by John Brown
He looked up and found that the sky was clear. The first evening stars shone in the heavens. He took a moment to get his bearings by them and considered trying to rig the sail.
A wind buffeted him, then another.
At first he thought it a normal gust, but it did not abate.
The sound of sea spray hasted toward the boat. Argoth turned and saw the skir wind racing to him.
Shegom.
He had heard of Skir Masters summoning whirlwinds to the field of battle, of men being picked up and carried away.
Argoth released the oar and immediately wriggled underneath the thwarts, wedging himself as best he could.
The wind knocked the boat, lifting it to one side and pushing it sideways. Then the pitch of the wind rose, screeching over the wales.
The oar jerked violently in its lock, then it broke free with a wrench and flew away into the air.
The pitch of the wind screaming over the wales rose until it howled.
The boat tipped precariously on its side and scudded over a wave. The dread-man tumbled out and disappeared beneath the water.
Sea spray kicked up, driving into Argoth’s face like needles. He shut his eyes against it and turned his face into the side of the boat.
The boat lurched, twisted, was tossed about like a leaf. And then it was airborne. He felt as if he were going to slide out and braced himself. But it wasn’t enough, he was slipping.
Moments later, through the water and spray he smelled the foul smoke of the seafire and felt the heat. Then the boat slapped down into the water. It bobbed then rocked.
Argoth opened his eyes. The sky was full of smoke.
When nothing happened, he wriggled halfway out from under the thwarts and looked around. All about him pieces of flotsam burned, smoke piling into the sky.
Someone shouted.
A hand grasped the wale.
Argoth kicked at the man’s head as he came over. He bent over to untie another oar so that he might use it as a weapon. But the boat rocked again.
Argoth turned, oar in hand.
Leaf stood before him, water running from his clothes into the boat. The skin about his eye was blackened and cracked from the burn. Raw pink and red flesh shone where much of his eye tattoo had been.
Argoth drew back to strike, but Leaf simply snatched the oar out of his hand and kicked him into the prow. Argoth’s head smacked against the side of the boat.
He tried to get up, but couldn’t seem to get his balance.
Another dreadman entered the boat.
Then Leaf reached over the side and pulled the Master up. Clutched to his breast was the weave that had been inlaid into the deck of the ship by the bowl.
Shegom’s thrall.
The Master wore no boots. The legs of his pants were scorched. The flesh underneath blistered.
A normal sailor tried to climb into the boat.
“What are you doing?” said the Master and kicked the man in the face.
Then he stepped over the thwarts to where Argoth lay and looked down upon him.
“You should have drowned yourself, Clansman. You should have tied a stone to your neck and jumped into the sea. For now you will taste the fury of the Glory of Mokad.”
“Dreadmen!” he shouted over the waves. “To me!”
41
MUSTER
Talen lugged Legs until his collarbone felt like it was going to break. He rested. Picked him up again. Rested. He carried him across the two creeks, hid him in a canoe they’d found on the side of the river, and lugged him through the woods downstream and on the other side.
He’d scuttled their trail as best he knew how from any dogs that might be following. But that didn’t keep them from having to skirt around two more groups of men on the watch, nor did it help them avoid the farms and wooden shacks that stood in their path. In the end, they’d used a whole day to do what should have taken, at most, two hours.
At last, they crested a hill that led down to the Widow’s valley. They were both bloody-footed, but they’d made it.
Talen didn’t dare climb a tree to get a look below. The branches would shake too much as he ascended. But he knew a spot on the hill that opened to a good view. He and Legs sat there for some time watching. He saw nothing but vultures circling in the updrafts, the horse the Creek Widow called the Tailor eating away at the grass in the apple orchard, and the Creek Widow digging herself a new cesspit for the privy.
He was satisfied nobody waited for them there, but nevertheless, he waited until the sun set to descend the hill and enter the Creek Widow’s yard. He wasn’t more than a dozen paces from the front door, when someone spoke from behind. “That will be far enough.”
Talen froze.
“State who you are and what business you have sneaking about my yard at night.”
It was the Creek Widow herself. But where had she come from?
Talen turned. She held a pitchfork out in front of her with a fair amount of menace. Warrior, her ancient dog, stood at her side. He mustered one woof and fell silent.
“I told you before,” said Talen, “one old woman out here on her own-you’ve got to have a dog that will chase more than biscuits.”
“Talen,” she said. “Lights, you’re lucky you haven’t got the tines of my pitchfork in your back.” She turned to Legs. “It’s good to see you, Purity’s son.”
She looked out into the yard, across the pasture. “Now, both of you, get in the house.”
“I hope you’ve got something to eat,” said Talen, “because we’re starving.”
“Food?” She stabbed the pitchfork at him. “I think I promised a beating the last time you were here. Now get.” She eyed the woods behind them. Perhaps the valley wasn’t as peaceful as it had appeared from the top of the hill. Talen turned with Legs and hurried into the house. A Creator’s wreath hung above the widow’s door. The Festival of Gifts was coming, and everyone wanted to thank the Creators and invite their blessings. The wreaths would soon be everywhere-above the gates of each city, on the bows of ships, over the windows of barns.
The Creek Widow came hard on their heels and shut the door behind them. Then she turned on Talen. The fire from the hearth was the only light in the house. Something delicious cooked on the stove and filled the room with the smell of beef and onions.
“What are you two doing?” she said.
“Is River here?”
“River?”
Talen’s heart sank.
“You tell me what’s happened,” she said.
Talen did. He told her about going into Whitecliff, the weave, and the little creature at the window. He told her about packing up to leave, about the monster, River and Sugar going after it, and his encounters with Fabbis and the hunt.
His tale elicited a running commentary of grunts from her. When he finished, she put her hands on her hips. “Men,” she said in disgust. “I told them it was time when Purity was first caught. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Men,” she said again. “Always leaving the woman to clean up.” She looked at Talen and Legs. “And you can be sure I will clean up. We must leave, this house isn’t safe.”
“Where are we going?”
“The refuge, my boy. The refuge.” she sighed. “I knew it was fraying apart when your da sent his letter. I told him. I told your da. I told him, I told him, I told him. But no. That man won’t listen. Now if I were his wife, I would have made him listen. River, bless her heart, I know she tries. But a daughter can’t hold her own like a wife can. Men get stupid when they run on their own, Talen. That’s just how it is. And your father’s gotten stupider than most. Your mother kept the beef out of his brain. But she’s too long gone. Too long without a good woman. And that’s the truth.” She grunted again and looked to the rafters for answers. “May the Six bless him. He’s going to need it.” She directed her attention to Talen. “Fetch the Tailor from the field.”
“Will the others be there?” asked Talen.
“Others?”
“Aren’t there a number of other people in the Order?” asked Talen. “Won’t we need them to attempt a rescue?”
“Son,” said the Creek Widow, “your uncle’s on a ship headed for Mokad, your da’s who knows where in the custody of Lord Shim and the Fir-Noy, we’ve got some creature from the tales taking us down one by one. I don’t know where your brother is. We weren’t many to begin with. You want others?” She spread her arms wide. “I’m afraid you’re looking at them.”
“But-”
“If anybody has survived, we will find them at the refuge. I was waiting for the final word. I cannot wait anymore. We must leave immediately.”
Talen saddled the Tailor and brought him around the front of the house, worrying the whole time that someone was spying on them. The Tailor was named after a man the Creek Widow had loved once. Talen had never gotten the full story and didn’t know if the man died or simply jilted her.
He helped Legs up and then held the horse as the Creek Widow filled the saddlebags with a few necessities and what she said were her three most prized possessions-a fat codex of lore she’d been hiding in a stone box under the floor, two yards of bright yellow silk she had not yet been able to bring herself to wear and probably never would, and an ancient cooking pot her great-grandmother had given her.
When she finished tying everything off, the Creek Widow walked to the well, drew a bucket of water, then carried it to the south side of her home where her almond tree starts stood in a single straight line of pots on a narrow table. She watered them, gently brushed each with her hand, then stood back and addressed the group. “I cannot promise I’ll return, lovelies. And there’s no time to put you where you belong.” She grunted over that fact and shook her head.
“No, I just can’t,” she said. She turned to Talen. “Bring me a spade.”
“But-”
“Cha!” she said.
Talen fetched a spade from the barn and brought it to her. “I thought we had to leave immediately.”
“Hush,” she said. “Gather an armful and follow me. Those pots will dry out in a day.”
They carried the nine starts to the garden and hastily planted them between two rows of cabbage.
“I know you’ll be a bit crowded,” she said to them. “But it will have to do.” Then she stood and said good-bye to her apple trees and the two walnuts she prized the most. She walked to the chicken coop, opened the door, and bid her birds farewell. Then she walked to Warrior lying on the porch.
“My lovely old man,” she said, giving him an affectionate rub about the neck. “Keep a good watch on the ladies. I’m counting on you.”
A branch cracked in the woods that started just on the other side of the road running by the house. All three of them froze. The crack was followed by the sound of someone pushing through brush.
The Creek Widow pointed at the barn. “Hide,” she whispered.
Talen took Legs by the hand and walked as quickly as he dared to the barn door. It squeaked, even though he only opened it wide enough for the two of them to slip inside.
There was more cracking and sweeping of limbs, then a “Hoy. Anyone?”
“Sugar!” Legs called. He let go of Talen’s grip and darted out of the barn, almost running toward the sound, one hand high, one low in front of him. “Sugar!”
“Hush,” said the Creek Widow.
Sugar ran to her brother and wrapped him in a hug. “Thank the Creators,” she said.
“Thank Talen,” said Legs.
Sugar looked over at him.
“Oh, we’ve become bosom buddies,” said Talen.
“Have you been followed?” asked the Creek Widow.
“No,” said Sugar. “Well, I don’t know.”
“There was no way you were coming back from chasing that monster,” said Talen.
“Well,” she whispered. “I guess you underestimated me.”
“Quickly,” said the Creek Widow, “give me the facts.”
Sugar related her tale of following River. She ended by saying, “I trailed the monster to its lair. But I did not go far. It returned. I was close enough to almost reach out and touch it. It chased me for a time, but I haven’t seen sign of it since this afternoon.”
“You’re a brave one,” said the Creek Widow. She looked at Talen. “That’s something to mark.”
He couldn’t tell if that meant Sugar was to be lauded, or that he was cowardly in comparison and should learn from his betters. Or was she suggesting he should consider Sugar as a potential quality mate.
“Are we going to help my mother?” asked Sugar.
“What happened to River?” Talen asked.
“Everything in its time,” said the Creek Widow. “And now is not a time to chat in the yard. You three will follow me. And not a word until I say so.”
Talen looked at Sugar for his answer.
“It took her,” she whispered. “I saw it, in the morning light, carrying her like a baby.”
“Sst,” said the Creek Widow to silence them. She pointed at Legs. “Get him up on the horse.”
Then she walked out into the road.
“Was she alive?” Talen asked.
Sugar hesitated. “I couldn’t tell.”
Talen nodded, then he lifted Legs onto the Tailor’s back. At least River wasn’t twisted in a broken heap like the Shoka they called Gid. He took the reins and followed the Creek Widow into the night.
At their departure, Warrior hauled himself up, padded over to the chicken coop, and dropped his bones squarely in front of the door. Talen considered the dog. Perhaps liveliness wasn’t the only asset a hound might possess.
Sugar walked alongside the Tailor, holding her brother’s ankle. She had been brave to follow that creature. Braver than he. The thought had never occurred to him to follow River. It was true that she’d ordered him away. But he hadn’t given it a second thought.
They walked in silence, the Creek Widow in the lead, Talen coming behind, leading the Tailor and Legs. Talen whispered a prayer to the ancestors to protect River.
The moon rose and moved across the starry heaven. Talen’s weariness threatened to overwhelm him. He tried walking with his eyes closed, but stumbled over a rock and upset the Tailor.
The old stallion jerked his head back and lurched to the side. Legs, who had drifted asleep, fell to the ground, and only cried out when he landed with a thump. Obviously, Sugar herself had been too tired to react swiftly enough to catch him. Talen steadied the horse and moved him away from Legs. Sugar moved to her brother’s side, feeling for breaks and cuts.
“I’m fine,” he said and got to his feet.
“Tie him in the saddle this time,” said the Creek Widow.
Talen moved to the saddlebags to find the rope the Creek Widow had put there.
“Look at the three of you,” the Creek Widow said. “Bone-tired.” She produced three sticks of horehound from a pocket and gave one to each of them. “A bit of sweet should help.” Then she cupped each of them in turn about the neck just as Da had cupped him about the neck when he’d tied the godsweed charm about his arm before they’d gone to Whitecliff. Just like Da’s, the Creek Widow’s hand was icy cold.
She smiled at him. “We cannot afford to be caught sleeping.”
In moments, his fatigue lessened, and he knew she’d just worked some Sleth business on him.
Talen sucked on his horehound. “What else have you got in those pockets?” he asked her.
She smiled. “That’s my secret.”
They continued on around hills, through black ravines, always traveling the smaller roads. Twice they took disused trails that had surrendered to weeds and thin saplings. Sucking the horehound did help keep him awake, but it disappeared too quickly. Even the effects of the Creek Widow’s magic eventually faded. The fatigue returned, and he plodded, wanting nothing more than to lie down in the dirt. He looked back at Sugar walking alongside the Tailor. The effect didn’t seem to be wearing off on her. She smiled at Talen
and he turned back around. When they finally branched off onto what could be no more than an animal trail, the Creek Widow spoke. “I think we’re safe. The refuge is only a mile or so away.”
“This is by Boar’s Point, isn’t it?” asked Sugar.
On the south end of the settled lands, at the edge of a vast, fertile valley, a line of hills ran like a great crooked finger down toward the sea. At the tip of that finger two rivers converged. Sometimes, in the heat of the summer, you could see hundreds of boar there. They came to wallow in the mud on the banks of the shallow, wide river, not only to cool themselves, but also to protect their hides from insects.
“It is,” said the Creek Widow.
“Does this refuge have a bed?” asked Talen.
“Beds, baths, and dancing girls,” said the Creek Widow.
“You can watch the girls,” said Talen. “I’m going to sleep.”
“That’s a good boy.”
They walked a few more paces, then Talen asked, “And how will River know to come here?”
“Because it is the refuge.”
“And if she doesn’t come?”
The Creek Widow looked over at him. “What do you want me to say, Talen?”
He wanted her to say that everything would be all right, that this awful storm would blow over and they could go back to mowing hay in the autumn sun. But he knew that would never be. Everything was all wrong, and it would only get worse. “I don’t know,” he said. And suddenly the whole mess overwhelmed him. Da, River, the beast. It was too much, and his eyes began to sting.
A few paces more and the Creek Widow reached over and felt the tears on his cheek with the back of one finger.
When she pulled her hand away, she grunted. Then she turned and stopped them. “I want you three to listen to me.”
“I wasn’t weeping,” said Talen.
“Cha,” she said, cutting him off. “There is no shame in tears, especially when they’re motivated by love. But the strong do not wallow in bleakness. Until the very end, they look for leverage, for a way to make the best of the situation. They generate options and plans and act. Hope, we must never lose hope.”
