Duilleog (A New Druids Series Book 1)

by Donald D. Allan

  "Not what I thought," he said.

  I opened my mouth to ask him what he meant but my teeth started chattering so I clamped my lips shut. He held the gem up to the fire and it flashed in the light. It had an odd shape that I couldn't quite make out. He shook his head and poured the coins back into the purse, dropping the gem on top. He cinched the purse closed and tucked it under his own waist belt. "This goes into the town treasury until we can sort out what to do with it." This time the Reeve looked at me, his gaze had a hard edge, as if he was, appraising me.

  "You'll be alright, Will," he said. "The shakes will pass. You did good and you held still and let me take that shot." The Reeve glanced at the arrow protruding from the man's face and shook his head. "I lost that arrow, though, and it was my best one, too."

  He grabbed the flight of the arrow and lifted the dead man's head to reach behind it. I heard a loud snap and watched as he held up a steel arrow head covered in blood and something else that I didn't want to think about.

  "This is worth keeping," he muttered and quickly wiped it on a nearby patch of grass. He reached over his shoulder and I watched as the arrow head disappeared into his quiver with a dull thud. He pried my knife from the dead man's hand, recognised it as my own, and tossed it over to land near my bedroll. I glared at it glinting in the firelight, the handle nothing more than tightly wrapped rags, the steel pitted and stained, and I was no longer sure I trusted my own knife.

  The Reeve looked the man up and down and started examining his leathers. He untied the waist belt and then opened the straps that held his tunic closed. The Reeve grimaced at the blood now on his hands. He felt around inside the tunic and extracted a folded piece of parchment, opening it carefully to avoid getting blood on it. His eyes quickly scanned over whatever was on it and then he folded the parchment back up and stuffed it into his own leather tunic. He checked the waist and trousers and then he reached the man's feet, where he wore a pair of black, soft–soled, leather boots. They were laced up with a strange leather strap that wound up around his calves. The Reeve removed them with strong tugs and, once he had them off, he tossed them over the fire to have them land next to me. I glanced at them, confused.

  He looked meaningful at my rag–wrapped feet. "Yours. You earned them."

  He roughly removed all the man's clothing until he lay naked, and without much dignity, on his back in the dirt. I found my eyes returning to stare at the man's sightless eye. It haunted me. I watched as the Reeve squatted and bundled up the clothes; he tied the trousers legs around them to hold them together.

  He stood up and stretched out his back, groaning a bit before he whistled once, softly, into the dark. The sound startled me and I blinked. The Reeve looked down at me and stared for a bit, with an unreadable expression on his face, until I started feeling uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

  "I didn't mean it," he said cryptically. I had no idea what he meant and I just looked blankly back up at him.

  He chuckled a bit and the sound startled me. He shook his head and smiled. "I lied to him to throw him off guard. You do mean something to the people around these parts. You have a gift with those herbs of yours. A rare gift, Will. The town appreciates your skills."

  Out of the darkness emerged a large shadow that coalesced into a piebald horse that I recognised as the Reeve's. It had responded to the Reeve's whistle. The horse looked down at me and startled me by seeming to duck its head for a moment. I had seen the Reeve with his horse numerous times before in Jaipers. I always had a strong bond with animals and this one was no exception. He was proud to be the Reeve's horse. His dark brown and white patches were distinctive and I could tell that he was well cared for. The horse stood proudly in the fire light and continued to watch me. I forced a smile at him and he finally looked away.

  The Reeve walked over to the saddle and removed a hemp rope that hung from the saddle horn. He measured a short length, cut it off and quickly secured the trussed up clothes next to his saddle bag. He returned to the dead body and expertly tied the feet together with one end of the rope and secured the other end to a metal ring hanging from the back of the saddle. The Reeve checked the girdle of the horse and stroked its nose with affection before clucking at it and turning it so that it was facing away from the fire and the dead body. I could sense that the horse was dreading what it seemed to know was about to happen and I didn't think it was looking forward to the effort.

  The Reeve put a foot in a stirrup and swung himself up onto the horse with practised ease before he looked back at me. Still sitting on the ground with my arms wrapped around my knees, I now had to crane my neck to look up at him. It hurt, but at least the shaking in my legs had seemed to reduce somewhat.

  "Come into town tomorrow," the Reeve said. "I'll want you to make a statement to the garrison officer on what happened out here. I'll arrange for you to get a hot bath at the inn as well. Fair enough?"

  I nodded, not sure what else I could say. Time was starting and stopping, and then rushing along. Nothing was making much sense. I wasn't at all sure what had just happened.

  "These things happen, Will. You'll be fine now," said the Reeve as if reading my mind. "Take some time to work it all out in your head. You're a strong lad and you'll put this behind you. It had nothing to do with you – just remember that."

  He clucked at his horse and it started to walk away, then he stopped it with a slight tug on the reins. He looked back at me again. His horse seemed to do the same. This time, staring into its mournful eyes, I was sure the horse was not happy about dragging the body back to Jaipers.

  "One more thing, Will, one of the town folk has a high fever and could use your attention. She's not alone; many are sick." He waited until I nodded again.

  My mind already started working on the problem. I had collected a few herbs that would knock a high temperature down. It wouldn't take me long to brew up a remedy.

  I think the Reeve knew that I was already thinking on the problem because a look of satisfaction settled on his face as he gave the horse its head.

  The horse slowly started to walk into the darkness and down the deer path that led out of the clearing to the main road. The rope tied to the man slowly lifted from the ground until it hummed taught and unceremoniously, the dead man was pulled across the ground. The remaining shaft of the arrow sticking out the back of the head scraped a shallow furrow into the dirt and marked his passage. Appalled, I watched the head flop from side to side as he was dragged away; his arms trailing behind him, until he was out of the light and into the darkness. I knew that the image would stay with me forever. I wasn't sure how much of the man would be left by the time he arrived into town. Not much, I imagined, and shuddered.

  Eventually, the soft noise of the horse's hooves hitting the dirt quietly faded into the night and the sounds of the crickets and frogs returned to fill the air.

  I was alone and I was afraid.

  Two

  AFTER A WHILE, the shaking and fear subsided and I felt that I could move again. I had no idea how long I sat there unmoving. My eyes finally drifted over to the small pool of blood that marked where the dead man's head had lain on the ground. The dirt seemed to refuse to absorb it. Next to the blood, I saw something glistening pink and tan in colour and I was horrified. I frantically grabbed handfuls of dirt and from where I sat tossed them over to the spot until, after several attempts, I managed to hide the evidence. Only then did I awkwardly struggle to my feet and start to walk around my camp to work out the aches in my legs formed from remaining still for too long. I rubbed the dried tears from my cheeks.

  I found myself pacing around my campfire. I was consumed with anger: anger at the Reeve, at the dead man, at Bill – who I barely knew other than him being the only drunk at the inn with money – and even anger at the whole damn town for letting this happen. I stalked the clearing and tried desperately to find a way to vent my building rage. I kicked dirt over where the blood lay and even ground away the line the arrow had made in the grou
nd as best as I could with my rag–covered feet.

  After a time, my anger faded and I found myself over by the stream scrubbing my hands, face, and neck with wet sand until they hurt. At one point I started sobbing and I couldn't manage to stop myself and felt foolish the entire time. Then I couldn't get warm and ended up throwing all my gathered wood onto the fire until it roared skyward and I could feel welcomed heat to sinking into my bones. I sat, shivering, as close to the fire as I could stand, my skin screaming with the heat. At one point, I'm embarrassed to admit, it occurred to me that there might have been more men out there lurking and lying in wait for me, and that they would now be drawn to the flames and me. Frightened, I knocked my fire apart in a frenzied haste before sanity returned to me and I managed to rebuild it.

  What followed was a long and turbulent night and by morning I was surprised to awake lying in my wraps, on my sleeping roll, next to a burnt out fire. I couldn't remember falling asleep or even going to bed. The sun had just risen and I could hear birds singing loudly into the morning air as if nothing was wrong in the world. I lay there listening to their songs until my bladder forced me out of my warm wraps. Even in summer the mornings could be cool in this region and today was no exception.

  I relieved myself against a nearby tree and then grabbed my cooking pot and went to the stream to fetch water for my morning tea. I splashed my face with water. Now refreshed, I felt somewhat better. The memories of the night's events were starting to fade in intensity. I reached up and fingered the area where the knife had cut me and I was pleased to find the wound closed and almost gone. Sometime during the night, I had calmed down and remembered to apply my healing unguent to the small cut on my neck. My unguent had remarkable healing properties imbued in it through my craft. I rarely had opportunity to apply it to myself and to be honest; I was proud and enjoyed the results.

  I returned to the cold campfire after gathering some fuel wood and after finding some burning coals buried beneath the ash, I blew the fire back to life with some dry grass and kindling. I slowly built the fire back up to a good height that would boil the water in my tin pot in no time. Once bubbles formed in the water, I brought out some dried green tea leaves and added a generous pinch to the water along with a few dried chamomile flowers. I watched the leaves unfold in the water and I leaned over to breathe in the vapours, letting the scent fill me up as I exhaled in contentment. Soon I was sitting cross–legged with my eyes closed next to the fire, relaxing with my cup and trying to find my inner peace. My herbs were simply the best, I had to admit, and I chided myself for not having made this tea last night. I should have known better and could have avoided the horrible evening I had.

  I rested there for at least an hour, reaching out with my senses to the trees, the stream and the wildlife. They imbued me with their natural peace and serenity, and I felt calm return to me with their presence. I quickly drained the last of the tea in my cup and determined that it was probably time to head to town to fulfill my promise to the Reeve. I snorted at the thought – I was already heading to town with my backpack full of herbs when the incident happened. Now I had one more reason to leave the comfort of the woods. I took a last look around at my peaceful camp from where I sat, and groaned as I rose to my feet to tear it down.

  I washed out my pot and cup at the stream and refilled my water skin. I rolled up my sleeping roll and fastened it below my pack, tucking my pot and cup inside where they belonged. I took the time to gather fresh fuel wood and laid it out under the small shelter I had made for the purpose of keeping it dry till next time I returned. I had similar caches all over the region. I always found it wise to prepare for the future as best as you could and gathering fuel wood was one of the simplest preparations I could make. I hooked my water skin to the outside of the pack and then stood to look around to make sure that no one was observing me.

  I had discovered over the years that it was always prudent to be attentive to your surroundings. Not that any harm ever came to me. This thought drew a snort from me as I remembered last night and recognised the lie that this belief now was. Still, habits meant that I always left my campsite cleared of any signs of recent use. Some signs were unavoidable, such as the remnants of the campfire, but nonetheless I did the best I could. I was always on my own and relied only on my wits and power of observation to avoid trouble. I finished peering around and seeing no movement in the surrounding area and no one travelling on the nearby road, I simply closed my eyes to listen. After a time, hearing nothing but the wind through the trees and the birds calling to one another, I opened my eyes, certain that no one was near.

  I moved over to where my sleeping roll had lain the night before and dug up the loose soil where I buried my most prized possession. I soon unearthed my small leather pouch and scooped it up, shook the dirt from it, and then quickly filled in and smoothed over the hole in the ground. As I held the soft leather pouch, I could easily feel my possession. I took the time to carefully tuck the pouch into a small pocket sewn inside the front of my tunic, placed up high near the left shoulder. It was the best hiding spot I could think of to conceal something on my body and felt it was an unlikely place to be searched; I was confident it would remain hidden from prying eyes or fingers. The object inside the pouch was far too important to me, and it was all that remained of my past and my mother.

  I hoisted my backpack over one shoulder and glanced at the area where the blood had spilt on the ground and I was pleased to see that I could now barely make it out. I gave the area a once over to make sure I left nothing behind and I was startled to see the black boots lying exactly where the Reeve tossed them last night. That they belonged to a dead man filled me with a small measure of revulsion and I simply couldn't bear the thought of wearing them. Still, I thought and glanced at my ragged feet and then back at the boots. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to try them on and see what it feels like to wear real boots. I couldn't remember the last time I wore something solid on my feet. I must have at some point when I was younger. Images of running through a castle corridor teased my memories and faded just as quickly as they had come.

  I slipped my pack off my shoulder, laid it on the ground and sat down next to the boots, grabbing one before I could change my mind. I turned it over in my hands and enjoyed how soft and supple the leather was against my green–stained, rough and calloused hands. The leather was dyed a rich, dark black and showed no wear. It seemed to absorb the light and I found it hard to really examine the boot closely. My eyes refused to stay focused on them and it was disconcerting. I could feel more than see that the stitching was doubled, tight and expertly done. The sole was thick and showed no wear on the heel. The boots were meant to reach mid–calf and laced up the front. Strangely, the upper half of the boot held leather straps that were meant to wrap up over the upper calf. It was an uncommon design and I only knew how they were worn from having watched the Reeve remove them from the man. Inside the boot opening, I observed a small maker's mark stamped into the leather but knowing nothing of leather marks, I merely ignored it. I stored the detail for later, should I have a chance to inquire about it. I didn't know much about leatherwork but I knew one thing for certain: these boots had cost the owner quite a bit of coin.

  My revulsion had faded and was replaced with curiosity. I untied my foot wraps, flipped the top laces out of the way and pulled the boot over my right foot. The boot was only a little bit large so I wrapped the leather straps around my upper calf and tied it off, making it snug enough. I enjoyed the wonderful feeling of having leather protecting my foot and scrunched my toes inside. After years of wearing rags on my feet, the feeling of wearing real boots was amazing. Odd, I thought, I had thought the boots a little large for me but they now seemed to fit remarkably well. Goodness, they feel good on my feet. I eagerly reached out and pulled the other boot on.

  Immediately, my big toe struck something inside. I pulled out my foot and peered into the boot but could not see anything. I tipped and shook the boot over an open hand bu
t nothing fell out. I reached in and groped around until I felt the toe part of the foot lining peel back a little and grasped a small round and flat object with my fingers. I extracted my hand and saw with amazement that I held a small gold coin. Right away the hairs on the back of my neck stood up and I shivered despite the warmth of the day. My blood pounded in my ears and for just a moment I grew incredibly dizzy. I closed my eyes and shook my head. The dizziness fled as quickly as it had come. I opened my eyes and all was normal again.

  I looked closely at the coin and right away I could see that it wasn't a typical round coin. It was elongated and stretched out, like someone had pulled it slightly apart from opposite sides. It was only the size of the pad of one of my thumbs and it was smoothly worn down on one side as if someone had been rubbing it repeatedly for a long time. I turned the coin over and, even slightly distorted, I could make out an embossed symbol that looked like three swirls joined in the middle. I was sure I had never seen this symbol before but it was vaguely familiar somehow. I had never held a gold coin before, nor I had ever seen one this close, but I was sure that the coin was made from real gold as it shone with a luster I had rarely seen and then only from a distance as the richer merchants sold their wares inside their shops.

  Once, some months ago, I had seen a rather fat merchant bite a gold coin and so I too bit my coin. It was hard and hurt my teeth. I looked at the coin and couldn't see if I had made a mark and so I wasn't sure if it had passed the test. I didn't care though; the coin felt so wonderful in my hand. It had such a surprising weight for something so small. I held it in my palm and flipped it over and over, staring in wonder. A brief flash of recognition went through me but I shrugged it off as yet another one of my annoying memories that would intrude at odd times.