by John Brown
That was impossible. Talen had moved his bed out. He would have seen them.
Talen turned and went in to the house to get his old pants. These were stained, thanks to the Stag Home idiots, with blood and grass and would take an hour of washing to get them clean. When he came back outside, Da had Iron Boy saddled.
Da’s unstrung hunting bow stood in the leather bow bag strapped along Iron Boy’s side. He should have been taking his war bow. “I’ll be back before dark,” Da said. He secured what he called the Hog behind the saddle.
The Hog was an axe with a handle about as thick as four fingers and a shaft as long as Talen’s arm. The head was not broad like a timber axe, but short and narrow with a blade at one end and a pick at the other. But it was used for other things. An archer needed a weapon for close work. He needed something for when he exhausted his supply of arrows. The Hog could pierce armor when wielded by a man half Da’s size, and Da had killed three Bone Faces last year with it. But he did not reverence it as many men would: most of the time he used it to break up the bee propolis in the hives or to chop kindling.
“If you find any Sleth,” said Da, “be sure to tell them you’re tough and gamey and not at all fit for dinner.” A little bit of a smile softened his grim expression.
“Easy for you to say,” said Talen.
“We’re going to be fine, Talen,” he said. “Don’t worry about a thing.” He picked up the reins and led Iron Boy away.
Talen watched him go. Then he looked at the woods and swallowed.
5
THE HUNT
On the day before Talen took his beating, Barg, the harvest master and butcher of the village of Plum, stood in the crisp light of early morning with a number of men, waiting to murder the smith, his wife, and their two children.
Oh, none of them called it murder, but all knew that’s where this would lead. And what choice did they have?
The villagers had been joined by others in the district and divided into groups positioned around the smith’s. One group hid behind the miller’s. Another, the one lead by Barg, kept itself behind Galson’s barn. The third waited in a small grove on the outskirts of the village.
The men with Barg stood for an hour, checking the buckles of what armor they had, wrestling with the shock of the matter, and waiting for the signal in silence. At first, a handful of the outsiders had boasted of what they’d do. “Mark me,” a Mokaddian wearing the turquoise of the Vargon clan said. His Vargon accent was plain, rolling his r’s much too long. “I will land one of the first five strokes.”
Barg cut off a handful of his hair with a knife to show his mourning. “You’ll be one of the first five he guts.” He grasped another handful of hair and sawed through it.
“What do you know?” the Vargon said.
“I know that today I will help kill a man who saved my life.” He cast another clump of shorn hair to the ground. “The smith is a roaring lion. You had best beware.”
The Vargon said nothing in return, but what could he say? He was only trying to cover his fears. Sparrow the smith was a formidable warrior, and if the accusations against him were true, then it was certain some of those who had gathered today would die.
The approaching dawn silvered the fields and thatch roofs about the village and set the roosters to crowing. The cattle in the paddocks began to low, a stray dog outside the alewife’s barked at a snake trying to get to the tall grass, and down in the south field a few straggling deer decided it was now time to leave the fields and find cover. The men knew their signal was only minutes away.
On the side of the village closest to the forest and the Galson’s homes, the smith’s daughter, Sugar, stood in the barn feeding their two horses and heard the jingle of a trap bell in her garden. It was followed by the panicked cry of a hare.
Nothing ever got away from one of Sugar’s traps. And from the sound of the scuffling and ringing, this creature was big. All that commotion was sure to bring Midnight and Sky, her family’s dogs. She’d trained them to leave her game alone, but these two liked to bend the rules whenever they could. So Sugar put down the hay fork, and told Fancy, their mare, and Sot, their draft horse she’d return later. Then she picked up her smothering sack and stepped out of the barn and into the yard in her bare feet.
The village homes looked like fat ships floating amidst a sea of grain. But it was not a quiet sea. Da had flung both doors to the smithy open and stood at the forge hammering away at his work. Farmer Galson’s cattle bellowed. They were the noisiest bunch of cattle in the whole district. Sugar saw them bunched up at the far end of their paddock, waiting for one of Galson’s grandsons to open the gate so they could go to the watering pond. But that was odd… someone should have led them out long ago.
Beyond the paddock gate stood the thatch-roofed homes for Farmer Galson, his children, and his adult grandchildren. Almost a village all by itself. The soft yellow light of hearth fires still shone in many of the windows. Outside, one of the wives made her way back from the privy in a pale nightgown. She held a wailing babe on her hip.
The woman looked up, and Sugar waved across the field at her, but she did not wave back; instead, she dashed for her house. Maybe she hadn’t seen Sugar. But then again, maybe she had. Some of the Galsons thought they rode a lord’s high horse.
Sugar walked to the garden, opened the gate, and stepped under the arch of climbing rose. The lemony scent from its pink blooms lay heavy in the air. She walked along the shadowed rows of vegetables until she came to the peas and salad greens.
There she found a large hare, a black-tail that was going to make a fine breakfast.
It was easiest just to brain them with a stout stick, but she didn’t want to chance ruining the fur about the throat, so she readied the smothering sack and approached the animal. This part of the garden was still wet with yesterday’s watering and the soil stuck to the bottoms of her bare feet.
When she got close, the hare began to kick in earnest. It was a monster. Twelve pounds at least.
She threw the sack over it to protect her from its kicking and clawing and quickly held its hind-and forequarters in place. It cried out in distress, but she kneeled on its side, pressing the air out of its lungs. She pressed until she knew she’d start breaking its ribs, then waited for it to suffocate.
The giant hare struggled underneath her. It bucked once more then lay very still. Sugar removed the snare noose from its leg. The hare felt dead. But she’d been tricked before. A number of years ago, before her moon-cycles had come upon her, she’d picked up a hare and carried it into the house and laid it on the cutting stone. The whole time it had lain in her hands like a limp rag, but the second she began to cut, it jumped up and knocked the knife right out of her hand. Then it flew off the table and bolted out the open door. And so she continued to press this hare.
Across the paddocks the Galsons’ dogs began to bark. They were joined by another group down by the miller’s.
The dogs would often bark this way when travelers passed through. Sugar looked up to see what was causing the commotion and saw a wide line of men on the far side of Galson’s paddocks.
The Mokaddians marched in battle order with bows and spears, their helmets gleaming in the early morning light. Those with spears also carried shields painted with a grotesque boar’s head circled by a ring of orange. It was the mark of the Fir-Noy clan.
It was not uncommon to see such things. All men, Mokaddian and Koramite, were required to regularly attend their clan musters. But something about this was not right.
She turned and saw another line coming up from the miller’s.
Then she realized: these men were converging, but not on the practice field. No, they seemed on a direct course for her house.
6
KING’S COLLAR
Fear ran up Sugar’s back. Not only were these men converging, but none of them wore the armbands that distinguished friend from foe during the practice musters.
Sugar stood, trying to
get a better view.
The hare that had lain beneath her bucked free of the smothering sack. It bolted down the row of peas, pushed through a hole she’d missed in their fence, and fled to the short hedgerow that grew along a portion of Galson’s paddock.
The men marched toward the house. She could see the intricate Mokaddian tattoos around their wrists and forearms. She could see beards and naked chins under their helmets, but they were too far away for their eyes to be anything but dark pits.
She ran to the back door and flung it open.
Mother bent at the hearth building up a cooking fire. She startled when Sugar rushed in. “Goh, you do that just to set my heart leaping in my throat, don’t you.”
“There are men dressed for battle in Galson’s field,” said Sugar. “Others down by the miller’s. Was there a muster today?”
Mother picked up the bowl the potter had thrown just for Cotton, Sugar’s infant brother who had been stolen the previous season. “I’m sure I would have heard something.”
At that moment Da opened the front door. As the days turned hotter, Da had taken to wearing as little as possible. He stood there bare-chested with the morning at his back.
“Purity,” he said to Mother, “this beard is going to be the death of me. I’m sick of the braids catching fire. I’m not going back to the smithy until it’s shaved off.”
Sugar saw that two of his braids were indeed singed.
“Ach,” Mother said, undoing the shutter latch, “they’re so handsome on you. Half the men in this village would give a finger for such a beard.”
“I don’t want their fingers,” said Da. “They can have the beard for free.” His massive back and arms glistened with the morning sweat. He smelled like charcoal smoke.
Mother walked to the back door and looked outside. “That’s odd,” she said.
Da spoke to Sugar. “I heard the hare trap. All this time I’ve been lusting after beef. Why can’t you catch one of Galson’s steers? I’d even settle for one of the old ones.”
“There’s the matter of Farmer Galson,” said Sugar.
“Bah,” said Da, dismissing the farmer. “Make a trap for Galson as well.”
“Sparrow,” said Mother, “did you forget today’s muster?”
“None that I know of.” He walked over to her, but instead of looking out the doorway, he reached out with one of his massive arms and grabbed her around the waist. He nuzzled into her side and began nibbling.
“Stop,” she said and pushed at him. “Sparrow, what are those men doing?”
Da looked outside.
Midnight and Sky began barking out front. Sugar looked through the front door Da had left open. “There’s another group coming down the lane.”
As Koramites, Sugar’s family had no legal clan. The Mokaddian and Koramite fatherlands were far across the sea. The Mokaddians had beat the Koramites there in a great war not long ago, and one of the Mokaddian prizes had been the Koramite settlements in the New Lands. Of the nine Mokaddian clans that came to claim the prize, the Fir-Noy seemed to hate their Koramite vassals the most. Not two months ago a group of Fir-Noy had beat a Koramite woman until they’d ruined one eye and half her teeth.
But Da had said that wouldn’t happen here. Those were upland Fir-Noy that had beaten the woman. They didn’t have sway in the village of Plum, and Da had the assurances of the territory lord on that.
“They’re surrounding us,” Sugar said. The men were close enough for Sugar to see the set of their mouths-bitter as garden rue.
When Sugar was a child, a gang of four village boys had tormented her until Da confronted the boy’s parents. But that didn’t end the issue. So Da took it to the village council. He demanded the boys come fight her one-on-one. Mother was furious, taking him to task for making Sugar fight his battles. But Da stood his ground.
Da himself was a fighter, and for one week he sparred with Sugar, preparing her as best he could. Then the boys had come, some grinning, some all business. They brought most of the village with them. And in the wedge field, surrounded by grandmothers, children, and dogs, Sugar had taken a beating. But the boys had not left unscathed either. There was a black eye, a bloody nose. She’d kicked one so hard in the gut that he’d vomited in the grass.
Afterwards, some of the villagers cheered for her. A few of the fathers of the boys who had started it all came and made peace. Da was satisfied. Mother was not. She would not speak to him for two weeks. But even with her heavy fury on him, Da did not give up on Sugar’s lessons. “There are those who act,” he said. “And those who are acted upon. I’m not ever going to leave you in a position again where you have no choice.”
Two years later when her moon-cycles came, Mother convinced Da he was ruining her chances of a good marriage, for what boy wanted to bed a bruiser? So he stopped teaching her how to use her feet and hands as weapons, and began to teach her knives.
That was a number of years ago. She’d never had to use the knife Da forged for her protection and made her wear. Not to draw a man’s blood. Although she had let a few of the boys she’d been introduced to at Koramtown know she wore it. But mostly she’d used the knife around the yard in her chores. Now, even though she knew it would be useless against a host of men, she was glad she had it.
Mother turned to her. “Get Fancy saddled.”
Sugar moved to obey, but Da held his hand up. “No. Running will only raise their suspicions or prod them to act. This might be nothing. Leave it to me. I know how to handle these men.”
“And then it will be too late,” said Mother.
“Woman,” said Da in warning. Then he walked out the front door.
When he was only a few paces into the yard, Mother turned to Sugar. “You get Fancy.”
“Do you want saddlebags?” asked Sugar.
“All I want is a horse. The Fir-Noy are not what they once were.”
Sugar dashed out the back door.
The troops in Farmer Galson’s fields had fanned out and were now walking as a line toward the house.
Legs, her younger, blind brother, stood in front of the chicken house, his head cocked at an odd angle as if looking off into space, which was what he did when he paid fierce attention to every sound and smell. His wild hair stood up. In his arm he held a basket of onions and eggs.
“Legs!” she said. “Get in here.”
“I can hear men,” he said.
“Move!” she said.
Holding the eggs to the bottom of the basket, Legs jogged for the back door. He needed no stick to navigate the house and yard. If he knew a place, he could walk about as if he were sighted. It was only when he was in a new place that he might stumble, or when things were lying out of place. And so they all had learned to be very tidy.
Sugar ran to the barn. Fancy nickered. Sot had already moved out to the watering trough. Sugar grabbed the harness, slipped it over Fancy’s head, and fitted the bridle in her mouth. Then she led the horse out and tied her to the post by the back door.
The Fir-Noy stood with their hideous shields only a few paces beyond the chicken house. They’d formed up into a loose circle that ringed both the house and smithy. “Mark the horse,” one of the soldiers said.
For a moment Sugar thought they were going to shoot Fancy right there. Perhaps shoot Sugar herself. She rushed into the house and shut the door behind her. She went to her mother who stood in the doorway to the front yard.
“Fancy’s not going to be enough,” she said.
Mother gaze was fixed on Da out in the yard, but she reached out and smoothed Sugar’s hair. “You did just fine. Now, if anything happens, you and Legs need to be ready to ride. You’ll have the most cover in the woods. So it’s straight through Galson’s fields, low on Fancy’s neck. And if someone stands in your way, you ride them down.”
Fear seized Sugar’s heart. Had it really come to this? “What about you and Da?”
“You ride them down,” said Mother. “You flee to Horse.”
Mother had always told her that if the Mokaddians ever attacked, she was to flee into the Shoka lands and find the farmer many called Horse. His given name was Hogan. And that’s how she addressed him out of respect. Sugar didn’t know him well, but she had been to his farm a few times. Still, how would she ride through that ring of men? They’d fill her or Fancy full of arrows before she’d galloped a rod.
“Do you hear me?” asked Mother.
“Yes,” Sugar said.
She looked past Da at the soldiers out front. They’d stopped a number of paces from Da. Those with bows had strung them, and that was something fearful. Because keeping a bow strung all the time only ruined the weapon. You never strung your bow unless you were going to use it.
Midnight and Sky barked at the men until Da whistled sharply and called them back to his side.
Two men on horseback faced Da. She recognized the leader and the orange and blue patterns painted onto his armor. It was the territory lord, a man everyone called the Crab for his ruddy complexion. Next to him sat the district lord. Behind them stood Barg, the butcher and village harvest master, holding his spear.
Da bowed to the Crab. “My Lord,” he joked, “have you at last come to wrestle your humble servant?”
But the Crab did not smile. “Sparrow, smith of Plum,” he said. “You have been accused of dark magic. We are here to take you and yours to prove that you are whole and without spot.”
Dark magic? Sugar did not believe she’d heard him correctly.
“What?” said Da.
“If you’re clean,” said the Crab, “you need not fear the ordeal.”
An ordeal was designed to flush out Sleth. Supposedly, when such a creature was on the point of death or overwhelming pain, through drowning or torture, it would multiply its strength with its dark magic to save itself and thus reveal its true nature.
But how anyone could think her family was among such was impossible to fathom.
