by Sandra Kopp
Leaving the business district, the street wound past brightly-adorned cottages and curved east, overlooking the Ashgard River a short way before reaching a tree-lined lane. A large wooden sign nailed to a post proclaimed “Greene’s Willow Inn.” Davon brightened as he turned off the road.
The lane curved invitingly through a small wood toward the river where the inn sat serenely in the center of three grassy acres several feet from the riverbank. Davon’s heart leapt as it came into view. Completely rebuilt after the Great War, the inn much resembled the original structure. Boasting three stories, a gabled roof, latticed windows, and flowerboxes overflowing with gaily-colored blossoms, Greene’s Willow Inn exuded warmth and welcome. Sadly, only one of the inn’s famous willows had survived the war, but it soared tall and proud, its sweeping fronds wafting in the evening breeze while it watched over two young willows growing where their predecessors once stood. Voices, laughter, and the delectable aromas of a fresh hot meal drifted outside.
The stable sat in a crescent-shaped clearing cut into the woods several feet beyond the inn. Davon rode to the hitching post and dismounted. A lanky lad with stringy blonde hair put his pitchfork aside and bounded over to meet him.
“Ooh, sorry, mate. We’ve a stall for the horse, but the inn’s full up.”
Davon winced. “I feared as much. Ah, well. Might I still extend my regards to Master Edwin and Mistress Emily and perhaps arrange to stay with them later?”
“You know them, sir?”
“Very well. We became compatriots during the war. Edwin’s help saved our lives.”
“I expect they’d be pleased to see you. What is your name?”
“Davon Marchant.”
The lad bobbed his head. “Let’s go then.” With Davon in tow, he strode to the inn’s front door and opened it. “Papa,” he called, “A Master Davon Marchant to see you.”
Inside, the conversation ceased. The clatter of silverware on plates fell silent. But almost immediately the room came alive again. Chairs scraped the wooden floor as their occupants pushed back from the table. Davon heard Edwin’s voice and then those of Edwin’s wife, Emily, and another man. All talking at once, they burst from the dining room and rushed to meet him.
Emily reached him first. “Davon Marchant, you scamp!” She caught his face between her plump hands and kissed his cheek. “Welcome!”
“Aye, welcome, lad!” Edwin beamed as he shook Davon’s hand. Stepping back then, he nodded toward the tall, well-dressed man waiting beside him. “I’ll wager you remember this chap.”
For a moment Davon stared, speechless. Bursting into laughter, he extended his hand. “Charles Bordner! I don’t believe it! How wonderful to see you.”
Charles Bordner still had the same penetrating steel-gray eyes and wavy blonde hair Davon remembered from their war days. The short beard and moustache he now sported, along with deepened frown lines in his brow, lent him a dignified, distinguished look. A broad smile revealed straight white teeth. He clasped Davon’s hand, hesitated, then pulled him close in a warm embrace. “It’s wonderful to see you, too.” He released Davon and silently regarded him a moment. “When last we rode together you seemed but a youth. I now see a man, and a fine one at that. Edwin tells me you and Arris are thriving in Teptiel. I am happy for you.”
“Thank you.” Davon sobered. “Had we more time I would love to hear how you fare. However, with the inn filled up I must return to town—”
“We’ve a place for you,” Charles broke in. “I am traveling alone and have a room to myself, which you shall share tonight.”
“Absolutely,” Edwin boomed. “No bawdy alehouse for you!” He turned to the lad and jerked his thumb toward Davon. “Will, see to Master Marchant’s horse. He is staying with us.”
Will nodded and bounded away. The Greene’s conducted Davon to the dinner table, where the other boarders shifted together to make room. At Charles’ insistence, Davon sat beside him. Emily brought another plate and soon Davon reveled in jovial camaraderie.
“You mentioned old memories,” Emily said between mouthfuls. “Did you meet anyone else here in town you know?”
“No.” Davon paused and a bemused smile crossed his face. “But I think I saw Melinda’s old suitor, although he—”
“Sam Shaw, the butcher?” Emily clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Poor old man. He never got over her running away. But who could blame her? Three times her age and he expected her to be happy with him? He had plenty of other choices. Why pick on such a young girl?”
“Because then he could brag on his beautiful young wife,” Edwin put in. “Melinda had few prospects and as Shaw possessed both her mother’s support and the means to provide for her he thought he owned her. At least she’s found a good man now.”
“Amen,” Emily said.
“None of my business, but did Shaw ever marry?” Davon asked.
“Oh, yes.” Emily chuckled. “But the blighter had to settle for a chubby woman his own age.”
One of the guests snickered. Edwin shot a warning look at Emily, who giggled smugly. “That’ll do,” Edwin chided. “I think we’ve amused ourselves at Sam Shaw’s expense long enough. Certainly we’ve pleasanter topics.” He turned to Davon. “A genuine pleasure to see you, but quite unexpected. What brings you to Garris?”
Davon hesitated, unsure whether to make his errand known. Everyone at the table—Charles especially—stared at him, awaiting his reply. Dared he speak of San-Leyon or the weeping hill?
“Ah! I know.” A knowing smile crossed Charles’ face. “The foal your brother told me about. I didn’t expect you until next week, but as fate has brought us together here we can discuss it after dinner.”
Davon met his probing stare and, discerning that Charles had stepped in to cover for him, smiled gratefully. But from the corner of his eye he glimpsed three guests at the end of the table studying him intently.
Charles laughed and clapped Davon on the shoulder. “You see, I’ve even shortened the journey for you. You don’t have to travel all the way to Atwall now. You can describe the colt to me here.”
“Yes, but I had hoped to see your beautiful city again.”
“I will certainly welcome you, should you choose to continue.”
“Then I shall do so.” Davon scooped up a forkful of potatoes and gravy and shoved it into his mouth, hoping the conversation would turn to other matters and that the trio at the end of the table would quit scrutinizing him. To his chagrin, they continued staring and one in particular regarded him with marked interest. He glanced at Charles, and although Charles pretended not to notice Davon perceived he, too, observed their perusal.
“I’m also considering a young stallion at a village on the Antelope Plain,” Charles continued. “He’s a year older than your brother’s and ready to ride. He comes from the same stock as Vitimihovna, who remains my favorite.”
“I’ll not be disappointed should you decide to take that one,” Davon returned. “I rather fancy my brother’s colt myself. Besides, the Horse Lords still breed some of the finest steeds you’ll find anywhere.”
“Unquestionably.” The sternest member of the trio now wore a broad smile. “I’m always looking for a good mount and, as you say, the best come from Ha-Ran-Fel. Found some pretty good ones in Valhalea though, too. That’s where I got my current one.” Raising his glass, he took a long drink, then set the glass down and heaved a sigh of satisfaction. “Splendid meal, Mistress Greene. You have truly earned your excellent reputation. You can be sure of our continued patronage.”
Emily smiled as the other guests chimed in with their praises. The conversation turned to other matters. The trio, evidently uninterested in Davon now, conversed with other patrons. Emily produced a delicious blackberry tart for dessert, after which most of the guests retired to their rooms. Edwin and Emily began gathering dishes.
“It’s a beautiful evening,” Charles told Davon. “Edwin put that old bench down by the river again. What say we sit there an
d talk.”
“Sounds good. I could use some fresh air,” Davon agreed, and followed Charles outside.
The cool air caressing his face soothed him, as did the symphony of cricket and frog song. The bench sat at the edge of a grassy plot kept mowed to provide feed for the stable. Davon drew a deep breath and cast his gaze upward where, one by one, the stars peeped down from the darkening sky. Before him the Ashgard River whispered past, pausing once in a while to lap at the shore before hastening on to Atwall.
The men sat down and Davon turned immediately to Charles. “Have you indeed spoken to Arris?”
Charles shook his head. “I haven’t spoken to your brother in months; however, as you hesitated to divulge your errand I thought it my business to invent one. What has brought you here?”
“I travel to San-Leyon.” In a low voice, Davon related the story of the Red Horse and his vision at the Nomadic River. “I had hoped to speak to Edwin alone, but am grateful for your presence,” he finished. “I would not presume upon your time but perhaps you can advise me. Circumstances draw Arris to Barren-Fel, and I need someone to help me find this weeping hill.” Davon paused and moistened his lips. “I actually hoped to enlist Bertrand—”
“Hsst!” Charles’ uplifted hand stopped Davon short. “Keep your voice down.”
“I am already whispering,” Davon protested, but Charles vehemently shook his head. Confused, Davon could only stare.
Charles stole a careful look around. “Rumor holds Bertrand a renegade or utterly mad or both, and extremely dangerous. Whether true or not I cannot say. I only know he has disappeared.”
Charles paused for another look around. “I remember Arris once used a ploy to deceive Ryadok that had us believing he had joined the sorcerer. Perhaps Bertrand is doing the same.”
Somewhere behind them a twig snapped. The men caught their breath and jumped to their feet. Charles drew his knife but Davon, sensing danger, seized Charles’ arm and pulled him to the ground just as something spun past them overhead and landed with a plop! in the rushing water.
“That was no arrow,” Davon panted.
“More like a hatchet.” Charles raised his head and glanced at the inn. “We can’t stay here. I only hope—”
A distinct thwack followed by a strangled cry and the thud of a fallen body cut him off. Edwin Greene, holding a bow and bearing a quiver of arrows, emerged from the shadows. Charles and Davon scrambled to their feet and raced to him.
“I knew there was trouble,” Edwin told Davon. “Your face betrays you. If something’s brewing, your demeanor proclaims what your mouth does not.” Edwin motioned them into the bushes and then nodded toward the tallest willow. “Let’s see who we’ve got there.”
Keeping to the shadows, they crept along the shrubbery, turning at the end of the hedgerow toward the first young willow. After a few steps Edwin stiffened and caught his breath. “Hurry!” he whispered, and the trio scurried to the willow and knelt behind it.
Grunts and gasps emanated from the darkness. “Blimey! He’s too fat to get a hold of and bloody heavy to boot,” a rough voice rasped.
Edwin cautiously peered around one side of the willow while Charles and Davon peeked around the other. Through the murky darkness they spied movement beyond the oldest willow. A closer look revealed two forms struggling to lift something heavy.
“Quiet!” a second voice hissed. More struggling and then a plop as the men dropped their burden. “Forget it,” the voice said. “Let’s each just grab an arm and drag him instead.”
“Who’s there?” Edwin thundered. “Stop, or I’ll lay you out beside your comrade!”
“Down!” Davon cried, and the trio flattened themselves to the ground as two arrows flew past and buried themselves in the shrubbery.
“Bow to the Shepherdess or suffer the curse of the Red Horse!” a deep voice bellowed.
“Suffer this, you blighter!” Whipping an arrow from his quiver, Edwin rose to one knee, aimed and shot. Immediately Davon leapt up and threw himself at Edwin, knocking him aside just in time to evade still another arrow singing past. Swiftly Charles seized Edwin’s bow and an arrow from his quiver and loosed a shot, but their assailants responded with mocking laughs and departing hoofbeats. Muttering, Charles handed the bow to Edwin, who had just sat up.
Davon put a remorseful hand to his forehead. “I brought this upon you.”
“No, you didn’t,” Charles returned. “Were Theodus not so foolish in holding Rauwyar this might have been averted. My mission—traveling this week to Langhorn to persuade him—proved fruitless. I might as well have stayed in Atwall, for all I accomplished.” He sighed and clapped Davon’s arm. “At least you are skilled at detecting danger. You’ve saved each of us at least twice tonight.”
Edwin set his jaw. “So the madness begins anew.” He jabbed a thumb toward the back door. “Let’s go inside before another monster rears its head.”
Silently they filed into the inn, where a shaken Emily and Will awaited them in the kitchen. “It was our merchant guests from Tashbuth,” Emily told them tearfully.
“The three who watched you so carefully,” Edwin told Davon.
Charles blinked in surprise. “I know most people from Tashbuth but recognized no one at the table tonight.”
“We posed as merchants while investigating Mordarius,” Davon said. “These men use the same guise, but for what purpose?”
“They tried to kill you and Charles, and now all three have fled.” Emily dabbed her eyes with a corner of her apron.
“Not all of them,” Edwin remarked dryly. “They had to carry one out, dead.”
“They left this in the barn.” Will produced a wide piece of bark bearing a roughly-drawn image of a blood-red horse with a man’s wrist and fist in place of the neck and head.
“The Red Horse,” Davon murmured.
“Aye.” Charles nodded shortly. “You received two visions, and your acting upon them will imperil the serpent’s plan. I suspect it sent those three to hinder or even kill you.” He sighed. “Well, my friend, you have your traveling companion, though not the one you hoped for. Yet never fear, we’ll find this weeping hill of yours and unravel this mystery.”
Or die trying. Davon’s mouth tightened.
“What can I do?” Edwin asked.
“Furnish them provisions, for one thing,” Emily said. “Don’t you worry, I’ll put together food and anything else you think you’ll need.”
“You need another swordsman.” Edwin looked down, frowning as he bit his lip. “This blamed leg—”
“You’ve seen enough of war and proven your valor,” Charles broke in, “and now you patiently bear its scars.”
“But I can still ride and wield a sword,” Edwin protested. “I can at least whittle some hide off of these rogues.”
“Edwin, as the owner of Garris’ finest inn you can learn things from those who pass through and then send us this knowledge by means of the pigeon I will leave with you,” Charles told him. “I brought two, in case I needed to summon my father from Tashbuth and the council from Atwall to aid in my conference with Theodus. Since Theodus so abruptly dismissed me and refused future appointments I deemed the effort fruitless and used neither; therefore, I will leave Dash with you and keep Darter with me.”
“Also. . .if you could—” Davon broke off and shook his head. “Never mind.”
“If I could what?” Edwin asked. “If in my power, I will gladly do whatever you wish.”
Davon hesitated and then whispered, “If you could find Bertrand. . .”
Edwin paled. Emily’s bottom lip quivered as she returned to the kitchen.
Edwin pulled in a long breath. “I can promise nothing but will learn what I can.” He nodded to Charles and continued, “As you say, the people who pass through here know things. I’ll do what I can to draw it out of them. And if I can find—”
Charles nodded. “Aye. Well, discover whatever you can and then send us word.” To Davon, he said, “We’d be
st turn in. We’ve a long journey ahead of us.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Davon frowned as he studied the overcast predawn sky. Two days had passed since he and Charles had departed Greene’s Willow Inn and entered the forest wilderness of San-Leyon. It seemed to him the boundary separating the two kingdoms separated sunshine from gloom as well. Except for an occasional rainstorm that quickly passed, Liedor basked in limitless sunshine. San-Leyon, however, languished under a continual canopy of heavy, rain-soaked clouds for days on end.
The muggy air smelled of rain. Davon’s frown deepened. The relentless gloom not only intensified his foreboding, it concealed sun and stars, thus making determining their direction difficult—a major concern considering only a few obscure trails existed to guide them. Davon guessed he and Charles had traveled only fifteen miles since entering the woodsmen’s realm. At least fifty miles separated them from Arronmyl’s village, where Davon hoped to procure a guide to the weeping hill. At their current pace they might arrive too late to render assistance should they find any injured there.
Davon sighed and glanced at the makeshift shelter where Charles, wrapped in a blanket, still slept soundly. He smiled grimly. Few things in San-Leyon had changed since the war. Sultry clouds frowned from the lowering sky. Fog and mist enshrouded dripping foliage. The woodsmen and Little People still lived simple, nomadic lives. Despite reaching favorable terms with the outside kingdoms after the war, they had returned to their former isolationism and built neither roads nor inns to encourage visitation. Enjoying few comforts themselves, they saw no need to extend any to strangers. And with a new sorcerer rising, they might withdraw even further and view every outsider with increasing suspicion.
If that is the case, they have yet to learn we are stronger united than alone.
Davon glanced up as a large wet drop hit his cheek. Another fell and then another and soon he heard the gentle patter of falling rain. Pulling up his collar, he made for the shelter and crawled inside.
