by Jason Denzel
All his time alone in the highlands, the Woodsmith had never seen a massacre like the one that awaited him when he approached the rarely used cart path cutting through the valley.
Flames feasted on a ruined wagon that had been overturned in the middle of the overgrown road. Six bodies lay chained to the wagon. The Woodsmith expected there was at least one more buried beneath the wreckage. The fire wasn’t new. It had moved past the main course and now smoldered on the after-meal. Most of the bodies were charred beyond recognition.
The Woodsmith flicked his wrists and his walking sticks became finely sharpened blades. Memory in his left hand, Remorse in his right. He reached out with his senses, and stepped out of the forest to approach the ruined caravan. Whitepaw and the other wolves watched him from the unseen shadows of the forest.
The first thing he noticed upon reaching the dead bodies was that they hadn’t died from a bandit ambush, or even from the fire. They’d been slaughtered by animals. A chill crept up the Woodsmith’s spine. Nothing native to these parts would cause this sort of damage.
The fay had been here.
This wasn’t the first fay attack he’d seen. As recently as a month ago there’d been another. A pair of mountain goats had come down the mountain to get his attention. He’d followed them to a corpse that had belonged to a local, middle-aged man who’d likely been out gathering iceberries. He’d been gutted by a tusk the length of a man’s forearm. Small, silvery rodents were crawling on his body when the Woodsmith had arrived.
He circled the burning wagon and confirmed his suspicion that a seventh body lay beneath the overturned wagon. Normally, he’d recognize it as a merchant cart, headed west for its seasonal visit to the villages located in the mountain interior. But the chains attached to the six bodies told another story. Those people had been prisoners. They were the merchant’s wares. These were slaves.
Unclaimed.
The Woodsmith used the tip of his blade to turn one of the lesser-burned faces. His grim expression took in the short hair, the patch of pale skin that had fallen against the snow, and a single milky-blue eye. A pair of red-tinged hairs lay beside another body.
The Woodsmith spit the foul taste from his mouth. These Unclaimed were from Moth, far away across the world. Likely the merchant had been taking them to Yin-Aab, where such wares were valued. He moved on to search the rest of the wreckage.
He used his foot to break open a partially burned wooden chest. Inside he found a bolt of woolen fabric, metal cups, pins, scraps of iron useful for repairing homes, and two formerly fine lace dresses suitable for young noblewomen seeking feast-day attire.
The Woodsmith relaxed and sheathed his blades. He faced the forest where he suspected Whitepaw was and raised an arm. He wanted to let the wolves know it was safe. The fire was not a danger to the surrounding forest.
Covering his face with a clean strip of the wool fabric, the Woodsmith dragged the seven bodies into a line. He had to break the chain from the cart to free them, but the fire had done most of the work for him. His hand lingered only half a heartbeat above the Unclaimed before he shook off his old habits and moved the bodies. It felt strange to touch another human after so many years, even though they were dead. These people might be the corpses here, but in some ways the Woodsmith felt that he’d died long before them.
He buried the Unclaimed together in a single grave but left the slave merchant to burn. When he was done he stood silently over it, giving each person some peaceful attention before sorting through the caravan’s wares.
He gathered as much as he could, but not for himself. He’d certainly keep some of it—perhaps a scattering of useful tools or one of the bolts of cloth—but he planned to deliver the rest to the mountain villages under the cover of night. The villagers would wake up and find gifts in their central square waiting for them. Perhaps he’d carve some elderberry flutes and leave those, too. He loved hearing the villagers play the wind instruments whenever he left some for them to find. It was the flutes that inspired the villagers to give him his name.
As the Woodsmith assembled a makeshift litter to carry the goods, a chill wind tickled the back of his neck.
Instinct took over. He dropped everything in his arms and spun around, whipping Memory up into a ready position. In his years living alone he’d practiced the fundamental combat stances he’d learned from a man now long dead. Although he no longer had a teacher to guide him, daily effort combined with a cultivated will to survive gave him confidence that he could defend himself.
He also realized that whatever lurked here in the forest could likely easily overwhelm him.
Nothing stirred in the underbrush.
The Woodsmith rotated, slowly dragging his gaze across every tree and shrub. A long minute passed without further incident. The Woodsmith wondered if he’d imagined the strange sensation. Slowly, he lowered his blade, but did not sheath it. He kept his senses alert as he went about gathering some of the more useful things scattered throughout the ruined wagon.
The Woodsmith tied a small pouch of salt to his belt and set off to return home. He took only one step before coming to a halt.
A pile of stacked stones rested in the middle of the path.
The hairs on the back of his arms stood on edge. Fear gripped his chest. There was no mistaking the stack. The rocks had been placed in a precise and familiar manner.
“Sim,” whispered a voice.
The Woodsmith spun around, looking for the source of the voice. He found nobody, and whipped his attention back toward the pile of rocks.
Whoever had placed them knew his old name, the name that he’d practically forgotten.
Slipping back into the forest, the Woodsmith fled.
THREE
THE ROLLING FORGE
Heavy rain drenched the Rolling Forge Inn. Pomella sat in a shadowy corner, listening to the storm patter against a nearby windowpane. She sighed. She’d heard stories of other countries where it hardly ever rained in the summer. But on Moth, even during the hottest part of the year, you could count on at least a handful of storms.
She wore her well-worn cloak, once vibrant but now faded to a dull green, to conceal her face and long hair from curious eyes. Her staff rested on the ground beneath the table, out of sight for the moment.
Beyond the foggy window, on the nearby peak of Sand Hill, the Fortress of Sea and Sky loomed in the darkness. Clusters of lanterns illuminated it like lantern bugs glowing in its walls.
Pomella had been vague about her reasons for not accepting the ManHinleys’ offer of hospitality, even when the baroness and her husband had insisted. After Pomella had awoken their child, they had lavished Pomella with praise, offers of payment, and anything else she could’ve asked for. Pandric went so far as to press two reigns into her hand. It’d been hard for her not to gape. Those two coins were worth two hundred stands, which was akin to two thousand clips. Money like that was unheard of back in Oakspring. You could buy a horse for everyone in the village with that!
Pomella had gently pushed the money back into the baron’s hand but did remind both of them about the enclave of hungry Unclaimed that would soon descend upon the city. She’d also mentioned the importance of paying their seasonal tithe to Kelt Apar, a tradition that the three baronies of Moth had done for centuries. It baffled the baron and baroness that she wouldn’t accept their money or hospitality, but their overall gratitude had been plain.
Laughter and hollering from the common room rolled over her in waves, surging and rising as drinks flowed. As it was one of two major port cities on Moth, Port Morrush’s inns rarely lacked for a variety of patrons on a stormy evening. It seemed to Pomella that every dockhand and sailor from Moth and the Continent packed its walls. At least a hundred commoners filled the room, extending into every corner, crowding themselves into any space that could hold them. A mixture of candles and oil lanterns lit the room, except for the corner where she lurked. Pomella let the sounds stream like wind through a willow. She smiled.
It reminded her of home, and it was a nice change from the lonely days of living in Kelt Apar.
She didn’t recognize anybody except the glowering bouncer standing at the door with her meaty arms crossed in front of her chest.
Mags. The tall, thick-muscled woman had been one of the Black Claw bandits who had harassed Pomella seven years ago. Mags stared at everyone with an expression that made her look like she’d just swallowed gunkroot. She was one of the inn’s owners, although you wouldn’t guess it from her sour expression and lack of human interaction.
A round face with a bald head and neatly trimmed goatee popped into Pomella’s dark corner. Dox, the other owner of the Rolling Forge, finished wiping his hands on his apron, then scratched his forearms. “Doing well, Mistress?” he asked with only a hint of teasing in his voice. He spoke with a heavy Rardarian accent that hadn’t faded in the seven years he’d lived on Moth. The former Black Claw had convinced Mags to open the Forge after selling off their former gang’s equipment and horses. An actual forge wagon hung from the high ceiling above the common room, representing the only remnant from the Black Claws’ past.
“As well as rain,” Pomella mused in reply.
Dox patted his sweaty forehead with his apron. A smile blossomed on his face. “Aye, the good Mothic weather booms our business.”
“Perhaps you could turn your extra profits from tonight to provide free meals to the poorest families living in the city,” Pomella suggested.
Dox wiped his sweaty forehead. “Always the Mystic of the Commoners, aren’t you?” he said, but not without affection. “Are you sure I cannot introduce you to everyone? Let them see you.”
“I’m content here. I’ve had a long day. Thank you, Dox.”
“Anything for you, Mistress. Always.” He bowed slightly and returned to the bustling room and his patrons.
Aside from experiencing a change of pace from the quiet days at Kelt Apar, Pomella enjoyed watching people go about their regular lives. Most of these men and women struggled through their lives. They may not be content with their lives, but they were certainly resigned. Few, if any, had been given opportunities like her to rise above the caste they’d been born to. She wished she could do more for them. To show them how it was possible. Yet here she sat, lurking in a quiet corner, wondering if the gulf between her and the commoners had finally grown too vast for her to reach out.
“Perhaps the brandy’s affecting my sight, but is it possible that this lonely corner hosts an even more lonely lady?”
Pomella looked up to see a well-dressed man with a short, scruffy beard and brown eyes politely holding a cap in his hands. He spoke with a Mothic accent and had curly brown hair. His smile exuded a winning charm. He bowed to her.
She was about to tell him to scamper off when he continued. “Berrit Lorndrew. It’s quite packed in here. May I join you?”
Pomella sighed inwardly. A little company never scared happiness away, her grandmhathir had always said. “Of course,” she replied.
He slipped into the chair across from her and mimed trying to peer into the depths of her hood. “And whom do I have the pleasure of sitting with?”
“Pomella,” she replied, slipping her hood off. Berrit’s eyes widened at seeing her long hair. She wore nothing that outright stated she was a Mystic, but she also lacked jewelry and rich attire that would mark her as a noble.
“I beg your pardon, Mistress,” he said. “I assumed you were a merchant-scholar like myself. Please forgive my brash introduction.”
“Nonsense,” Pomella said. “I was beginning to feel a bit too reclusive over here.”
Berrit leaned toward her. “Wait a moment. I’ve heard of you. You’re the one they call the Hummingbird. The Commoner Mystic.”
Pomella’s cheeks heated. She was suddenly glad the shadows hid them. “People love to admire symbols. I’m happy to provide one, if it helps them, but most days I trudge in my garden’s mud and tend goats.”
“That’s a humble living for one whom nobles bow to,” Berrit said.
“What are you a merchant of, Master Lorndrew?” Pomella said, changing the topic.
“Please, Mistress. Call me Berrit.”
“Then call me Pomella.”
He inclined his head in agreement and smiled again. There was a slight suggestion in the curve of his lip. “Your wares?” Pomella prompted.
In reply, he withdrew a musical instrument as wide as two hands from his inner coat. It was a set of nine slightly curved pipes, each tube a bit longer than the one beside it.
“A singer?” she asked, her interest piqued.
Berrit shrugged. “A minstrel,” he said. “I trade in music. My fathir wanted me to take over his successful furniture business, but I”—he flourished the hand holding the pipes—“I find contentment in the crafting and performance of the musical arts.”
His eyes twinkled at her, but before Pomella could reply a wind howled through the inn. On the far side of the common room, the door opened, spilling in rain. The cold gust charged in like an angry bull in a stall. The flames of the candles shook. An awkward silence overtook the crowd as three hunched figures slipped silently into the inn and closed the door. Hushed murmurs greeted the strangers.
Pomella vaguely recognized the two men and the woman who had entered. These were Unclaimed from the enclave she’d rescued this morning. There were no physical marks, no Mystical aura about them, that declared it, but nobody—not even the grubbiest commoner farmer on Moth—wore rags as filthy as theirs, or had bald heads and hollow sunken eyes set into uncomfortably thin, sore-lined faces.
The crowd, already crammed too tight into the common room, somehow backed away until there was a gap around the three newcomers as wide as Pomella’s outstretched arms. The woman whispered something that Pomella could not hear. It sounded like a request.
Mags cracked her knuckles and stepped toward them.
Pomella gave Berrit an apologetic smile, then stepped around the table and out of the shadows. “Hold, Mags,” she said. “There’s room for more. Come forward, friends.”
In the relative silence of the inn, Pomella’s voice carried across the crowd, and soon every face gaped at her. One by one people raised their glasses to her in salute, while the more sober ones actually stood and bowed. A handful of elegant, dark-skinned merchant-scholars nodded to her from one of the larger tables near the inn’s blazing hearth.
So much for a quiet evening in the shadows.
The Unclaimed slowly shambled forward. Pomella couldn’t imagine the courage it took for them to come to a public place and enter unannounced. They could be killed for such a brash act. But she had encouraged them this morning, and her presence clearly bolstered them.
Chairs scraped across the floor and several people squeaked in worry when one of them brushed by too closely. The gap around them followed them as if they were encased in a bubble. Pomella studied each of them. The men were unshaven, with pale blotchy skin, and touches of red in their gray beards that revealed their Mothic heritage. Their eyes leaped everywhere, like feral animals wondering if the food they were being offered was actually a trap. Pomella forced herself not to look away. Even after all these years, it was hard not to. Old habits were difficult to overcome, even for a Mystic.
“Dox, bring these people a meal. They’ve had a long day.”
Dox opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. He rattled his hand in the air to get the cook’s attention. The cook, an old woman who had stuck her head out from the kitchen when everything went unexpectedly silent, saw his gesture and vanished back into her domain to prep something.
At her gesture, the Unclaimed shuffled to the dim corner where Pomella had been sitting at moments before. Berrit backed away to give them room. The Unclaimed hunched awkwardly, not knowing how to handle themselves. Pomella gave them a reassuring smile before realizing that now everyone had returned their gaze to her.
“Sing for us, Lady!” somebody called.
Pomel
la sighed. Whenever she found herself recognized in a public place, something like this happened. “It’s late,” she told them, “and you’re all having plenty o’ fun without me.”
“Please, Lady!” said another voice, this time coming from a young woman who looked like she hadn’t even seen twenty springs yet.
Pomella found herself looking around for help and caught Berrit’s grin. He shrugged at her as if to say, Why not?
“Oh, buggerish,” she mumbled to herself. Then more loudly to the crowd, “What do you want to hear?”
A storm of suggestions tumbled over her like the surging wind from outside.
“Sing ‘The Nightingale’s Dream’!”
“‘Old Gimmish’s Lament’!”
“‘Steamy Jinny’s Walking Pants’!”
The crowd laughed at the last suggestion, which was a raunchy ballad that would barely be appropriate at an inn long after dark. Pomella laughed with them until she realized the idea came from a gangly teenage boy no older than thirteen. How did he even know about such things? And what was he doing here anyway?
Berrit’s voice came from behind her. “Perhaps the Toweren, Lady?”
In true Mothic fashion, the crowd immediately rumbled in agreement. Pomella supposed you couldn’t walk into a crowded inn on the island without eventually hearing Brigid’s saga retold.
Pomella nodded, and more cheers washed over her.
“Hey, Dox,” she called, “how about something sweet to get me started?”
But before Dox had a chance to fulfill her request, a pint of hard honey cider got passed to her from the crowd. She accepted the mug from the same teenage boy who’d asked for “Steamy Jinny.” He winked at her as she took the mug. Winked at her! He was, what? Thirteen years old at most? That would make her ten years older than him. She took a long pull at the drink, glad for the sweet calm it offered.
