by Aaron Bunce
“Sure as you’re sitting on that painted pony they did. And I’m not one fer making up stories neither,” Tadd said seriously.
“Could they have been dalan, or dwarves?” Dennah asked.
“I’m not fer knowing, but I see those short legged dwarf folk on many occasion, and those little stubs weren’t fer moving this fast,” Tadd said with a grin.
“My Pa used to tell me stories about the dalan. That they could change their shape. They sound magical,” Dennah said captivated.
“Aye, they could. Heck, I imagine they could look just like you or me if they wanted to. They say these lands are their homeland, until a horrible conflict, but beyond that, no one knows. After the last King fell, the Council locked away our history’s worth of scrolls and books. Left us ignorant to it all, it did,” Tadd finished with a sour look.
Dennah could immediately tell the old man was not a Council supporter, and she couldn’t blame him. The Council, thaw after thaw caused rifts within the populace. Their decisions were often harsh and unyielding, the grounds of their rule never to be debated or questioned.
Tadd went quiet. It quickly became clear that he had soured on the conversation and Dennah decided to allow him some time to cool off.
She chewed on her bottom lip as they rode on in silence, contemplating many things. She started a catalog of all the things she hoped to see while traveling with the caravans. At the top of that list was the dalan ruin they had passed earlier on the road.
She longed to walk amongst the ancient buildings. To tread upon ground with that much history was a thrilling prospect. The stories of the dalan had always been her favorite as a child. The lore and mystery surrounding the reclusive race of shapeshifters had always captured her imagination. Now, they didn’t seem to be so very far away.
The landscape changed quickly. The rocky hills and dense forests opened up, softening into rolling hills. The drooping sun cascaded golden waves on the wind-rippled grasses. Clumps of trees teased signs of fall red, orange, and yellow.
She could see further than she ever thought possible. It was nothing like home. Dennah found it a welcome change. Compared to the bustling cities of the lakes, this looked peaceful.
A short while later Bardstown came into view. The town sat clustered around the lazy bend of a river. It was a cozy looking community of sturdy buildings and large shade trees. After weeks of sleeping on a thin bedroll and lumpy ground, the prospect of a real mattress, warm food, and a hot bath sounded too good to be true.
“Be on your guard, Girlie,” Tadd said quietly next to her. “Towns of the flats are mostly military folk, Council people by the lot. These are a different folk. They don’t always take kind to Council’s men rolling in and taking whatever they want.”
Dennah nodded. With men like Banus and his lot about, there was always the possibility of trouble. She just hoped that it didn’t involve her.
The afternoon was old by the time the wagons rumbled into the town proper. Simple yet sturdy buildings lined the hard dirt packed road. Torches and lanterns set into iron mounts burned bright, casting the town in an inviting glow. Tadd pulled his reins and brought his wagon to a stop midway down the lane.
An old, energetic man with stooped shoulders shuffled up beside the wagon, his balding pate glistening in the failing sunlight. He wore simple robes tied off at his waist with an elaborately braided belt. The setting sun caught a large jeweled ring on one of his bony hands. The stone sparkled brilliantly. Dennah had seen one like it before, worn by the town elder in Yarborough.
The elderly man flashed Dennah and Tadd a quick smile as he shuffled past. He continued back alongside the caravan as if counting the wagons.
“This could be good,” Tadd mumbled.
“Why do you say that?” Dennah asked, but Tadd shook his head and turned around to watch. The old man stopped at the caravan’s midpoint and came shuffling back.
“Greetings, greetings, how are you? I hope you remember me, I am Frenin, the Elder of Bardstown.” He greeted them warmly, first shaking Tadd’s hand, and then Dennah’s.
“Did my man not meet you? He was supposed to wait at Nester’s Hollow and escort you in. He left here a time ago. Where could he have gone?” Frenin pondered out loud.
The old man quickly recovered and looked down the line of wagons, “you’re more wagons than harvest last. Did you have good weather for travel through Karnell and the lakes?” he asked, finally giving up his search and coming back to stand before Tadd’s wagon.
“Weather was passable, surely warmer than it was this time last thaw,” Tadd replied casually.
“Yes, yes…we had frost very early, but then it got so warm…odd how warm it has stayed. Tell me,” he said clearing his throat. “Did the Parater not journey with you? Or will he arrive separately?”
“I know not why, Frenin elder, but none of the Council’s Parater’s journeyed out of the Flats. Delegation agents issued bound and sealed charges. Those were entrusted to the guard Captain. I believe he is the one with whom you should speak,” Tadd replied in a surprisingly articulate and formal fashion. Frenin’s face hardened.
“I am to parley with a guard? This is unacceptable!” He quickly mastered his temper. “Very well then, and where is the Captain of the guard, that I may speak with him?”
Tadd and Dennah shared a quick look as they turned as one to locate Bull. They scanned back through the wagons for a moment before spotting him. Dennah pointed him out with a trembling finger
Frenin thanked them and shuffled back around the wagon to where Bull was standing. The broad shouldered guard leaned against one of the wagons, talking animatedly with a small group of local women.
“This should be good,” Tadd smirked. They both watched the stooped old man push his way through the group standing around Bull. Dennah could not hear what was said, but could tell from Bull’s expression that it was not going well. Sour-faced, Bull clenched his jaw and wrung his hands together as he listened.
Frenin turned abruptly and marched back past the wagons, and down the lane. He shuffled into one of the buildings, leaving the door to slam shut behind him.
Bull followed moments later, leading his horse by the reins. He stopped and rummaged through his bags for a moment, before pulling free an embossed leather case and two hardened scroll tubes. All three bore the Council’s large wax seal.
“What are you two gawking at?” he growled. Then, angrily, he threw the reigns of his horse at Dennah. “Take my horse, lead the wagons out of town, and find a place to set up camp. No one leaves camp until I return!”
Dennah nodded as Bull turned and walked away.
“Very interesting…very interesting indeed, Girlie!” Tadd chuckled.
She replied with a questioning look, but Tadd only threw her an amused wink before flicking the reins of his team. Dennah pulled Bull’s horse along as they set out to find a suitable place to set up a camp.
* * * *
The trek back to town took an eternity. Roman tried on multiple occasions to get Alina to walk on her own, but she refused. As his frustration grew, he reminded himself of her condition. Roman had to stop constantly to set her down to take a break. His side burned horribly, and his stomach decided to act up.
During one of his rests, Roman tried to pull his shirt away to inspect the severity of the wound, but he only managed to start it bleeding again. With each passing break, Roman found it harder and harder to get moving again. It hurt to pick himself up off the ground, and then he had to carry Alina.
It took the better part of the sun’s descent to make the three mile hike back to town. By the time buildings came into view, his legs wobbled, and his side had gone numb. He stumbled into town with the evening moon above him. The streets bustled with activity.
Berg, I need help!” Roman yelled as he hobbled past the forge, but the Smith was nowhere to be seen.
People watched the activity in town from open doorways. They flitted in and out of their homes like upset birds b
ut didn’t seem to hear or see him.
“Someone help us!” Roman yelled, stumbling towards a noisy gathering of people outside Frenin’s house. He noticed a large commotion in a grassy field farther up the road. A large column of wagons was being arranged in a large circle. Roman shouldered his way through the crowd outside the elder’s home.
“Please help us, somebody!” he pleaded, but the crowd repelled. Several women cried out in alarm as he moved towards them.
“Please, where is Frenin?” Roman asked a woman in a heavy cotton dress, but she pulled the man next to her between them for protection. His hand trembled as he fumbled with the door latch.
He wasn’t sure how he was still standing. Alina felt impossibly heavy, and his knees were knocking together. Before he could turn the latch, it clanked, and the door swung out, knocking him back.
Frenin’s face appeared in the doorway, and he looked alarmed when he caught sight of Roman. “Roman, I’m so sorry, my boy,” he started to say, but his expression changed as he noticed Alina in his arms. Frenin rushed them inside.
Roman’s body shook as he staged into the house. Alina showed no signs that she knew what was going on around her.
“That’s Garon’s little girl,” he heard someone say, but he couldn’t see who it was.
“Roman…Ro, where have you been? Was there trouble with Garon and his boys? I knew it. I shouldn’t have asked. I shouldn’t have sent you. This is entirely my fault,” Frenin worried out loud.
Roman wasn’t sure if he could talk at this point. So he stood quietly, looking between expectant faces.
“Look at him, he can barely stand. Someone take the girl from him,” Berg said, walking over from the fire.
A large bald man in stiff leather armor and a silver and gold tunic stepped forward and tried to take Alina out of his arms. Roman’s arms wouldn’t respond. He couldn’t let go.
“Let go, boy, I’ve got her. Let go!” the soldier said. Finally, Alina lifted free, and Roman staggered. He heard several people gasp.
“Blood, look at all the blood! Is she okay?”
“It’s not hers. She is okay,” Roman said as he struggled, teetering drunkenly. His head felt light and the room tipped strangely from side to side. He was sure he would have fallen over, but strong hands grabbed him and eased him into a chair. Berg knelt down before him, concern wrinkling his bushy beard.
Roman clutched at his side as he felt the torn flesh throb angrily. “Greta is dead. They’re all dead,” he blurted between gasps. The room went suddenly quiet, the crackle and pop of the only sound.
Frenin stepped before him, a horrified look upon his face. “Dead…what happened? Where are Garon and the boys?”
Roman shook his head weakly, “I couldn’t find them...Greta and all the livestock are dead. I found Alina in the barn. She was hiding, hiding in the loft.” He cringed as Berg peeled away his shirt to expose the pitchfork’s grizzly handiwork.
“Frenin you best call for Lucilla,” the Smith said without turning. “And a cleric, if there is one in town.”
“You get gored by a bull, Roman?” Berg asked quietly.
“Tobin, run and fetch Lucilla, please. I believe she is still at her shop. Be fast about it!” Frenin said. The door opened quickly and slammed shut again.
“Okay…hold here,” Berg said and pressed Roman’s hand to his side, and then stood and walked away. Everyone stood watching him. They didn’t even try to hide it.
“You two look after the girl if you will, please…until Lucilla gets here,” Frenin said, corralling two women that stood before the warmth of the fireplace. The women bustled over and took Alina’s limp form from the armor-clad guard. They instantly started whispering to one another. The guard looked relieved as he brushed dirt from his arms.
“I should be going.” Roman tried to stand from the chair, but Berg appeared again and pushed him down. The Smith lifted his shirt and pressed a clean cloth over his throbbing side, and with surprising tenderness, held it in place.
“You say you were attacked? Who did this to you? You said a woman was dead?” the large bald guard asked, casting him in his shadow.
“Greta…is dead,” Roman said numbly.
“How did, uh…never mind about that now. Now, what did you say of Garon?” Frenin asked flustered. He paced nervously between the fireplace and the front door. He didn’t look Roman’s way. Instead, he chewed nervously on his finger.
“She’s dead. She’s dead, Frenin,” Roman repeated as emotions broke loose within him. His eyes welled up with tears, tears that until now he had been able to hold back.
“She’s gone…gone,” confronting the reality of Greta’s death felt suddenly very real. He couldn’t refute it, nor could he deny it. He said it out loud. For Roman, it felt horribly final, completely and utterly final.
“So, there was an attack? Where is your town guard? You should rally them to investigate and bring whoever is responsible to justice,” the large guard added importantly. His hand, Roman noted, was gripped tightly on the handle of his sword.
“Yes…well we have a small contingent here. Only a handful of men really,” Frenin said absently, but then shook his head and spoke a little louder. “Berg, can you find Max and tell him what has happened? I would have them out to Garon’s at once.”
“I’ll go straight away. I will lead the way if you send a few of your men as well,” he turned, this time addressing the guard.
The bald man nodded curtly and swept out of the room. Berg promptly followed him out the door, leaving Roman alone once again.
He started to feel hollow and cold inside, despite the warmth of the well-stoked fireplace. Frenin knelt down next to him and put a reassuring hand on his knee. A moment later Lucilla appeared through the front door. A wool scarf flapped behind her as she spun to shut the door.
“You’d best get out there before they start tearing each other apart,” Lucilla said as she bustled over and dropped her large bag on the floor. “You know how they are. Like wild dogs…a little chaos and they start tearing things apart.”
Frenin was left with no response before she shooed him towards the door.
“Alright, Alright, I’m going,” he cried, flapping his arms animatedly.
Frenin turned before leaving and fixed an ominous look at Roman. “We will talk on this later, Roman, but first let her tend to you, and get some rest.”
Lucilla busied herself with her bag, digging through bottles and mumbling quietly. Roman enjoyed a few moments of quiet before the fire. The gentle crackle and pop of the fire lulled him.
“Well aren’t you a bloody mess! Just look at you. When I saw you this morning I didn’t think for you to run off and wrestle with a grizzly bear, or whatever it was that did this…” she said, snorting and grumbling.
Roman chuckled but grimaced at the shooting pains that followed. They stabbed clear through him, radiating all the way down his legs and into his toes.
“He shouldn’t have had you go out there like that, Roman. Had no business.” She shook her head in anger. “But best it was you finding little Alina like that. You’re the brother that little girl never had Roman, best you found her. Oh, a lot of dirt in this wound, what did this?”
Despite the pain, Roman chuckled again. Lucilla looked up at him and put her meaty palm on his forehead. “What’s funny, you feverish, boy?”
“No, I mean. Well, I don’t know,” Roman choked. His thoughts did indeed feel a bit jumbled and clumsy.
“Pitchfork,” He said bluntly.
“Now who would go and stab you with a pitchfork? Oh Roman, was it Garon? I’ve always known he was no good. I keep telling Frenin that man will snap one of these days, and…I should wring his neck for sending you out there,” Lucilla growled, crimson flushing to her cheeks.
“Wasn’t Garon, or his boys,” Roman grimaced as she fussed with his shirt. “It was Alina.”
“That sweet little girl did this, with a pitchfork?” Lucilla repeated. “Well, you pr
obably did something to deserve it, serves you right!”
She does have a strange sense of humor, Roman thought.
“You need rest right now, young man. Drink this and it will have you slumbering away in no time,” she said, offering Roman a small, carved wooden cup. Its contents looked like dried flowers and herbs. The aroma was complicated and earthy.
“What’s in it?” he asked curiously, rolling the cup around in his hand.
“Just a bit of chamomile, valerian, lavender, and some fresh honey to ease the nerves,” she said, filling the glass with hot water from a kettle.
“And a drop or two of a tonic of my own recipe as well,” she added as she turned back to hang the kettle by the fire.
Roman sat with the cup of steaming liquid in his hands, letting the vapors roll over his face while Lucilla rifled through her bag of supplies.
“Drink…now!” she insisted, flapping her hands after noticing that Roman had not touched the tea. “This is going to hurt when I clean this, and that will help a little with the pain.”
Roman lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip. The water was hot, and his nose instantly filled with a swirling bouquet. It tasted bitter at first, but after a moment, it finished sweet. The tea felt warm and invigorating as it moved down his parched throat and into his stomach.
He forced himself to finish it all, even the dregs clinging to the bottom of the cup. Lucilla promptly took the cup from his hands and set it on the table next to her. The warm tea sat pleasantly in his stomach. A profound sense of calm and peace settled over him.
Roman’s eyelids drooped heavily, the calming effects of the tea made more intense by the warmth of the fireplace. His peace was broken by pain as Lucilla grabbed his shirt at the collar and ripped it in half.
“Sorry,” she apologized and rolled him over slightly.
“Oh, my. Oh, my,” she mumbled, hovering over him, dabbing, poking, and wiping with clean, warm rags.
“Lot of dirt in here, but no broken bones. You’re lucky of that, let me tell you,” she continued.
Roman cringed as she continued her work, but fatigue, mixed with the intoxicating effects of her herbal tea sapped the remainder of his fight. He nodded, and his eyelids grew so heavy he could barely keep them open at the same time.
