by J. M. Briggs
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know,” Merlin said. “But you have achieved a great deal. You have Cathanáil once more, the Iron Hammer, and the Iron Chalice. Shiva remains your friend and ally, and Sif is loyal. The right time will come, and you will be ready for it.” Smiling, Merlin relaxed and leaned back in his chair. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
3
Woes of a Farmer
Podlasie Province, Poland 983 C.E.
The soil was wearing out. He knew it, but there was little to be done. He’d tried putting manure into the soil and planted beans, but it wasn’t enough. The crops were weak and poor no matter what he did. Sweat was rolling down his back, and his muscles ached from exertion. The warm summer sun was shining down, but there were only tiny and weak stalks of green in the earth for all of his efforts. Holding back a cry of despair, he stumbled away from the rows of his field to a nearby tree for shade.
Leaning against the tree, he stared up into the branches. Even the trees were in rough shape. Last summer the tree had been strong with large branches and leaves. This year he’d already cut off several diseased limbs. There was no end in sight. A heavy sigh escaped him, and he looked up into the sky. It hadn’t been too hot, there had been plenty of rain, and yet the crops were struggling. Despair welled up in his chest followed by the grasping ache of helplessness.
He made himself move on. Everything had been watered and weeded. Lingering in the sun wouldn’t do him any good or help the crops. He moved away from the long field that held his crops and walked down a worn dirt path to a small wooden and stone house. The foundation and the lowest part of the walls had been constructed with stone, a rarity for the area, but it kept the home warmer. Long logs had been fitted together to form the walls, and the sloped thatch-covered roof went nearly to the ground, providing cover for the woodpile.
A small fenced yard had been built around the house, and a few chickens were scratching at the ground. They at least seemed to be finding enough to stay healthy. Good; they would need the eggs at the rate the crops were growing. In the middle of the yard, carefully using a whetstone to sharpen a knife, was a young boy about six years old.
Looking up at him, the small boy smiled. His brown hair was a tangled mess and dirt was caked on his hands and nose. But he looked happy, with bright eyes and a warm smile. For a moment, the farmer was almost able to forget. Then the boy coughed. His whole body shuddered, and he fell to the ground, coughing into his hands. There was a glimpse of blood across the child’s palm.
Dashing forward, he hoped that the boy had cut himself before realizing that a cut would be just as bad. He jumped over the fence and chickens scattered out of his way. The boy was still coughing, and the splatter of blood in his hand was bright and mocking. Kneeling, the farmer fought to control his breathing and pulled the child close. The boy curled against him as the coughing finally eased. The blood remained, and the farmer swallowed.
“Father?”
“Let’s go inside.” Scooping up the boy, he climbed to his feet and rushed through the entryway of the house.
Inside it was dark and cool, with only a little light entering through the small window cut opposite the door. In the corner was a large stone oven and shelves had been built into the wooden walls around it. They were covered with pots, pans, rolled up furs, and all other manner of supplies. Jars and baskets along the walls held food and clean water. Two raised beds covered with blankets filled much of the inner space, and he strode to the closest one.
Setting the boy down, he turned and grabbed a small bowl with old washing water. Without a word, he used it to gently wash his son’s hand. His stomach tightened as the water took on a red tint, and he rushed outside to dump the water away from the house. When he returned, the boy had curled up under a blanket and was looking up at him sadly.
“I wanted to help,” the boy said.
“I know, Slavko,” he said. Reaching out, he rested his large hand on the boy’s head. “But, please rest. You need to get stronger.” The boy frowned, his brown eyes darkening. He knew what the boy was thinking of. “It will be alright.”
“I miss Mother.”
“I miss her too.” The words were hard to say. It was the way of things; natural, but it still ached. “But things will get easier.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he leaned forward and kissed the boy’s head. “But right now, I need you to rest and stay out of trouble.” His eyes jumped back to the whetstone. “Please.”
“Yes, Father.”
The words were soft but reassuring. He knew that the boy didn’t fully understand. As weak and ill as he was, even the slightest cut and infection could finish the job. The thought made it hard to move, and his grip on his son tightened. Slowly, he pried his fingers open. There was more work to do. He couldn’t just stay in the house. Standing up, he smiled at the boy. The child returned it, though his eyes darted across the small house to the spindle.
Of course, the boy would try to find something else to help with the moment his back was turned. Exasperation gave way to resignation. It was just the two of them now. He couldn’t do everything. At least some spinning wasn’t likely to worsen his health. Grabbing his axe, he went outside, and looked back to check on Slavko only once. The urge to stay clawed at him, but there was work to do. Always work to do. The crops were poor, so he needed to be ready for anything. Avoiding the chickens, he left the yard and went around the house to where several long trunks were waiting for him.
Grabbing the first log, he hoisted it half way up on an old stump. With several sharp swings of the axe he managed to cut it into two more manageable pieces. The sun beat down on his back, but he quickly found a rhythm in the work that was almost soothing.
“Dobiemir!” The voice jarred him out of the haze of motion. Stopping after the swing of the axe split the latest log, he rolled his shoulders and looked towards the dirt road. “Dobiemir!”
The man was short with broad shoulders and dark hair and eyes. Dressed in a woven tunic similar to his own, he had a satchel tied to his back and was using a walking stick. Dobiemir lowered the axe and set it on the stump he’d been using as a support. Walking over to the fence, he met the man alongside the road.
“Hello, Emond.”
“Hello, Dobiemir,” Emond returned. He was panting a little and leaned against his walking stick.
“Why are you out this way?”
“Doing some foraging,” Emond said. Flushing a little, he shrugged and adjusted the bag on his back. “Crops aren’t doing so well, but thus far the roots are still plentiful.”
“I know what you mean,” Dobiemir said. Nodding towards his fields, he felt the pit in his stomach opening once more. “My crops aren’t as healthy as I’d like.”
“No one’s crops are doing well,” Emond said. Looking towards the fields, he swallowed. “There’s talk of famine.”
“I know,” he said. “I know, but what can we do?”
“I don’t know.” Emond shook his head and nodded towards the house. “How is the little one?”
“Not good. Rest isn’t helping, not much.” Shaking his head, he looked at the house and hoped that his son was at least sleeping. “He coughed up more blood not long ago.”
“I’m sorry, but at least-”
“Don’t!” Dobiemir scowled, hoping that his expression would silence whatever useless statement Emond was about to say. “Just don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Emond said. “The worries… they’re bad. I’m not thinking right.” Shaking his head, Emond swallowed. “We have four mouths to feed. I don’t think the little one will make it through winter.”
“I understand.” Dobiemir’s anger faded. Emond understood just fine even if he wasn’t tactful.
“Have you any plans?”
“The chickens are healthy, as are the sheep, for now at least,” he said. “If we can get enough out of the harvest to keep them fed… or at least some of them, then we should make it to spring.�
�� Adjusting his axe, he tightened his grip on the long handle. “And… if necessary, I can trade some of Lyubov’s trinkets.”
“She’d care more for your survival,” Emond said. “She was a good woman, a good mother.”
“With only one surviving child.” The anger flared back to life. His hands trembled, and Emond reached over to grip his shoulder. “And to die in childbed-”
“It happens, all the time,” Emond said. “There was nothing more you could have done. And you’re looking after Slavko like she would have wanted.”
He nodded. There was nothing else to do or say. Ranting at the unfairness of it would do no good. His guilt wouldn’t help either, even as it pushed up inside him and made an effort to choke him. Two children already gone and Lyubov lost along with the new baby. Life was hard and unfair. He knew it, but that knowledge didn’t make it any easier. Emond squeezed his shoulder and continued on his way home. Dobiemir managed to not throw a log at him.
Frustration wasn’t so easily dismissed. Even chopping the logs into small chunks did little to calm him down. His muscles were becoming fatigued, but the sight of blood on his son’s hand kept flashing in his mind’s eye. Images of Lyubov’s still and sweat covered face and the silent infant followed, making his heart ache. He knew that it was the way that life went sometimes, but that didn’t make it fair. It didn’t stop his grief.
Gathering up the wood, he stacked some of it carefully against the wall of the house under the protective slope of the roof. It had the added benefit of helping to further insulate the house, but also the downside of providing a home for vermin. Keeping his grumbling to himself, he quickly lined one whole side of the house before looking up at the sun. There was still a lot of daylight left. Running through his list of chores, Dobiemir decided that he’d done what he could on the farm.
Quietly, he poked his head into the house to check on his son. The boy was asleep, his small face peaceful against the pillow that he was holding onto. He looked even smaller than usual. A small smile took over Dobiemir’s face, and the knot of worry loosened just a tiny bit. Then his son coughed weakly in his sleep, and the knot tightened worse than before. He was completely still, waiting for it to worsen, but the boy just rubbed his cheek against the pillow and slept on.
He stood there for a time, waiting and bracing himself before his muscles finally unclenched. It was one little cough. He tasted the old dust of the house and told himself that was the cause. Still, he carefully left the house while glancing back at the boy just in case he stirred again. He grabbed a large leather bag and swung it over his shoulder as he went.
Once outside, he took to the path Emond had been using and headed up into the hills. Gathering some extra food sounded like a good plan. If they could build up a supply now then anything from the harvest would last a little longer. Carrying his axe, over his shoulder, he kept his eye out for any newly downed trees. If food couldn’t be found then at least wood was good for trading in the winter.
Stepping into the shade was a relief, and he eyed the towering pines thoughtfully. The bark of their lower trunks was thin and gray, turning more and more red closer to the top. They swayed in the light wind and his feet crunched on the ground against years of fallen pine needles. No matter how much they gathered them up for use in mattresses and fire, there were always more. While they weren’t a great source of food, they were always useful in tea during the winter. Scattered amongst the pines were a few large oaks and one or two ash trees.
The forest was oddly still. Dobiemir stopped in place, tightening his grip on the handle of the axe as he listened. He heard birds, but they sounded muffled and far away. His eyes checked the underbrush around the trees, but the only movement was from the wind. Frowning, he waited for something to move. A bird would fly through at any moment, or some small creature that he’d spooked would finally run for its burrow. Nothing happened.
Suddenly the world began to darken. Looking up, he gasped in surprise. The sun was still shining down on him and there were no cloud obstructing it, but somehow it was darker. He blinked, both hoping and fearing that his eyes were betraying him. It didn’t go away. Everything was just a little too dark, the colors were a little off, and he couldn’t understand it. A shiver raced up his spine. The hairs on his arms stood up straight as he found himself fighting back a chill. He started to take a step back, no longer caring about gathering roots and berries.
Then there was a sound to his left. Freezing in place, Dobiemir looked around carefully. Something was moving through the trees — something long, black, and on all fours, shifting slowly in the shadows. Another rush of cold made his teeth chatter. Air was pushed from his lungs by the sharp chill. Lightheaded, Dobiemir reached out and caught himself against a tree, but did not take his eyes off of the creature.
No, not black, he realized. It was like it was... not. Something about it wasn’t natural. He couldn’t truly see a shape, just the outline where everything else wasn’t. The cold increased but he stayed still, praying to both the pagan gods and the new Christian one that he wouldn’t be noticed. But it turned to look at him with glowing green eyes — an unnatural shade that he’d never seen before. He swallowed. His mouth went dry, and he desperately tried to remember any stories about evil spirits in the forest. The creature almost vanished in the shadows of the trees, seeming to become one with them only to reappear a moment later even closer than before.
The cold was even worse now. It was radiating somehow from the creature. Around them the light kept dimming. He didn’t understand. Terror was tearing at his chest, but he didn’t know what to do. It came closer. Swinging his axe, he caught the thing in the side and it snarled. At least the thing was solid. The blow barely slowed the creature down. Twisting around, it grabbed the handle of the axe in its mouth, showing those long needle teeth. Dobiemir released the axe and stumbled back. The creature tossed it aside and growled.
His back hit the trunk of an oak. Instinct kicked in. The creature growled and began to charge. He jumped, grabbing the lowest branch and pulling himself up. His feet barely swung back before a paw swiped up at him. Dobiemir’s arms and legs were cold and heavy, but he forced himself to move. If the thing could climb, he was in trouble. He grabbed the next branch and pulled his shivering body up. His feet slipped, but his arms clenched to keep him in place. Panting and trembling, he found a solid foothold and leaned against the upper trunk of the tree.
The cold sank further and further into his bones. Horrible thoughts brewed in his mind. The thing was trying to reach him; trying to catch him. Would it eat him? What was it? Dobiemir didn’t know, but the fear kept him still save for the shivering that he was powerless to prevent. His breath danced on the air, and he longed for the overheating of earlier. The tree shuddered, and he gasped as the creature used its claws and tried to climb the tree. He held on tight and held his breath. Then the shaking eased. A low growl reached him, and he dared to look down once again. The creature was circling the tree, but at least the shaking had stopped. Hope began to flicker to life in his chest, but he dared not move.
Then the creature turned and slinked away. It made no sound as it went, no cry of displeasure or huff of irritation. Dobiemir did not move. He couldn’t move. Every muscle ached and twitched against the chill that lingered in every drop of his blood. Yet as the creature vanished into the trees, the world began to warm and brighten.
Dobiemir nearly lost his grip. His once frozen fingers were thawing quickly as the warmth of the sun returned. His mind spun, and black flickered at the edge of his eyes. Keeping a grip on the branches of the tree, Dobiemir closed his eyes and struggled to control himself. He couldn’t panic. He was alive. But what had that thing been? What sort of evil creature was spun from shadow and cold? Sometime later, he finally carefully eased himself out of the tree, collected the metal head of his broken axe, and headed for home, eager to return to Slavko.
4
Danger at Home
The morning crunch was over. I
t was amazingly easy to forget just how packed the bakery got first thing. Bran lamented the day his mother had put in the coffee side of things. Yes it made more money, but the only thing that made people rushing to work tenser than waiting for their baked goods was waiting for their coffee. At least the bakery was still the main part of the operation, and he wasn’t the one responsible for operating the espresso machine.
The bakery was a familiar space, so familiar in fact that Bran knew that it was tied to his very sense of self. When the other mages had first met him, they’d seen glimpses of this place. There was a small seating area out front by the register with a couple of sofas in one corner and several tables with chairs. Located just at the edge of a residential area going into a business district, they rarely had a lot of walk-in traffic that lingered, but it did happen. After twenty-five years, the very dark red brick smelled of bread, cake, and cookies, and Bran couldn’t imagine the space ever being anything but a bakery in the future.
