Dismounting outside of the small, but inviting establishment called Luna’s Tavern, they handed the reins to a stable-hand. Diarmuid gave the young man a second, protracted look, before leading them onwards.
Entering the inn, the smell of fresh bread inundated them. Lya and Puck both licked their lips. Paine planned on stuffing himself so full they would have to roll him to Haven.
“Good day to you,” said the innkeeper as she wiped her hands on an apron that clung to her buxom form. She was a short, red-headed woman, with a lavender blouse that barely concealed her ample bosom. Her lips were red like the berries, and she bore a heavy perfume.
Fang sneezed.
The woman took a small step back. “I'm afraid there are no dogs allowed.”
“She's well trained and will remain in our room. I will pay extra if you think she will be an inconvenience.” Diarmuid then explained their story to her. Paine and Lya were his nephew and niece and they were moving to live with him after their parents had died in a fire. Puck was the hired help.
“I'm afraid I have only one room left and it has only one bed. It's a little drafty, but it's better than the barn. I'm sure the young ones and your hired man would be fine in it and we could find another bed for you.” The innkeeper stared at Diarmuid with a look that could only be described as yearning.
Diarmuid looked unfazed by the insinuation. “No, thank you.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Let me show you to your room then.” She turned on her heel and marched up the stairs, the trail of perfume lagging behind her.
Sparsely decorated, the room was small, and the innkeeper had grossly understated the draft. Taking a bath was their first priority and one of the maids showed them to the bathing rooms. Diarmuid undressed. Scarred lacerations ran across the man’s chest and back. Some looked like they had been fairly deep. Paine wanted to run his finger along them.
Diarmuid caught him looking and grinned.
“A gift from the Confederation,” was his comment.
Feeling somewhat sheepish that his roving eye had been caught, Paine lowered his head and stepped into the large, copper tub.
The bath was just shy of piping hot and in a short time Paine regained some composure as he washed with soap that was a bit too acrid. It felt good to be hot and clean. Diarmuid sang a strange song about three men in a tub. Paine had never heard it before, but the tune was catching and before he knew it he hummed along. Had it been two men in a tub, his thoughts might have drifted to something a little less proper. He was relieved Puck was there; his fat, pasty frame deterred any such inkling. He splashed in the water like a child.
As the bath settled to lukewarm, Paine scampered out of the tub and dressed in a hurry. They rejoined Lya and made their way to the small, yet welcoming, common room.
Dinner was hearty; goat stew and fresh bread. Puck barely chewed his food, nearly swallowing it whole. Paine barely had any room for the rhubarb pie. When they finished dinner, they each sat and nursed a mug of gritty beer, listening to a rather gaunt woman crooning a ballad in the corner. Idle chatter filled the room, but some murmurings fouled their spirits; whispers of Witch Hunters amassing, rumors of purging Haven, the Westwood spreading and flooding over a place called Lindhome, and claims of wolfen attacks along the roads in the Outlands. There was also talk of someone named Pan keeping the Westwood from spreading this far south, but he was looking for a bride. With the comment a number of eyes cast glances towards Lya.
Diarmuid fidgeted in his seat. “We should retire for the night. It's going to be another early start in the morning.”
They did not question him as he rose, but followed his lead, smuggling stew and bread for Fang. They thanked the innkeeper for dinner and headed up to their room, Diarmuid rolling his eyes as the woman winked at him.
Paine remained awake for a time, staring at the ceiling, lost in what was said in the common room. He wondered what the rumors meant, especially the part that someone named Pan had been seen dancing in the midnight hour with goats that stood on two feet.
Eventually, weariness got the better of him and he slept.
Memories of what his sister had conjured plagued his dreams and he nearly cried aloud when they were woken by a sudden knock at the door. He sat up, and in the dark of the room, barely made out Diarmuid motioning for quiet. The gleam from his knife reflected what little light shone through the small window. Fang looked ready to pounce and Lya had her bloodied dagger drawn. Puck sat in the shadows, a deadpan expression on his face.
Diarmuid edged closer to the door. “Who is it?”
The voice of the innkeeper was hushed, yet hurried. “I must speak with you.”
Diarmuid ushered her in, the candle in her hand inundating the dismal room with soft, flickering light. “What's going on?”
“There was a woman asking about you. She described all four of you exactly, including the dog. She was flanked by three others, all of them Witch Hunters. I told her there were no such people here and to leave. I don't think she believed me, but she was distracted by two women in the common room. She took them away in nooses and dragged them into the forest by their ankles. If they start asking questions in the village, it won't take them long to figure out you're here. I don't want further trouble. I suggest you leave immediately.” The stern tone of her voice demanded obedience.
“We're leaving,” Diarmuid said. “Get your things.” He then handed the innkeeper some coins. “These are for your trouble and your silence. Thank you.” Leaning over, he kissed her on the cheek.
She escorted them down the stairs, flowing with an agility that was surprising for a woman of her girth. She cast the candlelight before her, banishing the shadows, as she sped them through the halls to the front of the inn where she bid them a quick farewell.
As the three waited for Diarmuid to fetch the horses, four men escorted a staggering young woman down the road. She was drunk with red berries and wine, her lips as crimson as the innkeeper’s. The men spoke of goats, weddings, and virgins. They snorted and laughed as they stumbled along the cobbled road. They appeared almost as inebriated. Then the drunken lot disappeared before Diarmuid returned and the four rode off into the midnight hour, leaving the town of Cabra behind.
Chapter 6
Brahm crouched until the tawny wolf bounded off into the woods. As its wiry hide disappeared into the shrub, she envied the wolf its simple life.
Eat, sleep, hunt, and fuck.
A part of her ran with it, wishing she could go in its place. A restlessness itched inside her with its desire to get out into the wilds, to be one with the Great Mother.
It was time to leave Haven.
She rose. “Diarmuid is fine,” she said, facing Gregor and the others that gathered to hear what a wolf would have to relay. “He's found a young man and woman in the southwest. There is bad news though. The Witch Hunters are gathering.”
Gregor leaned on his walking stick. “Can you tell how long ago? Where?”
“I'd say a week ago. From what the wolf indicated, west of the Mississippi, but human affairs are of little concern to the wolves.”
Silence filled the air, each lost to their own thoughts and the implication of the wolf’s message. A putrid sigh emanated from Gregor.
“It looks as if we will need to consider this matter sooner than we thought. Summon the others.”
The meeting was concise and to the point. No hand waving, no gasps, and no long-winded explanations. War, plain and simple, was now knocking on their door. If the Confederation decided to wage war upon Haven, they would need every last person they had at their disposal — witch or not. Haven was recalling the Missionaries, a unanimous decision. The war mongers of Haven, some of which had fled the butchery that had befallen Sanctuary, left the meeting with sickening grins.
Brahm marched back to the stalls and finished her chores. She would be leaving on the morrow, an early start. After a hot bath, and declining an invitation to join Farin in her room, she turned in for the
night. She wondered if she might regret it later, but some things took precedence over pleasing a young woman for hours. Sleep was one of them.
With morning came a cloak of cool mist that shrouded the land. Brahm could barely see twenty paces in front of her, yet the fog filled her with exhilaration. Others waited indoors or stumbled through its hazy, white maze. Brahm Hallowstone marched through it, its chill touch caressing her dark skin like a phantom lover.
Her hands hovered over the two silver daggers she carried at her sides, just to make sure they were there. It was an obsession, she knew, but readiness was worth the price of a little paranoia. Besides, the kahbeth were irreplaceable.
They were fashioned by the Obek from the north, a tribe of beings not of the old world. They appeared after the Shift and were an unwelcome sight, something much larger than humans; slower in both speech and movement, but powerful. And the weapons they bore were lethal. The kahbeth was a double-bladed weapon; one smooth and sharp, the other serrated if sawing was required. Both blades had reverse spikes to rip flesh when pulled from their victim.
As she walked she thought of Gault, the shaman that trained her in their use. He had some odd notion that he owed her a life debt for saving one of his clan from wolfen. Brahm hadn't seen Gault in some time and hoped he fared well. He had been surprised by her prowess with the weapons. She had found that a little insulting, but then the Obek thought humans weren’t good for much except ferreting dark things out of small caves. Designed by a race that thrived on hardships, hunting, and clan wars, the kahbeth’s thirst for death could overpower those that did not know how to keep the desire in check.
Brahm struggled with that part, controlling the hunger. Regardless, they were her weapon of choice.
There was no one to see her off as she marched through the fog; no one to wish her well. She prepped her sturdy charger, adjusting the sidesaddles, and then mounted him to head north.
“Come on, Roan. It's time to go.”
She was to meet with their allies to ask their assistance. The Obek roamed the North Moors, a vast land sparsely decorated with pines and spruces among the predominant sea of heath and moss. She could not possibly hope to find them. Instead, she sent a message. As for their other allies, the Iroquois, she would travel to the land where her heart belonged. They were close enough for Brahm to make the journey and they knew her well. They were a generous and caring people, but wary of strangers wandering into their lands. Centuries of colonization had taught them that.
The days and nights passed without event and she thanked the Great Mother for the time to herself, though there were moments when she yearned for the companionship she once knew. Parts of her ached for Gray Wolf and she often had to put the woman from her mind. She missed her winning smile, her dry humor, and the way she would dig in her heels if she thought she was right. She had been one of the most stubborn people Brahm had ever known. And Brahm had loved her; she had loved her raw.
Her thoughts also dwelled on Diarmuid, for his charming smile and determined nature. What she would not give to have him traveling with her now. He was some of the best company she had ever kept. A part of her grudgingly understood Haven’s fears about him. He had been subdued and tainted for years. It was a wonder he was ever freed; a greater wonder he had come out of it sane, but she knew she was not fooling herself in trusting him. He would never return to his old ways. Diarmuid had healed.
It took Brahm three days to arrive in the heart of the Haudenosaunee lands. She knelt to the ground and placed the palm of her hand on the earth giving thanks to the Great Mother. Rising, she found herself face-to-face with a man just shy of her own height. He startled her.
She masked her surprise with a dry smile. “White Feather.”
He had an aquiline nose and auburn hair that brushed his shoulders. His striking looks would have made most women fall to their knees, but Brahm was not most women. A smile stretched across his face in a half-moon and a look of triumph shone in his almond-shaped eyes. She cursed herself for not having heard his approach.
Careless.
“It's good to see you,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us.” He said nothing of his triumph in startling her and hugged her close. The smell of the land emanated from him.
“I could never forget that fool grin. It's good to see you too.” She returned the embrace, allowing him to have his victory. She swore to herself it would not happen again and then immersed herself in the moment. His presence gave her a sense of comfort.
Sizing her up, a look of concern crossed his face. “You have not been eating well. You're too thin. My mother will be forcing food down your throat when she sees you. And if you ask my opinion, I think you would look better with a little more meat.” A miscreant look sat in his eyes, accompanied by a smirk. A part of her missed that grin and a part of her wanted to slap it clean off.
Heat rose in her face. “I have important matters to attend to. I must speak with the Council. When is their next meeting?”
“The Chiefs are together now. Things are not good. Not since the time of the Wendigo have we seen such hardships. The crops fail and the wolfen attack more often.”
The Wendigo.
Brahm shivered. That name brought back terrible memories — ones she’d sooner forget.
“Then I need to see them right away.”
He looked her over and smiled. “My mother may still insist you eat first,” he said.
Putting his hands on his hips, he drew himself up and gave an uncanny imitation of the Clan Mother. “One cannot face the Council on an empty stomach! You will eat first!”
She feigned laughter as something inside her stirred, a presence that, for a brief moment, Brahm had almost forgotten. It had not appeared in her dreams for months. She tried to beat it down, willing it back into its secret lair where it hid from her, but it was futile. The sight of the Haudenosaunee warrior brought it screaming to the surface.
- We are one, Soul Runner.-
She sighed. Go away.
Within Brahm Hallowstone a second soul resided, one not her own. She knew the woman to whom it once belonged, and with her presence came the guilt of her death.
- We are one.-
***
Paine would have huddled under his cape over the last two days had Lya not taken it. Not that he minded being wet, but the sporadic gobs of rain that doused the land had become an annoyance.
At least the rain was warm.
They rode hard for the better part of two days after fleeing the inn. Lya sent Talon back to see if anyone followed. There were now ten Witch Hunters on their trail. Diarmuid was reserved since the discovery of that information. He had no idea why they pursued them. Paine couldn’t help but wonder if what he had heard at the inn had anything to do with it.
Fortunately, as they followed the direction of the weather-beaten road, they did not stumble upon a soul for which Paine gave small thanks.
He distracted himself by talking to Puck and listening to the young man recite children’s tales from his village. Paine shared some his own childhood tales and rhymes. It lightened his mood. Lya rode in silence. Between showers she reviewed the parchment, at other times she scoured the grimoire.
Diarmuid paused at a fork in the road. A battered path with trees leaning into it led north. The better traveled thoroughfare led northeast. The man looked at Lya from the corner of his eye. She was too focused on the grimoire to notice. Diarmuid didn’t look to the others. He then took the northward road. Puck followed blindly.
Paine hesitated and then followed. They would come upon the Westwood following this road.
He was proven correct when, a day later, no longer on the road, but riding through a vast land of marsh and mist, there was an abrupt change in their surroundings. It felt as if they breathed oil.
“You can taste something in the air,” said Lya as she dismounted Sable, whispering in her ear before coaxing her onward. She reached over to touch one of the trees. I
t was lifeless, like everything that lay before them. They stood on the edge of death; a forest of it.
She jerked her hand back as she came within inches of its roughened surface.
“What is this place?”
Diarmud did not look pleased. He paced in front of the wilted trees.
“This is the Westwood. It’s not supposed to be this far south. What I was hoping to find now lies inside.”
Paine grimaced. “Why are we here? I want nothing to do with this place.”
The forest made him uneasy.
That feeling worsened as a horde of twisted creatures emerged from the trees; misshapen beings that Paine would have difficulty calling human. And they were armed with knives and bows.
***
Brahm approached a palisade of thick, wooden stakes that surrounded the Haudenosaunee village. Strips of bark intertwined the posts. It was a feat of work that was woven with a power she did not understand. There was some connection with the Ancestors and the Great Mother, one she knew little of. What she did know was that this far north, such measures were vital. Unexpected attacks from wolfen were more frequent here. Strangely, the vile beasts no longer raided Haven; at least not since the last attack, when Farin had been found, battered and ravaged.
Roan gave a heavy snort, and she stroked his neck.
Men and women weaved new twine between the wooden stakes. It tweaked her curiosity.
“Has the Council chosen a location to relocate the village?” she asked of White Feather.
He nodded. “Six of them. The tribes are going to separate. Since we are now over four thousand strong, it is difficult to feed this many in one location. Construction has begun on the new villages. Many have left to build them.” He paused. “The wind has whispered the Confederation may attack Haven. Is that why you're here?”
Brahm nodded her response.
“I don't know how many we can spare, but I think the Council will recall the others.” He lowered his voice. “I've been expecting you.”
The Second Coming Page 7
