With the conversation between them concluded, the group around his father dispersed. Rozon headed toward the Rose and Crown with Thom Calthorpe, and Father Thomas walked quickly toward the church. Bran caught Mathew's eye and motioned to him.
"Father, I don't—"
"Later," Bran said, forestalling any questions. "The rest of you will need to stay close," he added to the others. "Get whatever things you have and meet us at the inn as soon as you can."
"Maybe I should be going home," Elona said hesitantly. "My mother might start to worry."
"No," Bran replied sharply. "Do as you're told and get yourselves to the inn." It was a tone that brooked no argument.
Elona and Ljrra curtsied and hurried off to gather their belongings.
"I'll make sure they get there," Collin said, grabbing Daniel by the elbow.
"See that you do, boy," Bran said, clapping him on the back and adding a gentle push to get him started. "Oh, and if your dad's about, tell him I need to speak with him."
"Right," Collin called over his shoulder.
"Come with me," Bran said to his son.
"Where are we going?" Mathew asked.
"To Randal Wain's shop."
Mathew stopped abruptly and looked at his father. They were in the middle of the street. "I think you'd better tell me what's wrong," he said seriously.
Bran stared back at him for a moment, then sighed and rubbed the bridge of bis nose. "You're right, lad, but we can talk while we're walking."
Mathew nodded, and fell into place again beside his father.
"You may not have seen the marks on the little Layton boy, but Jerrel was right. No boar could do damage like that. The bite marks on the back of the boy's legs were from a rounded mouth, not a pointed one, and the teeth were square, not sharp. Calthorpe's not sure, but I am. I don't think he wants to believe it. That child was killed by an Orlock."
Mathew nearly missed a step. "What? How can you be certain?" he asked.
"The bites were only part of it. There was a sfnell too. It's been a very long time, but I'm not likely to forget anything like that. The wounds had it about them, and nothing else I know carries the same stench. Siward—Father Thomas—agrees with me. And I think Calthorpe knows it as well."
"I understand," Mathew said slowly. He had known right away that something was very wrong, but this .. . His father's mention of the Orlock's smell brought to mind his meeting on the road that morning with the two strangers and their strong cologne. "I think they were here earlier," he said.
Bran stopped walking and looked sharply at his son, who stopped too. Mathew told him about the cowled men he'd met at Westrey Bridge earlier. When he finished his father nodded.
"Orlocks have been known to travel in disguise before," Bran said. "Some actually managed to get into our camps during the war. They're cleverer than you think. Fortunately, when you get close their game is up. But you say they asked about Harol Longworth?"
"Right."
"That makes no sense. He's just a merchant. What could they want with Harol?"
Mathew shook his head as they both started walking again. "What do you think we should do?" he asked.
"First, we're going to get you that sword we talked about. Then we'll let the town council know what's hap-
pened. Likely, they'll send as many men as we can muster out to Thad's place in the morning."
"The morning? But didn't Thad say that his son was playing with Stefn Darcy? There's another boy still out there. I think we should go now—right away."
"I don't want to say this, lad, but if the boys were together when the Orlocks found them, there's nothing we can do for Stefn." Bran looked up at the sky and frowned. "And with the weather closing in, it would be suicide to take men out at night." He sighed. "I feel like you do, Mat, but the advantage would be on the Orlock side, and they can see in the dark where we can't. What's more, we don't know their numbers. All we'd do is get more people killed."
Mathew knew that what his father was saying made sense, but he was still sick at the thought of the Darcy boy at the mercy of Orlocks.
Randal Wain was waiting for them in front of his shop. A thin, wiry man who walked with a pronounced limp that caused him to favor his right side, he had retired from the army, like Bran, and come to Devondale to live. He was an accomplished bladesmith. The consensus was that Randal knew more about blade and arrowhead making than anyone in the province. Men came from as far as Anderon to trade with him.
"Siward Thomas sent word you needed to see me," he said, without any preliminaries.
Bran nodded as they shook hands. "Thanks for coming, Randal. We'd like to look at some of your work, if you wouldn't mind. It's time Mathew had a sword of his own."
"Well, of course I wouldn't mind. It's how I make my living, isn't it? For this young fellow, you say?" He turned to Mathew and looked him over as they shook hands. "Grown another head taller since the last time I saw you, boy."
"Yes, sir, I guess." Mathew was surprised when Randal didn't release his grip. Instead, he took Mathew's forearm with his other hand, and then his upper arm at the bi-cep, squeezing each of them in turn.
"He'll do," he said. "Let's get out of this chill."
Once inside, he lit a lamp, gesturing for them to look around. Mathew had only been in Randal's shop once, years before, when Bran brought him there to replace a blade that had broken. Weapons of every type lined the walls and cases—halberds, rapiers, broad swords, pikes, knives, and spearheads. He had never seen so many weapons in one place. While Randal was rummaging around the clutter, looking for a match to light another lamp, Mathew noticed an odd-looking sword and picked it up. It had a curved blade that ended in separate points and was unlike any weapon he'd ever seen. Despite its length, the sword was surprisingly light, with an intricate scrollwork pattern etched from the handle to about halfway down the blade.
"Bajani," Randal said from across the room. "They're an odd bunch, but they know how to make a blade ... Ah, here's what I'm looking for."
Pulling a sword from a pile of other weapons, he walked over to Mathew, rested it against a table, and then gripped him by the shoulders.
"Let your arms hang natural by your sides, son."
Mathew put down the weapon he was holding and looked at the sword Randal had brought over while the swordsmith stepped back, continuing his assessment of him. The sword appeared nondescript at first glance, and the blade dull. Puzzled, Mathew glanced at Bran, who shrugged. When he looked at the sword again, he realized that his first impression had been wrong. The blade's finish wasn't dull at all, but a flat gray metal, with wavy lines running from its tip to the hilt. It was the most unusual steel he'd ever seen. Noticing his interest, Randal picked it up and handed the weapon to him.
The fit and balance were remarkable. Mathew examined it more closely and decided the fine-grained pattern was actually integrated into the metal itself.
"Kayseri steel—it'll never rust and'll cut through just about anything," For emphasis, Randal took the blade
from Mathew's hand and brought it down on an old dented helmet lying on the table, splitting it neatly in two.
A low whistle escaped Mathew's lips as he stared wide-eyed at the helmet. Bran put down the bow he was examining and came over to look too. Randal handed him the weapon, and he hefted it a few times testing its feel. Eventually they stepped aside to discuss the price, while Mathew discreetly looked at some arrowheads in a case at the opposite end of the room.
After a little old-fashioned haggling, the transaction was concluded, with Randal throwing in a scabbard and belt to match.
"That's a fine present your father's bought you," he said to Mathew.
"Yes, sir, I know."
"See you do it proud."
"I will, sir."
They said their goodbyes and were at the door when Randal called Mathew back. "Weren't sure you could beat that Naismith boy, were you?" he said.
"No, sir, I guess I
wasn't. I didn't know you were watching." %
"I was. You have to believe you can win. If you don't, you're as good as finished before you start. Do you know the best way to deal with a flank attack, son?"
"Well, I haven't really thought—"
"You drive for the center. Ask your father or Siward Thomas about that sometime."
Mathew would have preferred to skip the conversation, but he thanked Randal for his advice, and he and Bran, left the shop. A light snow had begun falling.
"What did he mean by that?" Mathew asked.
"It's not important, lad. We can talk about it later if you wish."
The Rose and Crown was just a short distance from the square on the opposite end of town. While they walked, Mathew pulled his cloak more tightly around him to keep out the chill. As Bran had said, the weather was closing in, and the temperature continued to drop. In the light from the street lamps he could see the swirling flakes of snow. If it didn't let up soon, it looked like they would be in for an early spring storm.
By the time they reached the inn, a good-size crowd had already gathered. One by one, the five members of the town council hurriedly arrived. Lieutenant Herne, seated off to the side with several of his men, nodded to them as they entered.
The common room wasn't large by the standard of most inns, but it was well-decorated with polished floors of dark oak and a large stone fireplace that dominated its center. Most of the tables were occupied with men and women talking quietly among themselves. Mathew recognized Jerrel Rozon and Thorn Calthorpe. Thad Layton was also there. Collin, Daniel, and Lara were standing next to the stairs, and he separated from his father to join them. Bran went over to have a few words with Collin's father.
"What's everyone waiting for?" Mathew asked his friends, keeping his voice down.
"Father Thomas," Daniel answered.
Just then Father Thomas came in, causing a buzz. For the first time that Mathew could recall, he was not wearing his black clothes. Instead, he was dressed in dark brown breeches, with tan boots folded over at his mid-calf, and a green shirt and cloak. He was also carrying a sword.
Truemen Palmer, the town's mayor, got to his feet as soon as the priest entered and held his hands up for quiet. He was a heavy man, with a shock of pure white hair and a weathered, ruddy face. The conversations immediately ceased and everyone turned their attention to him. Even the serving maids carrying drinks stopped to listen.
"My friends, by now most of you already have an idea why we're here tonight. We've had a tragedy—a terrible tragedy. Thad and Stel Layton have lost their little boy."
A few heads turned sympathetically toward Thad, who sat grim-faced and silent. Wila Burmack, standing just behind him, gently placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry to say this is not the worst of it," the mayor went on. "Jerrel Rozon and Bran Lewin have looked at the boy's wounds and they believe the child was killed by an Orlock."
Everyone was on their feet at once, talking and shouting. Maria Farolain gasped, covered her mouth with her hand and looked about to faint. One of the serving girls dropped the pitcher she was carrying; it shattered to pieces on the floor. Mathew, however, was watching Thad Layton, who slowly got to his feet. His face looked like it was made of stone, and his fists were clenched so hard, his arms were shaking.
It took a full two minutes for Truemen Palmer and Father Thomas to quiet the room again. Finally, someone had the sense to ask what they were going to do. The mayor ran one hand through his hair and massaged the back of his neck.
"We'll be going out after them at first light," he said. "Bran Lewin will lead one group, starting from the south side of town, and Jerrel Rozon will lead the other, from the north end. If all goes well, it should take us a little over a half hour to converge on Thad's farm. That's the most likely spot to begin. From there, Jerrel and his young men will split off and head back to Gravenhage to their families. I know many of you haven't seen battle before, but I can tell you—"
Before he could say another word, Thad Layton, who was standing nearby, stepped in front of him. His chest rose and fell heavily, and he was flexing his hands, clenching and unclenching them into fists.
"Thad?"
Palmer reached out to touch him, but to his surprise, and the surprise of everyone else in the room, Thad knocked his arm away and bounded to the front door, shouldering two men aside as he ran out.
"Stop that fool!" Rozon snapped. "He's going to get himself killed!"
Father Thomas and two of Lieutenant Herne's men went after Thad, calling his name. Three minutes later, they returned—alone. Father Thomas looked at Rozon and shook his head slightly. On the side of the room Mathew felt Lara slip her hand into his, and he squeezed back gently. The buzz of conversation gradually died down enough for Palmer to resume speaking. He had only just begun, however, when a flurry of activity by the window interrupted him again. Maria Farolain and Sara Lang had pulled both Bran and Thom Calthorpe aside and were talking to them. Mathew couldn't hear what they were saying, but the conversation was obviously urgent. Sara had hold of Bran's shirt and Maria was waving her arms excitedly and pointing at the door. Then Bran disengaged himself and turned to Palmer.
"Truemen, I think we have another problem. Sara's son, Garon, and Lee Farolain went out after the Darcy boy about fifteen minutes ago."
Palmer stared at him in disbelief, then abruptly turned to confer with the rest of the council, signaling Bran to join them. A minute later they called for Jerrel Rozon, Thom Calthorpe, and Lieutenant Herne. The discussion was becoming more heated. All of them were on then-feet, including Silas Alman, one of the older council members, who was vehemently shaking his head no. Thom Calthorpe apparently shared his sentiments. Some minutes went by before a decision was reached, and from the look on Silas's face it was clear that he wasn't happy with it.
"You men, get your horses and weapons," Palmer announced. "We'll meet at the stables within the hour. We're leaving immediately."
People wasted no time filing out of the room. In the corner, Bran was talking to Collin's father, Askel Miller. He was about Bran's height and age, with the same sandy brown hair as his son. He was generally considered the
best hunter and marksman in Devondale. Collin, who it seemed had inherited many of Askel's abilities with a bow, often said that his father could track a rabbit over bare rock if he set his mind to it.
"I'll be right back," Mathew said, letting go of Lara's hand. "Stay here."
Bran and Askel had just finished shaking hands as Mathew walked up. Askel gave him a quick smile and grabbed Mathew's arm as he walked by, but then stopped and looked him sharply up and down.
"Good lord, Bran, what are you feeding this boy?" Askel called over his shoulder.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Bran and Mathew grinned. He and Collin had slept at and eaten dinner at each other's houses so many times over the years they knew the other's home as well as their own. Collin's mother Adele often affectionately referred to Mathew as her third child.
"At least he thinks you feed me," Mathew said.
Bran gave him a sour look and guided him toward the door.
"Where did Askel go?" Mathew asked.
"To get his^bow and an extra sword for Collin."
Mathew's pulse quickened. "We're going with you, then?"
"I'd rather you didn't, you can believe that. But you're both old enough now, and we're going to need every pair of eyes we have."
"Do you think there'll be fighting?"
"It's possible, lad. If there is, you, Collin, and your friends, are to stay well back. Do you understand me?"
Mathew's face turned serious. "I understand. But why am I going, if I'm not to do anything?"
"I didn't say that. You're a fair shot with a bow, which may be important before this evening's over. Orlocks don't travel by themselves. And where there's one, there's usually more. I just can't understand what's brought them back after all these years."
"Excuse me for a second," Mathew said, and hurried across the room to Lara, pulling her aside.
"I have to go out with the other men," he said quietly. "I want you to stay here until we get back or send word that things are safe."
As a heated conversation began to develop between Mathew and Lara, Bran discreetly looked the other way. After a few moments, their whispers got loud enough to be heard across the room. It ended with Mathew spinning on his heel and starting for the door. He only got a few steps before Lara caught him. She grabbed him by the shoulders, turned him around, and kissed him full on the lips, then pushed him toward his father. A few glances were exchanged but no one made any comments.
"What did she say?" Bran asked as they stepped out into the street.
"Nothing that you'd want to hear," Mathew replied glumly.
Bran chuckled, "I imagine it's the same kind of thing your mother used to say to me."
"Something like that," Mathew replied.
While they walked to the stable, Bran Lewin snuck a sideways glance at his son and shook his head. Mathew was at least three inches taller than he was.
They grow up so fast, he thought. Where does the time go?
Mathew looked down at his own footprints in the snow. There was better than two inches on the ground already. A snowfall this late in the winter was unusual, and conditions looked like they were going to get worse before the night was over. Mathew tried to put the conversation with Lara out of his mind as he pulled his hood up, drawing the strings tighter around his neck. As if things weren't difficult enough, the wind was also picking up, which was going to make visibility a problem.
"How are we getting to Thad's farm?" he asked.
"I sent word to have Tilda saddled for you. Askel's bringing his bay for me to ride," Bran replied.
* * *
People soon began arriving in twos and threes. Most were carrying long bows, but some had swords as well. Mathew was a little surprised to see Silas there, considering his earlier attitude. He was wearing a rusty old helmet that was too big for him, and carrying a long pike. It occurred to him as he glanced around that he knew every face there. The atmosphere was a somber one, and few people were talking. Some nodded when they saw him, and he nodded back. Mathew rested a hand casually on his sword hilt, hoping its addition would make him look older. He also found that walking with a scabbard took some concentration. Twice in the last hour it had gotten tangled with his legs, nearly causing him to fall. The last thing he wanted to do was to kill an Orlock by making it laugh itself to death.
Mitchell Graham - [Fifth Ring 01] - The Fifth Ring (v1.0) Page 8
