Crier's Knife

by Neal Litherland

  It was three days since the last little village, and two since Teller's last trail blaze, when Dirk saw something through the trees. He slowed, and frowned as he tried to make it out. It was big, and dark; like a shadow crouching beneath the second growth trees. Water splashed faintly. Dirk tried to get closer, but Sunset shied away. Dirk didn't force her. Instead, he led her into a copse on the other side of the road, and wrapped her reins round a low limb. He patted her neck, and checked his steel. He crossed the road, and slipped into the forest. He stepped in soft, springy grass, and around dead, withered branches that would have cracked underfoot. He slowly pushed a branch aside, and stepped into a clearing. Before him was the drinking demon.

  It looked much as Ignarian had said. The thing was carved of weathered gray stone, and it was the size of half a dozen horses. It knelt on the edge of a brook, its hands raised to its mouth. Thick, brutish horns jutted from its brow, bending backward like the rack on a mountain ram. Its eyes were two, fist-sized pits gouged from the rock, and a spring burbled up from its yawning jaws. Lichen crawled along the great creature's flanks, and the years had worn away its features until what had once been fearsome and frightening looked soft and rounded. Even the fangs, which must have once been the length of Dirk's forearm, had been ground away to nearly nothing by the constant flow of water from its lips.

  The ground around the thing was littered with offerings. Flowers gone to dust and rot sat in bunches tied together with ragged ribbons. Dusty bottles and smashed, stained cups were tilted over on their sides. In the lee of the behemoth's flank, there were even the remnants of a doll still wearing a tattered dress. The doll's face was rotted away, the stuffing long since plundered by moths and nesting birds.

  On the shelf of the demon's knee, Dirk saw three black walnut shells. The nuts had been cracked in half, and left in a line. The meat was gone, though whether it had been left for the stony sentinel or not was impossible to say. Dirk carefully lifted a shell, and examined it. He looked at the color, the grain, and he raised it to his nose to get its scent. He hadn't seen any trees in this stretch of country that would bear these nuts. Though he couldn't say for certain, he'd wager a good knife that they'd come from the trees on the rise behind Teller's stead. He always kept a sack of them near to hand, and a journey wasn't a journey unless he left a trail of their shells behind him.

  Dirk replaced the shell exactly where it had been, and shrugged his pack from his shoulders. He unfolded an oil cloth, and removed a pair of skinned hares. He draped them over the demon's other leg, and rinsed the cloth in the spray from its mouth. Dirk wrung the cloth out, stowed it back in his bag, then inclined his head toward the hulking figure. Strange lands bear strange gods, his grandmother had told him when he'd been a boy. Respect them, because they are nearer to hand than the spirits of your home.

  Sunset cropped grass near the tree Dirk had left her at. She eyed him as he approached, as if making sure he was still the same as when he'd left her a few minutes ago. He rested a hand on her shoulder, and looked her over. Her mane had grown shaggy, and her coat snagged since they'd left Farrier's Ford. The saddle, buffed and oiled to a shine when he'd first put it on her, was now scuffed and scratched. One of the saddlebags hung at an awkward angle as well. Dirk had repaired it as best he was able by firelight with a leather strip a night ago, and it seemed to be holding well enough. He wasn’t faring much better than she was. Though he’d stopped to wash himself and his clothes when he could, his cuffs were growing ragged, and his hair untamed. A new tear in his cloak had been rough-stitched, and though it didn’t keep out the rain or the wind as well as he’d like, it was the best he could do for now. Dirk patted the side of Sunset's neck. She grunted, but showed no interest in moving on from her rest, or in stopping her grazing.

  “Not much longer now, girl.” Dirk glanced up at the sky. It was late afternoon, edging toward evening, and the cool day was already growing chill. “You'll be fine here for a few hours. I'll come get you before midnight, I think.”

  Dirk hobbled Sunset, and gave her the last carrot in her saddlebags. He stripped her saddle, took out the brush, and did his best to remove some of her tangles. He checked her shoes while there was light enough to do so, and removed half a dozen burrs from her coat. She nearly nipped at him once or twice, but in the end it was too much effort for her. Once she was situated, Dirk slipped his pack back on, and his slid his rain cloak over it. Sunset whickered at him as he stepped back onto the road, but Dirk gently shook his head at her. He shushed her once, and when she was quiet, started walking.

  The twilight lasted longer than he expected. For an hour or so, the path was unchanging. Then a light breeze slipped through the trees, and Dirk smelled wood smoke. Half a mile on, just as the last, purple bruises were fading from the sky, he spied the lodge Ignarian had spoken of. The place was squat and low, sunken into the earth like an old man half fallen into his own grave. The corners of rounded, gray stones poked from the moss like old bones, and smoke rose from a chimney atop the heap. As Dirk approached, a heavy mist crept from the trees, panting against his heels. He rapped his knuckles against the drunk-hung door. A minute passed, then a small window opened in the door. A pair of hard, gray eyes glared out at him from beneath heavy brows.

  “What you want?” the owner of the eyes demanded, his voice a thick, harsh slur.

  “A hot meal,” Dirk said, speaking slowly as he tried to match the man’s dialect. “And out of the wet.”

  “What you got to pay?” the man demanded.

  Dirk reached beneath his shirt, and took out the small pouch he'd hung around his neck. He reached inside, and plucked out a small stone. He held it up between his thumb and finger, flashing the uncut ruby. The window snapped shut, and the man said something Dirk couldn't make out. Several moments passed. The door opened, revealing a heavyset bear of a man. His face was a bearded crag, with deep frown lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He was smiling now, though, revealing a gap-toothed grin. He held the door open, and gestured with one muscular arm into the low, dim room beyond. A gold ring flashed from his little finger. Two mismatched tables leaned away from each other, and two chairs faced the fireplace. There was a bar against one wall, but it was little more than a thick board set across two, square stones. Two doors led to other rooms, but both were closed. The place smelled of sage, sweat, and a light, sweet scent Dirk knew at once.

  The place was far from empty. A sallow-faced young man sat in one chair, poking at the fire with a charred stick. A fine leather satchel sat on the floor at his feet. A second man, older and with a scraggly beard, sat in the second chair. A slope-shouldered, heavy-chested man sat at the further of the two tables, whittling a block of wood with a hawk-billed blade. There was an ugly scar on his head that spoke of a gash which had needed stitches, but which had gone without. Even in the dim light the men looked enough like each other that Dirk could see the family lines.

  “Come, stranger,” the old man said, his smile looking out of place on a face clearly more used to scowling. “Get dry, and be welcome.”

  Dirk accepted, stepping over the threshold. He shook some of the evening dew from his cloak, and laid the small red stone on the bar. He shucked his cloak, hanging it from an empty hook on the wall. There were two coats on their own hooks, as well as a rain cloak too small for any of the men to wear. Dirk sat his pack in one of the chairs at the empty table, and himself in the other. The older man picked up the ruby, examined it a moment, then put it in his pocket. He stepped behind the bar, opened a cupboard, and withdrew a cup and a bowl.

  “Call me Braigh,” the old man said, gesturing with one hand at the other men. “My boys. Anbrough, Carrig, and Marren.”

  The three men, from youngest to oldest, each nodded to Dirk in turn. He returned the nods, then glanced back at their father. The old man had opened up a kettle, and was stirring a thick stew in a dark pot. Fat chunks of carrots, dark meat, and tubers floated in the heavy gravy. It smelled good enough to make Dirk's
stomach growl. Anbrough laughed, a titter that was both high and nervous.

  “Pay him no mind,” Carrig said, curling a lip at his brother. His teeth were long and yellowed, like a wolf who had lived too long on sick prey. “Most of him is grown, but some parts are still boy.”

  Anbrough glared at his brother, but didn't say anything. He went back to prodding at the blaze, sending sparks shooting up from the coals. Dirk opened his pack, flicking back the flap and loosening the cinch.

  “Where shall I sleep, Braigh?” Dirk asked as he retrieved a hunk of bread from his pack. “Unless there is a child about, I believe that smaller cloak means you already have a guest.”

  Braigh frowned, glancing toward the door as if he'd forgotten there was a cloak hanging on the small peg. His frown cleared, and he nodded.

  “Trader came through this way some hours back,” he said. “Supped with us, then went to sleep. Small man, takes up little room. There should be plenty left for you, when you finish eating.”

  Anbrough tittered again, and Carrig kicked him in the shin. The younger man recoiled, drawing in on himself as if he expected another blow. Braigh ignored them, ladling the thick stew into a bowl with exaggerated care. The older man filled it near to the brim before replacing the lid and sticking a wooden spoon into the slurry. He took down a cloudy bottle, pulled the cork from it, and splashed a draught into a wooden cup. Braigh set the simple fare before Dirk. The stew smelled good, though no heat rose from the slightly chipped bowl. He didn't know what was in the cup, but the spirit's scent scrabbled at his throat when he picked up the cup and smelled it.

  “Have you a name, stranger?” Carrig asked, leaning back in his chair.

  “Dirk,” Dirk answered, setting the cup back onto the table. He broke off the heel of his loaf, crumbled coarse salt over it, and put it in his mouth.

  “Luck was with you this night, Dirk” Braigh said, as he sat in a chair next to Marren. The chair creaked under his weight, but it held. “Many more hours, and that stew would have turned to stone.”

  Dirk nodded, but said nothing. He took a small taste of the stew, closing his eyes as rolled the flavor over his tongue. It was spicy, but there was something beneath that. The tip of his tongue tingled, and soon grew numb. Dirk swallowed, then broke off several more pieces of bread from his loaf, arranging them on the tabletop near his bowl. Anbrough turned back to the fire. He hunched his shoulders, and ran a hand back through his slick hair. Marren stroked another peel of wood from his block, shaping a curve. Braigh adjusted himself in his seat, his hands folded across his belly. Dirk ate another piece of bread. The four men watched him, but each of them made a show of not doing so. The fire crackled, and night creepers began playing their music in the mist beyond the open windows.

  “Do you head north or south?” Marren asked, speaking without looking up from his whittling.

  “Why do you ask?” Dirk replied.

  “Questions fill an empty night,” Marren said, shrugging his heavy shoulders.

  “I go north,” Dirk said.

  “On what business?” Marren asked, turning his whittling over in his hands to get a better grip on the wood.

  “I seek a man,” Dirk said. “By my reckoning, he came this way.”

  Dirk offered a piece of bread to the brothers near the fire. Anbrough turned toward him, but Carrig snatched the bread away with a smile, and a nod of his head. He ate it with great relish, licking the salt from his fingers.

  “What does this man you seek look like?” Carrig asked, wiping his hand on his shirt. “Mayhap we laid eyes on him as he came past.”

  “Younger,” Dirk said. “Tall, and dark-haired. He talks more oft than not, and he usually has a walking stick with him. Ebony wood, with an iron foot. The head is carved to look like an old man, with a long beard.”

  Carrig crossed his legs at the ankles. He frowned, and rubbed his wispy beard. Braigh had his eyes closed. Marren stroked another peel of wood from the block, adding it to the pile in the dirt at his feet. He held up the chunk of wood, as if trying to see whether it resembled anything yet.

  “Does he have a name?” Carrig asked. “This man you seek?”

  “Teller,” Dirk said. “Though he may give another when he travels.”

  Anbrough covered his mouth, stifling another of his little laughs. Carrig glared at him. Anbrough looked away, snatching an iron poker from where it leaned against the wall. He shoved several sticks into the hottest of the coals, grinding them into the red heat. They crackled, coming ablaze with puffs of smoke. Carrig regarded Dirk, still stroking his chin. Dirk met his gaze, waiting for the other man to speak.

  “Did he travel alone, this man you seek?” Carrig asked.

  “It is hard to say,” Dirk replied. “Sometimes yay, others nay. He takes companions, and leaves them as he wishes. Each one I come across points his path for me. The last I found was a peddler, with a close beard, and a lilting voice. He sold scents and soaps, though he had few enough of either when I came across him.”

  “There was a man-” Anbrough started to say, but Carrig cut him off, frowning at Dirk.

  “Have you come this way afore, Dirk?” Carrig asked.

  “No,” Dirk said.

  “Strange,” Carrig said, leaning forward and peering at Dirk. “I would take oath your face is familiar to me.”

  Dirk shrugged. He took another piece of bread, salted it, and chewed. Carrig kicked Anbrough, and jerked his chin at Dirk.

  “What say you?” Carrig asked. “Do you know his face?”

  “I say keep your boots to yourself,” Anbrough said, shifting away from his brother.

  “I know the sound of his tongue,” Marren said. The big man tossed his wood onto the table, and stood. Out of his chair, he was bigger even than his father. “The man you seek was here.”

  “Was he?” Dirk asked, swallowing. “Which way did he go?”

  “He talked like you talk,” Marren said, ignoring the question as he slowly crossed the room. The curved carving blade was still in his hand, his knuckles white around the grip. “You look a little like him, too. My oath says you two are kin.”

  “And if we are?” Dirk asked, looking up at Marren.

  “Then you owe a debt,” Marren said. “We gave him and his companion fire and food. He gave us trickery. He passed around a bottle of drugged wine, then stole from us once we slept.”

  “What did he steal?” Dirk asked.

  Marren stabbed a finger at the hearth. “He stole our pearl. It sat right there, and when we woke, it was gone.”

  Dirk nodded. He glanced from one face to another, before returning his gaze to the big man with the small, hooked knife.

  “What was this pearl worth?” Dirk asked.

  “Your life,” Marren growled, lashing out.

  Marren was faster than he looked, but his shoulders betrayed his intent. The knife whistled through the space where Dirk's throat had been a moment ago, and sailed on. Marren's balance shifted, trying to compensate, and Dick slammed the heel of his boot into the big man's knee. There was a sickening crunch, and Marren fell sideways. He tried to catch himself on the table, but the legs gave out, and he smashed through it instead.

  Carrig was on his feet a moment later, yanking a gutting knife from the back of his belt. He slashed at Dirk, driving him back. The first blow cut only air, and the second tore a gash in Dirk's shirtsleeve. Carrig had his arm raised to bring the blade down a third time, and Dirk rammed his knife into Carrig's chest. Carrig stared down at the blood slowly oozing around the hilt. There wasn't much. Dirk jerked the blade back, drawing the steel from the man's heart. Carrig fell in a boneless heap. No one had seen Dirk even reach for his blade, but there it was, red and thirsty in his hand.

  “Bastard!” Marren grunted, hauling himself up by one of the wooden posts holding up the roof. He grimaced in pain, his teeth gritted as he made himself stand on his injured leg.

  “You should have waited till he finished eating, stupid boy,” Braigh said. He
levered himself out of his chair, and took a thick, knotted cudgel down from the wall. He twisted a leather loop round his wrist, and cut his eyes to Anbrough. His youngest son stared with wide eyes at his brother's corpse, clutching the fireplace poker like a drowning man would clutch a piece of driftwood. “Get in the fight, half-wit! Else your brains will lie on the stones alongside his!”

  Marren shoved off from the post with a bellow. He bulled toward Dirk, his arms stretched wide and his head down. Dirk waited until he was close, then snatched Marren's arm, slicing his dagger along the inside of his elbow. The hawk bill fell from Marren's nerveless fingers, but not before he sank a fist into Dirk's ribs. Dirk snarled, wheezing as he dropped to one knee. Marren drew back a leg to kick, but before he could Dirk sliced his hamstring with a single, deep slash. Marren cried out, sounding more surprised than hurt when his leg collapsed and sent him sprawling to the dirt floor once more.

  Dirk got back to his feet, breath whistling through his teeth, and barely managed to duck Braigh's knot-headed club. The blow sailed past, splintering a hanging lamp. Braigh bellowed, roaring as he rained down blows. Dirk bobbed and weaved, missing the swings by bare inches once or twice. After a minute had gone by, the old man's strength started to ebb. He panted, no longer shouting as he fought. He lunged, and Dirk planted his knife in the side of the old man's neck. Braigh choked, his eyes going wide as he tried to swallow around steel. He gripped the ruin of his throat, slicing his fingers open against the blade's keen edge. Dirk twisted, and tore his blade free, sending a spatter of blood across the floor. Braigh fell to his knees, one hand clawing at Dirk's boots before he slumped. He rolled onto his back, looking at the roof, but no longer able to see it.

  Anbrough had managed to find his feet, but he stood with his back to the wall. His hands shook so badly the poker clattered against the hearth. His eyes were wide and wild, slopping over with panic. Marren scrabbled for his knife, clutching his wounded arm to his side. He tried to stand, but could only manage a half crouch. Blood stained his trousers, and ran in a red smear along the side of his boot.