porch. She regarded Dirk somberly for a long moment, then lightly butted him in the thigh. He patted the goat's flank, and ran his fingers through her thick, curly hair. She made a small, appreciative sound that was not quite a bleat, before continuing on her way.
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