The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  “Stay behind the shield and your back here,” he ordered.

  Donyl stared as a leggy wolf charged the circle of light. The horses spooked, tugging on their ropes.

  “Get more wood on the fires,” Pedyr bellowed. “Hold the perimeter! You two, with the horses!”

  As the light from the fires built, more wolves became visible in the shadows, sweeping in, growling, snapping jaws, spooking men back from the line. Occasionally, there’d be a lull, enough to make one think the attack was over, and then the wolves would start again, running up to the edge of the light, snapping jaws at the riders and then disappearing into the dark. Once another war dart flew straight for Donyl, but he miraculously caught it on his shield. The piles of firewood began to dwindle. The wolves continued to circle, howling. Finally, the forest above them blushed with a pale golden opalescence and the wolves seemed to disappear like mist. Birds began to sing, For a tense span of time, the riders stood poised for more, but then the meadow eased into morning and the they could see that they were alone and unmolested.

  The riders checked the ground and muttered of witchcraft, because there were no prints in the soft soil.

  “Neff, what do you know of this?” Donyl asked as the young rider and the journey captain approached him.

  Neff glanced at Pedyr, who made a face of annoyance, but then nodded.

  “I’m from Dunmaden, don’t know you, and my da’s a druid, mam’s a grania. Do you know of such?”

  “I’ve read about them.”

  “There’s tales of the Celtic gods and goddesses. One’s known as Morigan and she takes the shape of the raven when she’s on the hunt.”

  “And, the wolves?”

  “Wolves feature in the legends too,” Neff said. “The dark of the moon favors the wench and there’s somewhat that’s given her our scent.”

  “How long is dark of the moon?” Pedyr asked.

  “It’s been the last two nights, so there should be a thumbnail moon this night,” Donyl provided. Pedyr frowned at him. “I study,” Donyl explained.

  “Of course. So we’ve a month to get him to Denygal before we have to deal with that bitch again?” Pedyr asked Neff.

  “Mayhap,” Neff said. “The dark of the moon favors her, but I don’t know that she can’t act at other times. I’m not a druid myself, just a rider who knows about them. I do think we’re safe enough during the day.”

  “Well, assuming that we’ve time, we should travel fast and get this lad to safety.” Pedyr strode off to order the riders about. Donyl caught Neff’s arm before he could move off.

  “Why me, do you think?”

  “Why Prince Maryn?” Neff returned. “I was there that night and I’ve been trying to tell Pedyr since that there’s somewhat nasty after your family, but he didn’t want to listen. If my da were about, he’d make you a talisman of protection. All I can do is help you get where you’re going. I believe Pedyr when he says Believer faith will keep the daemon at bay. The Old Faith have heard of the Believers and they seem quite as powerful as our druids. You’d best get packed. The riders are spooked. They want to leave this light-cursed meadow as soon as soon.”

  Neff headed off to pack his own kit and left Donyl on his own. When he reached for the haversack in which he carried his clothes, Donyl froze for a moment. Could Fey artifacts lure a Celtic daemon?

  Spring FY 1028

  Dunmaden

  The air smelled of rain as they rode into Tormyr village in northern Dunmaden. A prosperous farming village with a well-fortified dun, it sat near Tornoct, a tall, foreboding granite tor that stood up from the surrounding rolling hills. The village was close by the northern fringe of the Black Forest, reminding Padraig of somewhat he’d learned from Lodiac when he’d been traveling with him. More went on in the Black Forest than game hunting, to be sure. Moreover, he remembered the old saw about Dunmaden – “there’s never been a dun called Maden” – and considered that Tornoct translated Evil Hill in Denygal, which was a hybrid language after all. This got his linguistic curiosity going, for at one time there had been an elven city somewhere nearbouts called Lindanmadan. The Celtmen might have taken the name for the area from the city. Lindanmadan had been renowned, but Padraig couldn’t bring to mind why. Nor did the One True God give him any indication than that he rode through normal farm lands. Not for him this day the sort of vision he’d been granted in east Faren.

  They’d just passed the dun, riding south of the tor, when Tamys’s horse came up lame. Swearing, he swung down to lift the front left hoof and complain loudly.

  “He’s thrown a shoe,” he announced in tones that suggested rage just below the surface.

  Padraig felt a touch on his mind – Joy thought it funny. She wore dwarven shoes, which occasionally needed to be removed for trimming the hoof, but never broke or were thrown accidently. It occurred to Padraig that not any blacksmith or farrier could care for her hooves. He hadn’t really planned well for that.

  “I can smell the forge in the village ahead,” Padraig told the lad, picking that information up from Joy’s thoughts. “We’ll stop for the day, sell some herbs. You can get the horse looked after while I earn coin.”

  “I suppose I have no choice,” Tamys grumbled. Padraig shrugged, since he really didn’t have words of comfort. He swung down off Joy to walk with Tamys into the village.

  “I’d say that’s the forge,” Padraig said, noting the stone round building near the edge of town that had a healthy draft of smoke coming from the chimney in what had proven to be a warm morning. He pulled his purse out from his belt and started to work the binding loose. “You might need this.”

  “I’m not that destitute yet,” Tamys assured his employer, making a declining gesture. “Thanks for the thought though. I’ll see you at the tavern.”

  Tamys entered the forge, leaving Padraig to turn toward the tavern. There was no true inn, but the tavern was large with a well-kempt yard and the well was far from the privy. This spoke well for the place and the entire village. Folks nodded as they passed Padraig, probably appreciative that he walked his horses through the village, which consisted of about 100 round houses with neatly thatched roofs.

  Padraig tied Joy off at the hitching post and entered the dim interior of the tavern.

  “Welcome, traveler,” the tavernman said, setting aside the tankard he was polishing. “May I help you?”

  “I’m looking for some food, mayhap a place to sleep the night, and mayhap some custom. I’m an herbman, you see.”

  “Herbman! Why, that would make the day bright as summer!” the tavernman said with a large smile. “My wife does have the change and there’s others that need physicking. Have a seat, have a seat! I’ll send my boy out to spread the word. The ale and bread are on me.”

  “I have a traveling companion. He’s at the forge right now.”

  “He’s welcome as well. It’s been a year since this village has seen an herbman and we’re glad to see one now.”

  “Did your herbman die?” Padraig asked, thinking that a settled herbman wouldn’t move from so prosperous a village.

  “I suppose he’s gone off chasing the wars. He’d not be telling us mere customers.”

  “I see,” Padraig said, though he did not. How could an herbman work a village without making friends with the villagers. “I’m only here for the day, but I’ve a bag full of herbs and plenty of knowledge.”

  After Padraig had settled Joy and Earnest, he set out his herbs at a corner table. Tamys arrived just as the first customer – the tavernman’s wife – finished telling Padraig all of her woes. They weren’t much more than the complaints of any woman who had born five children and now was done.

  “Every shoe loose or near worn through. And good Mulyn iron too,” Tamys announced darkly. “I may need those wages after all.”

  “We’ll see,” Padraig told him. “Well, I’ll be here all afternoon. Will your horse be done today?”

  “Nay. On the morrow,” Tamys admitted. “It’
s going to rain, so you might as well physick the village and make some coin. We’d only be spending the afternoon miserable under a tree.”

  “Rain?” Padraig asked, glancing out the window. “It looks clear to me. I smelled it earlier, but it blew off. How do you know it’s going to rain?”

  “I just do,” Tamys said with a shrug. He dipped himself a tankard of light and settled onto a nearby bench. He’d dozed off by the time the first drops splattered the paving stones. Padraig noted it and remembered how well Tamys guessed the roll of the dice and how he had known that Traegyr had sent the hounds after them. He wondered if the three were connected in some way.

  By evening, Padraig had made a fair amount of coin and livestock, which the tavernman, Bormyr, was glad to buy from him. Thanks to the rain, it had been a good day of custom for them both.

  “Are you looking for a quiet place to settle, herbman?” he asked as he served them a fine meal in the early evening.

  “Nay, I have business elsewhere.”

  “Of course, but should you change your mind, Tormyr could use an herbman of caliber.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Padraig told him. Truly, this seemed to be a prosperous village filled with pleasant people who wanted only to have their cares physicked in return for what they could pay. If the One True God had given Padraig leave, he might have settled here, but of course, that would only happen if the True King was found in Tomyr. Looking about at the people in the tavern, Padraig could not say that any were the King. He would have to wait upon the Lord.

  “May I ask?” Tamys inquired as they settled in the inn’s bunk room. The room’s walls were lined with bunks enough for six guests, but only they were present. Padraig looked at him by way of answer. “I don’t think you need a guard to sell peptics to the peasants. Why did you invite me along on this journey?”

  Padraig pondered the possible answers to that question. Lying was a sin, yet ofttimes Believer had to lie in order to survive. Padraid didn’t think it a good witness to lie to a new friend and a potential Believer, but he also wanted to live to see tomorrow. He opted for vagueness.

  “There was Traegyr, of course. I felt the need of a sword at my back. And, ofttimes you feel somewhat in your gut, saying to trust or not. I felt that you should come along with me.”

  Tamys frowned, uncertain. He said no more, lying back on the bunk and staring at the ceiling until Padraig blew out the candle lantern. Padraig waited for him to say more, but he woke to the morning without Tamys speaking again.

  Founding Year 1028

  The Tongue

  Sawyl scrubbed his leg with a rough cloth and a scrape of soap, but he knew that he would not feel clean for a good long while. Being a journeyman dark mage meant accepting what came with it. When the acolytes cried, Sawyl remembered his own terror as a seven-year-old boy and he always felt besmirched by it. There were times when it was tolerable. The overflowing power of caressing Gregyn had almost wiped away the stench of his terror. Almost. That had been a long time ago, before Sawyl had realized what a danger that lad would someday be to him. Sawyl of Trevellyn planned to take Talidd’s position someday and he needed no rivals to that rule, especially not one trained in sword craft who could channel twice what Sawyl could.

  The lagoon beside him lay still. Rain from earlier in the day dripped from the moss. A distance away an egret made a soft cry as a croc came too close to her nest. The leaden-grey sky loomed over the island, turning all steamy and still. Mayhap Talidd wouldn’t question his need to bathe before breakfast after a long night of working rituals.

  The aethyr remained blocked to Talidd. That intrigued Sawyl. How could a master of the black arts be sealed from the source of power? Why? The God of Pigs and Goats did not answer the question. All the journeymen on the island worked rituals almost continually. They’d lost another acolyte two days ago. Sawyl thought Talidd would soon recall Gregyn just for his strength of gift. It would ruin his plans for Dun Galornyn, but truth be told, Gregyn had the right of it. The family there were immensely gifted, but problematic. Character and the black arts did not walk hand in hand.

  Sawyl rinsed off the soap and tied a towel round his waist. He could sit here a while and …. He heard a grunt and turned his head. It wasn’t a croc, but old Jaran, gesturing for him to go to the lodge. Sawyl sighed.

  “I’ll dress and then be up presently,” he told the crippled servant. Jaran had once been a journeyman near to Sawyl’s level until a ritual had gone awry. Traegyr had told Sawyl that four apprentices had died in that tragedy. Sawyl tried not to think of what pressing the boundaries of their craft and strength might mean. Usually the acolytes or apprentices were the ones damaged, but there were consequences to what they were about, even at his level.

  Sawyl presented himself in Talidd’s work room dressed in linen breecs and a sleeveless tunic. Pirate clothing! It was too hot for Celdryan woolens. The pirates understood that well enough.

  “I’ve been waiting,” Talidd observed.

  “Sorry, master, but I was down to the lagoon, trying to cool off before breaking fast and trying to get some sleep.”

  “Humph! You can sleep tonight. You’ll be leaving on the morrow.”

  “Leaving?”

  Talidd had recalled Sawyl from a quiet post in the countryside last summer for reasons he would not explain. Sawyl was both grateful and concerned to hear of the respite from the Tongue.

  “I need you to transport somewhat for me to Galornyn.”

  “Aye, master.”

  Talidd opened a haversack and pulled a bag out of it. Inside were five smaller bags. He opened one of these and showed the stoppered bottle. Most of the coin for items that could not be produced by the servants came from the sale of poisons.

  “There’s an inn in the Bottom, called the Three Oaks. A tavern wench by the name of Sylia. You tell her you’re looking for Waryk. Then take a room. Ask for the third room off the top of the stairs on the third floor. When the haversack disappears, there will be a sack of coin in its place.”

  “Aye, master. What do I do with the coin?” Coin was useless in the Tongue.

  Talidd handed him a list. He would have to memorize it before leaving the island as the items on it were not for the knowledge of town guards.

  “Are you recalling Gregyn?” Sawyl asked as he realized the import of the listed items.

  “That is not your concern. Simply acquire the items and bring them back here by Lughnadsa.”

  Sawyl forced himself not to swallow with fear.

  “Aye, master.”

  “You may go,” Talidd dismissed. Sawyl summoned all of his courage not to run from the man’s presence. Black mages set their hands at dangerous work and Talidd was a master of the dark arts, but still, there were times when Sawyl wished he’d never taken that scrap of crust offered all those years ago. He could be a herbman now, happily traveling the countryside, treating the ills of the common people …. Sawyl chuckled to himself. Foolishness driven by fearful thoughts. Talidd had lived a good many years and his skill was renown among such as them. All would be well. He hadn’t lost a journeyman since … well, he‘d never lost a journeyman himself, had he?

  Founding Year 1028

  Tomyr Village, Dunmaden

  On the morrow, Tamys had already risen and stepped out when Padraig awoke to the smell of bacon and porridge. He stretched and rose, donning clothes, realizing that he had become comfortable once more with the feel of Celdryan clothes. He found Tamys in the tavernroom tucked into a bowl of porridge, bacon and dried fruit with a thick chunk of bread. There was fresh yellow milk and a pot of honey as well. Again, Padraig wondered at the prosperity of a place. In Dublyn, there’d been the warbands and the distance from the high city. Yet, Blyan had shown some hunger, village taverns selling meals that were mostly wizened vegetables and grisly meat. Here in Dunmaden, there was food aplenty and the folk did not seem afraid. Padraig wondered at that.

  “Soon as I’m finished here, I’ll go over to the forge
and see if my horse is ready,” Tamys assured him.

  “I’m in no hurry. The folks I’ve spent the last few years with don’t believe in hastening their journey unless hounds are on their tail.”

  “I think Traegyr gave up a good while ago,” Tamys said, making Padraig grin because Traegyr had reminded him somewhat of a temple dog.

  “As I said, we may travel at our own pace. It rained most of the night, so the roads are a bit soft.”

  Just then, the door swung open, letting in the grey morning light and four riders wearing Galornyn devices. Bormyr straightened from his duties and sized these new customers with shrewd eyes.

  “May I help you, young sir?” he asked of the young lord with the four. As was keeping with noble tradition, he’d walked in behind his riders in case there be trouble within. Padraig gazed at the lad as if he were a countryman gawking at the city prince, but he was truly trying to see which brother he might be gazing at. Teddryn, he thought, by the age of him.

  “I’m Teddryn,” the lad replied, answering the question. “Come from Galornyn. We stayed the night on Dun Tornoct’s lands, but the lord there didn’t have room for us.” Padraig noted Tamys taking note and turning slightly away from the young lord. Was it possible that he knew the clan at Galornyn? Padraig himself was surprised that a dun in spring would turn away any from a noble clan. “Mayhap we could get some breakfast. I’ve coin.”

  “Aye? Copper a piece will do you,” Bormyr announced, apparently unimpressed by his lordship. He called into the kitchen at the back of the tavernroom. “So, what brings the vyngretrix’s son this far north?”

  “Riding the borders,” Teddryn said circumspectly.