Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  Dirk doubted that was the whole of it, just as he doubted that his mother didn't remember the dream. It was a Talent of hers, though she used it sparingly. Dirk knew she told, or didn't tell, as much as she wished, though, and he accepted that. He embraced her from behind, and she patted his hands.

  “Wherever Teller's path leads you, don't tarry long,” Patience said. “Tis a dark place, wherever it is.”

  “Yes ma'am,” Dirk said, kissing the top of her head before releasing her. He shouldered his bag, and noted how heavy it had grown in the few minutes he'd been absent from the kitchen. It would be lighter soon enough, he knew. Especially if Teller's trail stretched longer than it usually did. He left the house without ceremony, striding along the familiar paths as he tried to beat the sun into the lowlands.

  It was a near race, but not near enough. The day hung on as long as it could, the red light gripping the peaks and trying to linger just a few more moments, but the mountains devoured the daylight. Night followed quickly, rushing down from the high places in an inky flood. The darkness didn't bother Dirk. This low on the mountain there were no yawning chasms or exposed drops to worry about, and it would be hours before the night stalkers shook themselves from their daylight slumbers to hunt. Even in the dark, though, Dirk knew which trails to avoid if he wanted to stay wide of the bears and wildcats.

  It wasn't long before the narrow game tracks and woodland ruts widened, becoming true walking paths. In time they joined with the wagon trails and dirt roads that crisscrossed the foothills. The signs of wild beasts faded, and the signs of men grew more frequent. Circles of stones, charred black from hundreds of campfires, sat near tall stone wind breaks, or surrounded by small groves of trees. Trampled grass and tent stake holes showed where moving folk had bedded down in the recent past. Cast off bones were strewn in the grass near some of the camp sites. Some still had gray gristle clinging to them, but others had been picked clean by scavengers. A few were even broken open, the marrow inside sucked clean. None of the sites were occupied, though, and there were no fires for Dirk to hail as he walked on by.

  Hours and miles later, with the moon riding high in the sky, Dirk reached the little town that had sprung up in the shadow of Ben Morgh. It had started life as a family of small, wooden hovels gathered round a bend in the river. Originally little more than shepherds' huts used during shearing season, and for shelter during the annual horse trading markets, the flood tide of trade deposited a few more people there every season. In time, woodcutters took to the virgin forests, using the lumber to build homes, and the cleared land to grow their food. Miners found their ways into the hills, bringing ore back to the metal workers who'd come to shoe horses and decided to stay. The town ate, shat, and grew a little at a time. The shacks and hovels had been replaced with stone and hardwood homes, and the muddy tracks had given way to hard-packed roads. Between the river and the roads, a great deal of trade had found its way into the town. Even though Farrier's Ford wore richer clothes these days, it was still easy to see the cut-knuckled, rotgut place it had been not all that long ago.

  Despite the late hour, fires still burned in the town. Torches blazed atop the stone cairns flanking the road at the town's edge, and tallow lamps winked outside the few places that hadn't barred their doors yet. The Drover's Rest and The Tarred Jack stood vigil over the main street, and a few camp lights burned along the river to mark travelers who didn't mind a roof of cloth or sky as they slept. Several boats and rafts were tied off at the docks, and two of them boasted storm lanterns. The lamps bobbed in the shallows like restless spirits, passing time while they awaited the ferrymen. The rest of the town, the smithies and wagon wrights, tanning houses, butchers, and stock pens, dozed and drowsed. Still, there were a few restless souls who had not succumbed to the night. Drunken song lilted on the breeze, and somewhere a shutter clapped in the river breeze. Down an alley were a pair of shadows too intent on one another to notice the rest of the world.

  Dirk paused at the fountain near the town square. Spring water bubbled up, spilling from the carved lips of an ancient river god. Dirk slung off his pack, cupped his hands, and drank. He splashed some of the water on his face, washing the sweat from his brow and cheeks. Then he filled his skins, hanging them from a strap on his pack. He was about to shoulder his burden again, when he heard a man's raised voice behind him. It was slurred with drink, but even the whiskey couldn't blunt the note of pleading in it. Dirk turned, and saw a man halfway up the front stairs of the River Lily house. His long hair was slick, and he still wore his oarsman's tunic. Red lanterns hung from the eaves, and in their bloody light Dirk saw a woman sitting on the porch. She was slender and pretty, with her arms bare and her skirts in disarray. Her shoes lay on the boards beside her chair, and even from where he stood Dirk could see her smile was strained.

  “You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen,” the man said, swaying up another step or two. “I have gold. I have je-jewels, too, if you would take such?”

  “And like I told you, that rock salt can stay where it is,” the young woman said. “There are plenty of girls inside, if that's what you're seeking. I've given my answer, and it won't be changing.”

  “Don't want one of them,” the man said, shaking his head. The movement made his whole body sway, and he had to steady himself on the support beam as he made the porch. He belched, then coughed. “I want... I need...”

  “What you need is to find your bed, friend,” Dirk said, putting a hand on the man's shoulder and turning him.

  “Hey! Who do you think you are?” the boatman trailed off, his forehead furrowing as he stared at Dirk. His eyes were bloodshot from drink, and his lips wet with spittle. He tried to bat Dirk's hand away, and Dirk twisted his grip into the man's long leather vest. When he couldn't pull free, the man fumbled for the long-bladed barge dagger tucked through his sash.

  “I'm Dirk Crier,” Dirk said, adding a hint of steel to his voice. “And I'm telling you to go wait for the dawn somewhere else.”

  The river man had managed to find the hilt of his knife, but his fingers froze when he heard Dirk's name. He blinked, and stared into his face. A thick tongue stained dark from berry wine slid over his chapped lips. He coughed again, and the smell of sour drink wafted over Dirk's face. He swallowed, and let his hand fall away from his blade.

  “Mayhap bed is what I need,” the man said, though there was no conviction in his words. He groped for the rail, and made his way down the stairs with care. He paused at the base of the stairs, as if unsure where to go from there. He coughed again, spat something into the weeds, and made his way toward the boats. Dirk watched him shuffle off into the night before he turned back to the girl.

  “You're in a forgiving mood,” Liana said. She was leaning back in her chair, rubbing her foot. She stretched her toes, sighing. “I've seen you kill men for so much as reaching for steel.”

  “It's bad fortune to start a journey with blood on your hands,” Dirk said.

  “And here I thought you'd come to see me,” Liana said, stretching out her leg before she tucked it under himself. Her tone was playful, and insinuated far more than she said.

  “I thought you were done for the night?” Dirk asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I wouldn't get out of this chair for him,” Liana said, tossing her pale hair back over her shoulders. She gave him a smile he doubted few of her bounties saw while they were between her blankets. “But you are not him.”

  “More's the pity I can't stay, then,” Dirk said. “Do you know where Wynflaed is?”

  Liana's smile shrank, but didn't vanish. She stretched her arms over her head, and pursed her lips as if she were deep in thought. “She wasn't here, though if she were she'd be a wealthy woman by now.”

  “I didn't ask where she wasn't,” Dirk said.

  “Is there aught in it for me if I steer you true?” Liana asked.

  “My gratitude,” Dirk said.

  “Not what I was hoping for, but acceptable.” Liana poi
nted toward another, small island of light in the evening dim. “Before I lit the beacons, I saw her bearing on the Rest. Mayhap she’s still there.”

  Dirk nodded, and made his way back down the stairs. He collected his pack from the shadow of the fountain, and headed down the main street. He passed a disagreement down a side street just as words gave way to fists, but Dirk didn't slow his steps. A man lay in the weeds, groaning in pain and talking to no one. A song drifted from one of the river camps as a few revelers tried to pass a tune round the fire. It wasn't very good, not that there was anyone drawing up to listen.

  The houses, both the bawdy and the tame, had gone dark on the far end of the town. Only one was still awake, though the lamps were dimmed and the fire banked. Wide and low, with steep roofs shingled in dark slate, the Drover's Rest sagged like a sleepy old man watching the northern road. A rocking chair creaked from the porch, slowing as Dirk approached.

  “A good eve to you,” old man Rowan called from his chair. He was a big man, with the soft sloping shoulders of someone whose youth was full of hard work, but whose old age had been spent in idleness. His bald head gleamed in the lamplight, and the fringe of silver hair he had left clung to his scalp like wisps of corn silk. His features were weathered and craggy, but age had done little to dull the essential force of the man. Biter lay at his feet, but the shaggy, half-blind wolfhound showed little interest in anything beyond tilting his head toward the occasional night breeze that ruffled his ears.

  “And you as well,” Dirk said, stepping into the circle of lantern light. He put one foot up on the porch, and leaned in. Biter growled, but when Dirk reached for the old hound, the dog pressed his head up into the scratches. Biter panted, his tongue lolling out over his mostly toothless old gums.

  “Oh, it's you, Dirk.” Rowan took two nuts from the canvas bag in his lap, and situated them carefully in his big hand. He squeezed. The shells ground against one another, then cracked. Rowan fished the meat from one broken shell, and chewed it thoughtfully. He brushed the broken shell off his palm, and into a small bucket. “I haven't seen you in town all season, and now it seems you're off somewhere.”

  “Aye,” Dirk said. He stopped scratching Biter under the chin, and the dog chuffed before laying his head back on his forepaws.

  Rowan cracked another pair of nuts, but this time he held them out to Dirk. Dirk took one that had split down the middle, popping the nut into his mouth before tossing the shell into the bucket. Rowan ate the other, then reached for his mug.

  “A bit late to begin a journey, isn't it?” the old man asked, swigging before reaching back into his bag for another pair of nuts. “Might be better for you to bed down here, then go on your way in the morning.”

  “The White Woman says go, I go,” Dirk said with a shrug.

  Rowan paused when Dirk mentioned his grandmother. It was a brief pause, but when Rowan spoke again his tone had changed. He was somber. Almost formal.

  “It must be a dire deed you go to do, then,” Rowan said, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. “Is there anything I can do to give aid?”

  “Do you know where Wynflaed is?” Dirk asked.

  “The horse girl was in here just after supper,” Rowan said, tilting his head at the common house's open door. “She drank a draft or three with a gaggle of raft boys come in from upriver.”

  “Is she here now?” Dirk asked.

  “No. She left with one of the polemen. A young man, with broad shoulders and a nervous eye.” Rowan shrugged his shoulders. “Where they went, I didn't look. Though if I had to guess, I would say they went somewhere to be alone together.”

  Rowan took another pair of nuts, situating them in his calloused palm. He squeezed, frowned, and squeezed again. His palm was sweaty, and it wasn't till the third squeeze that the shells cracked open. He held his hand out to offer Dirk another nut, but when Rowan looked up, the witch's grandson had vanished back into the night.

  Fisher's Stable stood tall and proud, butted up against the Thistlewood on one side, and the border of Farrier's Ford on the other. It was built from old timbers stained rust red to keep out wet and rot, and this late at night the place was quiet. Quiet wasn't the same as asleep, though. Lamplight flickered in the loft window, and shadows moved on the wall. Dirk watched them for a moment, then quietly slipped to the stable's side door. It was latched from the inside, but Dirk knew where the iron hook holding it closed was. He slipped his knife between the door and the frame, slid it upward, and when he felt the latch open, stepped inside.

  The horses murmured, restless as a stranger entered. Along with the shifting and shushing of the animals, though, were sounds of a very different sort. Rough sounds of skin against skin, and low growls peppered with moans filled the loft above. Dirk shut the door with a thump. A big gelding in the stall next to the door whickered, and his ears went up. A smaller mare across the aisle stamped her feet. In the loft, the muffled sounds of love making went silent. Dirk slipped off his pack, and hung it from a hook. Unencumbered, he stepped to the center of the aisle, and tilted his head back.

  “Wynflaed,” Dirk called, his voice loud in the hush. “I've need of you.”

  “You'll have to wait your turn,”she said from the loft. Her voice was passion roughed, and more than a little breathless. “As long as you don't mind being second in the saddle, that is?”

  “It's about Teller,” Dirk said.

  Silence held sway for several moments. Then there was low cursing, and rustling cloth. A man muttered something, and Wynflaed replied. Dirk couldn't make out what she said, but the heat in her voice was plain even from down below. Her paramour said something else, and there was a sharp, meaty slap followed by a thump. Wynflaed's arms appeared over the loft's rim as she pulled her dress on over her head. From somewhere around her feet, a man tried to catch his breath.

  “Do up your flies, and be on your way,” she said. “If I come back up here after my business and find you as you are, I'll throw you into the sty, and your clothes after you.”

  Wynflaed stamped into her boots, and came down the ladder. She was tall, tanned, and the muscles in her back and shoulders flexed powerfully as she descended. No one would ever mistake her form for a man's, though, even with the sides of her head shorn so her thick, dark hair spilled down her back like a horse's mane. She leaped off three rungs from the barn's floor, and whirled on Dirk. Her green eyes were full of fire, and color rode high in her cheeks.

  “What's happened?” she demanded.

  “I don't know,” Dirk said, taking care to keep his voice calm, and steady. “And I won't know, until you tell me where he went.”

  “You don't know?” she said, spitting the words back at him. “You sneak in here at the hour of the witch, send my heart over the moon and stars, and you don't even know if there's a fire? Is Mama Mae Crier so worried about her baby boy that she'd send you to fetch him when he's been out of sight for too long?”

  “The white woman sent me,” Dirk said softly.

  Wynflaed drew up short at that, tossing her head like one of her charges. Her mouth was still open, but whatever she'd been going to say had fled her mind. Her eyes dropped to Dirk's hip, and her nostrils flared when she saw the glimmer of his dagger's wire-wrapped hilt. Dirk folded his arms, and waited. Wynflaed ran a hand over the side of her head, rubbing at her shaved scalp. She frowned at nothing in particular. Above them, her evening's conquest dressed clumsily.

  “It's dire, then?” she asked.

  “It is,” Dirk replied, keeping his voice low. “You're Teller's trail blaze. He wouldn't have gone anywhere without stopping here first. Point me the path, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Wynflaed put her hands on her hips, and worried her bottom lip. The fire in her eyes had banked to little more than embers, and her cheeks had gone milk pale. From up in the loft, a pair of sandals scraped onto the ladder. A young man followed them. He was dressed in loose pants, a simple sash, and a vest, but his skin was still light enough to show the ho
t, red mark of Wynflaed's slap across his cheek. His lip was split, as well, and it trickled a steady stream of blood down his chin. Once he had his feet back on the ground, he raked a hand through his thick curls, and angrily brushed hay from his sweat-streaked arms. The poleman stalked toward them, glowering all the while.

  “He went north,” Wynflaed said. “I saw him down the road myself. He went on foot to Miller's Low. He told me he was going to take a night or two at the Green Fork, and he'd leave the next sign there.”

  The raft boy put his hand on Wynflaed's shoulder, and spun her around. This time when her hand flew, it wasn't the love tap she'd given him in the loft. Her fist slammed into his nose, flattening it with a sharp crack. Blood spurted, and he stumbled sideways. His head bounced off the stall door, and the horse inside shied away from him. He caught himself on the door, and gagged as he tried to find his breath. He snatched a knife from his sash, but Wynflaed slapped it out of his hand. The steel skittered along the dirt floor, catching up against one of the barn's support beams.

  Wynflaed grabbed her former lover by his wrist, and the back of his neck. She pulled, and he gasped in pain, contorting his body to try and relieve some of the pressure from her hold. She pulled harder, and his gasp turned into a cry. She marched him to the stable door, slammed it open with his head, and flung him out into the night. He sprawled in the dirt, coughing and sputtering. He tried to wipe the blood from his nose, but as soon as he touched it, he cursed in pain.

  “Get yourself gone,” Wynflaed said, slamming the door, and dropping the lock bar in place.

  “Should I cry favor?” Dirk asked.

  “A pretty face was all he had to offer,” Wynflaed said. “Seems I ruined it. Bring Teller home, walking on his own two feet, and I'll consider the debt of my ruined evening paid. Will you be needing a horse?”