by Aaron Bunce
“I…I,” Thorben stuttered, struggling to form an argument to Iona’s unexpected plea. He remembered the thaws by the man’s side, first sneaking through the shadows and slipping into richer men’s estates, and then later, after they’d discovered that rare and alien relics were a far more profitable commodity. A wave of nostalgia washed over him as a cool breeze whistled through the trees. He swore that he caught an earthy, dusty scent on the wind – a musty, stale odor of damp and decay.
Thorben’s memories turned dark, however. He remembered feeling the sun splash across his face as he pulled himself out of the tunnel they’d dug into what turned out to be an empty burial chamber, only to find gleaming spear points and angry faces waiting for him. His nostalgia turned to anger, the thaws old whip scars on his back and legs twinging in response.
“You are here now… in my town, after all these thaws. I paid the price back then, but it is my wife and children who pay it now. Where were you?” he asked.
“I don’t carry whip marks, broken hands from the pickaxe, or the Council’s brand upon my flesh. I won’t tell you that I suffered alongside you, Thorben, or that I completely understand what you went through. That would be an offense to your sacrifices. All I can do is make you and your family whole again. This delving will be the one to change fortunes, Thorben. And by fortunes, I don’t just mean coin in your hand. I know a healer, an outcast from the Manite order, blessed with powers beyond any other. You delve this one last time for me, and I will have her remove your brand. You will be a new man, free from the burdens of the past and able to move your family anywhere in the provinces you choose. I am offering you the power to claim the life you deserve.”
Iona held out the sheaf of parchment. Thorben hesitated, but finally accepted it. He felt the brand twinge on his forearm, or it could have been in his head. He hated the mark, and longed for a day when he no longer had to hide it from his children.
“I am staying at the River’s Mouth Inn, in the green room, until sunrise after morrow. If you want to pull yourself up and stare your tormentors in the eye, that is where I will be. If not…well, it has done my heart good to see you again, and I hope you and your family Mani’s blessings.”
Thorben held the sheaf of parchment out, but Iona shook his head.
“Keep it,” he said, and promptly turned and walked away.
Thorben watched the man move quickly down the road, disappearing into the canopy’s heavy shadow. And just like that, he was gone.
Chapter Four
Hard to Swallow
Thorben took his time to walk the rest of the way home, intermittently stopping to look at the folded parchment. He tried to crumple it up, to throw it away, but his hands refused him. The image mocked him, reminding him of those young thaws when he lived recklessly, but easily, the coin plentiful and regular. He’d enjoyed those thaws, despite all the risk. Now, life just felt hard.
“I can’t take those risks anymore…not with the kids,” he said, suddenly, taking the picture and stuffing it into his shirt and out of sight. He decided to burn the parchment when he got home. “Stoke the fire, kiss the woman, and have a glass of mead,” he said, rubbing his belly. It made more sense to focus on what he had, than fill his head with fanciful tales and dream about what he did not. And if he was out of mead, then he would simply enjoy the other things.
The Thorben homestead came into view, the tall gables appearing through the thick curtain of papery birch trees. He walked by the gardens, the late season vegetables clustered in the warm sunshine. Beyond that, rows of tartberry, blackberry, and snowberry bushes stretched around to the back of the home, the fat fruit waiting patiently to be picked. He visualized spreading some of his wife’s jam onto a slice of hot, freshly baked bread, and his stomach rumbled. He stopped for a moment and shook the fence circling it all, the thick timber stakes and prickly weavers hardly moving under his weight.
His gaze swept up from the fence and sprawling gardens to the house, each of the thick timbers and shingles lovingly crafted. He’d helped his father hammer every pin, nail, and stud into place, infusing the large home with equal parts blood, sweat, and blisters. The thought that someone would readily stake ownership over everything they had worked so hard to build for a measly handful of coins incited another wave of anger.
Fists clenched, Thorben stomped over to the splitting stump and wrenched the axe handle free. He grabbed a thick piece of dry elm, stood it on end, and drove the axe down, splitting it violently into two uneven pieces. He grabbed another piece, and then another, allowing his anger to flow into something constructive. The piles of split wood grew until, finally, he sagged against the axe, the pain in his side too much to ignore.
“What ya doin’, pa?” someone asked. The voice was small and feminine, but infused with a strength and resilience he immediately recognized.
Thorben turned to find Dennah seated on a massive log, his saw leaned against the tree just to her left. Her legs and arms were dirty and bruised, while green stains and burrs covered her dress.
“Just cutting some firewood, pebble. You look fresh from an adventure!”
Dennah nodded enthusiastically, her smile stretching from ear to ear.
“You want to help?” he asked, gesturing to the axe.
The girl nodded and jumped off the log, stumbled, and caught her balance, covering the distance between them in a heartbeat. She latched onto the axe and yanked it free, and before Thorben could stop her, leaned back, lifting the iron blade into the air.
“Easy, girl,” he laughed, wrapping an arm around Dennah as the weight tipped her backwards. “First, before you even lift the axe off the ground, you need a firm base. Set your feet. Just…like…that.” Thorben helped the girl widen her stance a bit.
“Now, straighten your back, don’t slouch, and pull your shoulders back. Here,” he said, and helped her heft the axe up, letting the weight come to rest gently on her shoulder. “Now slide one hand up here closer to the blade, and keep the other down here.” Thorben moved Dennah’s hands into position and stepped back. She teetered for a moment, but set her jaw determinedly, and fought the weight.
“Like this, pa?” she asked, trying to maintain the posture.
Thorben laughed, and moved in to help her hold the weight. He lifted a ratty piece of firewood onto the stump and made sure it wouldn’t fall.
“Are you ready, pebble?”
Dennah wobbled under the weight, nodded, and promptly scrunched up her face.
“All right. Now let me teach you a little secret about chopping firewood,” he said, pinching her cheek. “The trick is to let the axe do the hard work. You just make sure you hang on.”
With a monumental effort, Dennah brought the axe head off of her shoulder and let it swing forward. The iron blade hit the dry piece of elm with a crack, the wood splitting partially from the weight of the strike.
“See, you’re a natural!” Thorben exclaimed, patting his daughter on the back.
“You think? You think?!” Dennah exclaimed, releasing her hold on the axe to wrap him in a hug.
Thorben winced as she squeezed, but wrapped his arms around her and pushed painfully to stand, lifting her into the air.
“I can chop more, daddy, lots more!” Dennah offered, but he shook his head and planted a kiss on her cheek.
“Not now, pebble. Later. You can help me stack it up, too,” he said, and headed for the kitchen. Thorben smelled food before rounding the corner and by the time he passed through the open kitchen door his mouth was watering.
Dennica was bent over the clay oven as he entered, the flour-plastered, threadbare fabric of her apron the only part of her visible.
“I caught a scrawny jack rabbit on my walk home. I don’t think it has much meat on it, but its bones should make a tasty broth,” he said, lifting Dennah up and snuffling playfully on her belly.
“Rabbit would be tasty, for sure, husband. And surely tastier than the hedge rats that have been feasting in our garden,” Den
nica said, turning from the oven and hastily dropping a dark loaf of bread on the table.
Dennah roared and pretended to chomp on his shoulder, but Thorben’s humor had already bled away. He let the girl drop to the floor, the pain in his side and leg flaring from the effort. His wife’s eyebrow ticked a little higher, her large, brown eyes watching him.
“But I…I built that new fear totem, and the fence. The fence should be more than enough to keep them out. My aviary has kept the birds out, and I planted that fence base deep into the soil. That garden is almost as secure as the keep wall in Klydesborough,” he said, but trailed off as Dennica’s hands dropped to her hips, the lines around her mouth deepening. “How bad is it?”
“It’s like I telled you last thaw, it’s not enough. We should have traded one of the goats for a pair of pups out of old lady McCreavy’s litter. Those dogs would be a full thaw old by now and could keep those hells sent, thieving hedge rats out of our garden. They got into the squash, the gourds, and my onions…probably the garlic, too. We can eat some of it, but it’ll spoil fast for sure. The rest isn’t ready for picking, and is just sitting out there, waiting for them to come back.”
It never gets any easier. J’ohaven, banish me now! he thought, withering under her gaze. He’d worked with all six of his boys to build the fence around the garden. Hells, it took them nearly a fortnight to construct, and the damned rats found another way in. No…he drew out the plans for that fence. It was strong, tight, and true. Thorben thought for a moment, trying to put together a plan before speaking. It wouldn’t do him any good to add fuel to his wife’s fire.
“We harvest from the garden early…have your cousins help us gather what we can, and move that food to the cellar for safe keeping? I can go out and inspect the fence…make it good enough for now,” he proposed.
“Aye, that sounds wise, husband. But you see, the boys an’ I already went through it while you were out walking. We picked and picked, saving what we could. I moved the food I could save to the cellar, and will jar it morrow. Then I can roast the dodgy stuff, dry the herbs, and if Mani hasn’t abandoned us completely, lay the rest out for seeds. But those vermin have the taste of our freshly growns in their belly now. Ain’t nothing to stop them from creepin’ in during the wee hours and eating what’s left.”
“I could–”
“What? Sit out there and guard it all in the black of night, like some armor-clad knight?” Dennica cut in. Her face was flushed, a few strands of stray hair drifting over her eyes.
“If need be, aye,” he said, more firmly this time. “The boys and I could keep them out…if it’s what needs being done. What is a little lost sleep compared to food for the cold, dark season ahead? I–” Thorben said, passionately, buying into his own words the longer he went, but Dennica cut him off again.
“It’s just so much to ponder on, husband, so very much lately – the food, the money, the Council’s taxmen, and the children. I don’t want to talk on it anymore for now. Let’s sit down and enjoy some pottage and bread, and maybe, after we’ve filled our bellies and put our young ones to bed, we can look onto our troubles with honest eyes.”
Thorben nodded, reaching out to tuck his wife’s flyaway hair behind her ear. She threw her arms around his midsection and pulled him into a hug. He sucked in a strangled breath as the pain flared in his side, and despite his great desire not to, he groaned.
“What is it?” Dennica asked, swatting his arms out wide, and before he could stop her, she pulled up his shirt. “Mani’s mercy! Did a tree fall on you?” A dark silhouette marred his side, the sizable bruise already a horrible looking blemish, and he feared, just a mere taste of what it would become.
Thorben hissed and pulled away, favoring his side. He told himself that he’d experienced worse, and lived. But there was more at stake now, and Dennica had an irritating habit of seeing through to the true heart of a matter. He’d never be able to convincingly lie about it, for that matter.
“I…” he started to say, his mind whirling. What should he say? How much should he say? A hundred possibilities flooded his mind at once. Finally, he decided on the narrowest and straightest path before him. “I went to Lamtrop’s Woolery, as I heard tell that he was lending coin to those in need.” Dennica started to shake her head, her eyes narrowing as they so often did when she soured on a topic.
“Thorben Paulson–” she said, trying to cut him off, but he knew that if she got her ire up again he wouldn’t get another chance to speak, or she’d set her spoon against his backside.
“I just went to inquire, that is all, but I didn’t like his terms, so I refused to sign the note. When I refused, well, he had his brute throw me from the shop.”
“He had you thrown out, just like that?” she asked, her lips drawing thin. He’d only ever seen Dennica spitting mad once, and she was close. He suddenly feared for Lamtrop’s wellbeing.
“Aye. Right into the dirt. Then his man savaged me. I picked myself off the ground and limped home. Has not been my day, wife.”
“What business does a man of means have employing a brute like that? And what does a man like you,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “have shadowing a man like that’s doorstep? You just stay away from town for a while. The last thing we need is you running into that man again.”
“As wise as ever,” Thorben said, nodding, hoping he could leave it at that. His wife eyed him for a long moment, the right side of her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She tapped her fingernails against the table, and after a weighted moment, brushed both hands against her apron.
“Well, if you can manage it, go round up the children for some supper. Then I want you to take ease after, to get some rest and heal up. You’re no good to anyone under this roof a cripple.”
Dennica turned back to the fireplace and worked to lift the heavy pot from the hook. “…out sniffing for trouble, if you ask me. A man with a history is best served avoiding those airy, coin-grubbing merchant folk. I ought pay that stuffy little man a visit and teach him how to treat folk. Kick a man when he’s down…I’ll show him my rolling pin,” she huffed, mumbling under her breath as she dropped the iron pot smartly onto the small table next to the fire.
Thorben limped quickly out of the kitchen and breathed a sigh of relief, fully aware that his wife needed time to vent, and he very likely dodged the worst of it. At least, for now.
He limped around the house and almost immediately stumbled onto two of boys – Paul, the eldest, and Tymon, one of the middle boys. They sat with their backs to the house, their feet propped up on thick pieces of firewood. Paul whittled on a stick, while Tymon watched.
“Boys, would you run and fetch your brothers and sister? Bring some fresh water up from the well and get washed up for some supper,” he said.
“Right away, father,” Paul said, putting his knife away and springing up from his perch. Tymon fell over awkwardly, rolled to his feet, and sprinted to catch up with his more athletic, older brother.
He watched Paul disappear around the house, pride swelling in his chest at the thought of his firstborn so close to manhood. He turned and made his way back towards the kitchen, just as a gust of wind rolled through the trees, the chilly air damp with the promise of rain. He could remember a time when he longed for the first snow, but now…now winter loomed before them like a savage and faceless beast.
Dennica wasn’t in the kitchen as he walked inside, so he stomped out of his boots, and closed the bottom and top doors. He found his wife in the dining hall, laying out bowls and goblets onto the long table. He lit candles as the troop entered noisily into the kitchen and banged around with washbasins and a bucket of water. They laid out bread and started to fill bowls with pottage, Dennah first appearing through the door, followed closely by her older brothers.
Dennica stood at the head of the table, her back straight and body motionless, perched like a mighty, war totem. The six boys filed around the table, moving slowly and respectfully under their mother’s hawk-like
gaze. Dennah skipped, humming a quiet tune, seemingly oblivious to it all.
They sat together and only started eating once Thorben lifted his spoon and tapped it on his bowl. The calm disintegrated then, boys eating and talking, and Dennah shouting her responses, often with food falling out of her mouth. Thorben ate his pottage quietly and simply listened, enjoying the barely constrained chaos that was his family. The six boys – Kenrick, Reginald, Darro, Tymon, Henrick, and Paul, from youngest to eldest, chewed through several loaves of bread, sopping up their bowls, before returning to the pot for seconds.
“What news from Klydesborough, Paul?” Thorben asked during a rare lull in the conversations.
“The road was quiet, father. The city was full of people…loads of wagons and boats at the market. I saw a horde of dwarves in from Braakdell–” Paul said.
“We don’t call them a horde, son, they’re not animals. Maybe a group, or party,” Thorben interrupted, chuckling quietly. Dennica snorted into her goblet.
“Yes, father. Sorry, father,” Paul said, gulped down a drink, cleared his throat, and continued. “I met with the Earl’s Clerk of Service. After my sixteenth name day, I can commission for a post with the River Watch! They post on the Bear Claw, the Snake, and all the way down to the Broken Tooth River, darn near Ogre Springs! I would train with bow and spear! Just another moon and I can commission!”
“Will you be able to visit often? You must say yes,” Dennica said, leaning over the table and fussing with his hair.
“Of course, mother!” Paul said, and leaned away, trying to escape her attention and grab more bread. He scooped up the second to last slice, just as Darro jumped from his chair to secure the rest.
“Are there trials?” Thorben asked.
Paul ripped off a mouthful of bread and nodded, chewing loudly. When he spoke, crumbs rained down his shirt. “Marksmanship, boatmanship, and wilderness travel. But if I pass all three, then I become an apprentice River Watchman,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
